by Grey Durose
George jumped back in the car and headed towards the thin end of the cloud, if it was a vehicle he'd be back on the road and could make quicker progress. He raced across the rocks and dust, taking care not to hit anything too big and end up stranded, but giving himself a rough ride all the same. As the dust cloud got closer he could see it was a short convoy, the lead vehicle was clear but with another two were hiding in the dust behind it. George recognised the lead vehicle, it was Younis's truck.
George reached the convoy and pulled up in front of them, Ahmed's men leapt out of the vehicles brandishing assault rifles and handguns at his car. George slid out slowly, with his hands up.
'George!' it was Younis's voice and George was glad to hear it. 'We thought you were dead.' he continued.
'I very nearly was.' George replied with a wry smile.
The two men approached one another laughing, they shook hands vigorously and Younis slapped George on the back. 'Come, the old man will be pleased to see you. He's had us searching the desert all night, ever since we saw those maniacs carry you off.' he explained, placing a hand on George's arm.
A shudder ran through him as he felt a shock of pain. 'You saw them?' George asked, with his face struggling to mask his anguish.
'Yes, yes, the guard heard gunfire and woke us up, you weren't in your tent so we guessed you were involved.' he revealed. 'Then we heard an explosion so we got in the trucks to find out what was going on. By the time we got there, they’d put you in to the back of a car like the one you just arrived in.' Younis told the story excitedly.
'Was anyone hurt?' George enquired.
'No, there was a short gun-battle but they got away. One of them shouted across that if we didn't leave they would kill you, so we had to let them go. Otherwise they would have died where they stood, sons of pigs.' Younis seemed almost apologetic.
'You did the right thing. I had to deal with them myself.' George winked and Younis gave him a knowing smile.
They made their way to the second truck where Ahmed was being helped out of the passenger side. 'George, George, George, you gave me quite a fright my old friend. You shouldn't go wandering off in to the desert at night like that!' He scolded George with a waggle of his cane.
'Next time, maybe I'll take you with me.' The two men chortled at the thought.
'Did you get what you came for, my friend?' Ahmed asked, not wishing to appear too nosey.
'Yes, I think I got more than I bargained for, Ahmed. Shall we go, no point hanging around in this heat.' he replied, wiping sweat from his brow.
'As you wish. The customer is always right.' Ahmed agreed with a shrug.
George went back to the car, collected his belongings and returned to ride next to Ahmed. The old man sent one of his men to drive the car back with them. It would make for a decent bonus. The drive back to Ahmed's home was long but uneventful, the checkpoints were negotiated, much dust was raised and many hours later they were back at the familiar front door.
George made his excuses and retired straight to his room, he got undressed and took the time to wash and dress his wounded arm properly, applying a few stitches. As he was undressing, the pages from the book he'd been examining fell out, along with a steady trickle of grit and once he was finished, George turned his attention to them. The script and language were conspiring against him and he decided to examine them once he was home and had the resources of the library at hand. George lay back on the bed, his muscles were aching from the fight and a night on a hard floor. He'd had a few hours of unconsciousness the night before but it was no substitute for sleep. He drifted off with ease.
He slept through the night and when he finally awoke it was late morning. The sun peeked through the gaps around the window, striking his sheets and summoning an uncomfortable heat which made it impossible to sleep on. George dragged himself out of bed, his arm was still hurting but a quick examination showed no signs of infection and the small wound on his cheek was gone. He pulled on some clothes and went downstairs.
Everyone else was up and about so George wandered past with nods and smiles and went to find Ahmed. He was in the living room, sat on one of the wooden chairs with a newspaper in front of his face, a cup of black tea and a smoking cigarette in an ashtray next to him.
'Anything interesting in there?' George enquired.
Ahmed folded the paper together and peered at George over a pair of glasses. 'Politics!' he blustered, 'I will never understand how the Americans think they could come here, install a corrupt government they approve of and expect it to still be here even a year after they're gone!' Ahmed shook his head disapprovingly, he'd seen a few regimes in his time and managed to stay in business despite them all.
'Do you think the country will stay in one piece?' George questioned, it was easy enough to conjecture from the outside but Ahmed had seen it for himself.
'Was it ever in one piece? Sunni, Shia, Christian, Jew, Arab, Kurd, Turk and Persian, this country could be split any one of a dozen ways with divisions going back centuries, sometimes thousands of years! Iraq wouldn't even exist if you British hadn't come along and lumped it together in a convenient package!' the old man teased.
'True enough. What will you do?' George smiled, he wouldn't be drawn on the antics of an empire had no hand in.
'I'll be fine, I'll do what I always do: support no one, yet everyone, and wait for the dust to settle and see who's still standing. So long as my family are safe and I can make a living, that's all that matters.' Ahmed stated with the cynicism that decades of hard experience brings.
'I wish you good luck with that, my friend. If you ever need some help you know I'll do what I can.'
'I appreciate that, George. Hopefully it won't come to that though.' Ahmed replied, tilting his head softly and half closing his eyes.
'I need to get back to Britain as soon as possible, can we arrange something for tonight?' George asked, changing the subject.
