The Silent Legion

by P W Hillard

  "You are curious, no?" said the man who had so easily dispatched the German soldier. He adjusted himself on a small cushion. They had been using the ruined church as a base, Vincent's random running had led the Germans directly to them. "You want to know what you saw right?"

  Vincent nodded. He was sat directly opposite the men. His rifle lay across his lap, just in case. "Yes," he whispered.

  "I am Bernard. These are Pierre, Alphonse and Jean." Bernard swept his arm outwards, the men nodding in turn. "We are vampires."

  "Vampires?" spluttered Vincent, not quite believing his ears. His mind rejected the idea at first, then it thought back to the teeth. Those horrid jagged teeth. "Had I not seen it I would say that's nonsense, but, I saw you kill that German, so easily."

  Bernard's face became a twisted snarl. "German scum. We will teach them a lesson for their hubris."

  "Why? Why do vampires care?"

  "We may be vampires, but we are still Frenchmen. Why not use our… skills, to help our countrymen?" Bernard took a seat next to Vincent, placing his hand on the rifle. "You do not need this, my friend, we are all allies here." He lifted the rifle slowly, Vincent's hands sliding from it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was useless to resist.

  "I have so many quest- "

  "Questions? Of course, who wouldn't," Bernard laughed. "I would think that would be normal. Well, English, this is your chance, ask anything you like."

  Vincent sat there for a moment, a hundred questions trying to force their way from his mouth at once, getting jammed in his throat. Eventually one broke free. "How are we in here? This is a church?"

  "That is…" Bernard began, before scanning his mind for the English words. "A convenient lie. Yes. That sounds right. It is like the reflection story. A story spread around so we can hide ourselves easier."

  "Someone accuses you and holds out a crucifix and it does nothing."

  "Exactly." Bernard clapped his hands once, happy his point had gotten across.

  "What about the," Vincent's voice dropped to a whisper, "drinking blood."

  "That is true. We do not need human blood though; any blood will do. Human blood is better, you can go longer between feeding if its human. Ah, uh, not that we do. We had not touched a drop before these Nazi pigs arrived." Alphonse said something in French, causing the others to erupt in laughter. "He says that he does not count them as human."

  "So, what happens next, to me I mean?" asked Vincent, shaking his leg nervously.

  "You stick with us until we find some English soldiers, or Americans. We can only move around at night, so it might take some time."

  "The daylight thing is true then?" said Vincent. "Turning into dust, bursting into flames?"

  "It is more of a slow burn, like pork left in the oven far too long. It is not pleasant. Still, the night is yet young. We still have a camp full of Germans who will be looking for their friends soon, I think. It would be useful to have your help. Stand up please." Bernard place his hand on Vincent's