'Food first, business later. You haven't even had breakfast and I could do with a bite to eat myself, old friend.' He insisted, patting his slightly rounded belly. Ahmed reached down, picked up a little bell and shook it.
After a while Younis appeared in the doorway, 'What is it this time?' He was teasing his Grandfather and they both knew it.
'I'm sorry, did I disturb your highness? Can you take some time from your busy life?' Ahmed teased back. They both roared with laughter and George smiled.
The rest of the day flew by; they ate, drank and talked until golden sunset had come and George had to pack his things and begin his journey home. The familiar pairing of Mohammed and Younis would be his travel companions and Ahmed was there on the driveway to bid George farewell when the moment of departure arrived.
'Goodbye, old friend. I hope you have a pleasant journey and good fortune in all your adventures.' Ahmed said, shaking George vigorously by the hand with a big calloused paw.
'Thank you, my friend. I wish you well and that your family remains safe and prosperous... whoever's in charge of your country.' The two men embraced then George jumped in to the truck and was away.
Things went smoothly, apart from the roads, all the way to the airport, where they pulled up with an embarrassingly loud screech. Younis got out first, allowing George to slide across and out on to the dusty paving stones. He dragged out his bag and shouldered it, careful to avoid his left arm, which was sending him regular, pounding reminders.
'So, this is it, George. It was good to meet you, I haven't seen the old man so alive in many years!' Younis observed.
'It was nice to meet you too, Younis and, of course, Mohammed.' George leant forward and waved to Mohammed, who was still firmly planted in his driving seat. The driver nodded and bared his gold tooth in acknowledgement.
'Perhaps, some day, I'll have need of your Grandfather's help again, or maybe I'll just come for a visit when the country settles down.' It was unlikely, George wasn't permitted holidays, as such, and his work led him where it would.
'Maybe
don't leave it so long next time. The old man might not have that many years left in him and it would be good to see him that excited again.' Younis said with a genuine look of pleading in his eye.
'It's a deal.' George promised, knowing full well it was a promise he may well be unable to keep.
They both smiled and shook hands but Younis had reminded George of another of the terrible consequences of being who, and what, he was: not only was he doomed to spend his life without many close companions but those he did befriend, would most likely die long before him and he'd watch them wither with age while the face in his mirror hardly changed.
George turned, walked to the terminal doors and began the arduous task of finding a seat on a plane to London. He could have been stuck there for a long time, had it not been for his habitual good luck once again rearing its head.
Chapter Eleven
George arrived back at his front door a weary man. Three injuries and irregular sleep were all starting to take their toll. It was still morning and there was an autumn mist hanging cold and damp in the air. He decided against trying to get anything else done for the day and, after a meal and a shower, he went straight upstairs to bed.
He found himself standing in the doorway to Henry's room, the gloom of the late Autumn afternoon was setting in and the partially closed blinds made it look quite dingy, a few silvery-gold bars of light on the wall were the only sources of brightness.
George flicked the light switch: nothing. He sighed, ‘Another day, another bulb'.
'It doesn't like the light.' Came a voice from behind him.
He span around to find Henry standing before him. This time, Henry was in much worse shape. He still had the pale skin and dark brown staining but now his eyes had a milky glaze, there was a new greenish tinge to his flesh and the first blooms of festering rot around the wounds on his leg. The smell hit George next, like a meat locker that had been left open on a summer’s day.
'What do you mean, It doesn't like the light?' George asked urgently, ignoring the pungent odour.
'The light burns It, distracts Its will and pulls Its form this way and that.' Henry tried to explain.
'Like a vampire?' George asked.
'No.' Henry laughed, his body jiggled and the tip of his tongue lolled from his mouth. 'They're just the stories born of what was left behind.' he continued.
'What then?' George was getting a little frustrated.
'Light alone won't destroy It.' Henry sighed.
George had no idea what Henry was trying to tell him. He looked at Henry, waiting for him to be more forthcoming, but he was starting to struggle now. There were clear signs of physical strain on his lined face as he tried to force words out of his throat. 'Come on, Henry! Speak! I need your help.' George cried, moving forward to shake him by the shoulders.
Henry's tongue flopped out of his mouth, it was purple and slimy, it writhed from side to side then curled upwards, the tip reaching out towards George. Then it opened up revealing spiralling rows of tiny sharp teeth like those on the tendrils of the beast. George rocked back on his heels, shocked by the sight. Henry shambled forward, a look of anguish surrounded his opaque dead eyes, his throat gurgling as he tried to form a word. Henry’s tongue stretched out further from his mouth like a snake escaping from a drain. George took another hasty step backward and tripped on the corner of a cabinet. Henry's corpse continued to press forward in a slow shuffling motion, George scrambled on the smooth floor trying to get as far away as he could. He found himself pressed up against the side of the bed, the folds of Henry's old duvet gathering behind his ears. Henry's rotting remains stood over him, his eyes bulging, the tongue rose up and struck out, wrapping itself around George's neck, biting hard in to the flesh beneath his ear and tightening its grip. The room began to dim as George struggled to break free of its hold, grabbing the tongue with both hands and pulling on it to try and break its anchor but only succeeding in displacing Henry's jaw. George passed out, with Henry's distorted face the last thing in his eyes.
George opened his eyes, he was starting to get used to this feeling. It was early morning and he was surprised how long he'd managed to sleep. He was tired and hadn't slept the previous night, but he'd been sleeping for nearly a day, a luxury he'd hardly ever afforded himself. He went to the bathroom and peeled off the bandages on his shoulder and upper arm, they were encrusted with brown blood stains. The wound from the vampire's claws was healing nicely and he could already remove the stitches without fear of it opening up again.
He looked up at the face in the mirror, he needed a shave, his throat showed no signs of the struggles from the dream. Master Giovanni had always told him to ignore dreams, unless they were invoked by some sort of artefact. They were very unlikely to hold any genuine significance, more likely they were reflections of our fears and indecisions in life. Still, this dream, and the one on the flight to Kuwait, had an unusual quality to them. As well as the usual visual experience of dreams, there was a full audio soundtrack to accompany it, George had heard and felt things in his dreams before but it was never in such an immersive, realistic way. The brush of his skin against the bedclothes when he was struggling to get away, the soft grain of the wooden flooring under his fingertips. He was sure he'd heard some evening song from the birds in the garden, during the dream and the squelching of saliva that coated Henry's tongue. Then there was the smell, rotting flesh, so clear, so accurate. He was unsure what to do about the dream, there was plenty of other work to be getting on with. If the dream had meaning then what Henry was telling him would have to reveal itself in its own good time.
After a shower and a shave, George settled down to some breakfast and coffee. He turned on the television and flicked on a news channel, just to see if anything significant had happened in the world whilst he was sleeping. George found himself only half listening to it as his concentration felt more drawn to his food and how much he appreciated the rich aroma of bitter black coffee.
He’d just gone to clear away his breakfast things when the story changed, '...news of a surprising discovery in Iraq' his heart leapt at the mention of the very place he'd just been, 'military satellites monitoring the country for insurgent activity have instead uncovered something far older'. George cringed, he knew what was coming next, 'Near the dig site for the ancient city of Eridu - believed to be one of the world's first cities - the satellites have taken these pictures of, what appears to be, a stepped temple, or ziggurat, freshly uncovered by a storm in the past few days'. Master Giovanni would have been furious; as mistakes go, this was a big one, not only would they discover the temple and the evidence of the practices going on there, they would also find a number of extremely recent bullet holes and remains of a stun grenade.
This was already getting messy, he'd have to be more careful from here on, 'Always clean up after yourself' as Giovanni had said. There was nothing he could do about it now, if it was on the news then the military would have already visited the site to confirm its presence.
The library contained many books, reference and fiction, that spoke of vampires or vampire-like creatures. They seemed to have a remarkable number of weaknesses for such powerful creatures: garlic, crosses, running water, wooden stakes, holy water, fire and, of course, sunlight. George sat back and had a think about it; fire had worked to finish the job on the vampire creature he'd encountered. Holy water and crosses belonged to a religion these creatures vastly pre-dated and he could see no reason why they would work. Running water would rely on him being able to airlift them on to some sort of river island, which seemed a little elaborate and contrived, not to mention dangerous. Garlic was known to affect the blood chemistry, and the creatures were certainly reliant on blood to maintain their form, it was enough to put it on the maybe list. That left wooden stakes and sunlight.
In the legends and stories, a stake of ash or hawthorn wood would be used to pierce the heart, this was mainly a part of the belief that vampires appeared as bloated corpses and the sharp point wo
uld deflate them, but it also rang true with regards to the legend he had read from Eridu: a magical staff which paralysed the beast before it was dismembered. Perhaps the wooden stakes were just a folk memory of that event long ago, he pondered. George had no idea what form of enchantment had been used and to try to use a piece of wood on a powerful creature, which had no heart to begin with, seemed foolish. Sunlight showed promise; the creature had attacked him at night in the ziggurat and when he'd defeated it they were in an underground chamber, shielded from the sun.
Another point kept coming back to George, the dream. Henry had been very insistent that the beast was averse to light, perhaps it burnt them like in the vampire novels. He couldn't take the sun with him but there were artificial lights which imitate daylight and some of them came in portable forms. Fire and light seemed to be the way to banish any vampires he encountered in near future and he'd have to be prepared.
George looked further back in to the history of vampires; most of the modern tales came from the Serbian traditions, where the name also originated, but they were similar to the folklore of all the Slavic countries and most of the cultures that bordered them. Going further back, the myths of blood drinking demons stretched in to very ancient times and across the globe. The Romans had them, as did the Greeks, the Egyptians had entities that drank blood or drained the life force and the same could be found in India and China. The earliest records of blood drinking entities seemed to go back to Babylon and they persisted in the other cultures that surrounded and succeeded it. In particular the Persians, who depicted the blood drinking act on the sides of vases and urns.
It seemed clear that these legends, which he'd previously written off as myths dreamt up by superstitious folk, in fact recorded the spread of the cult he'd encountered. Through the ages and across almost every major civilisation and even in to some relatively quiet corners of the world.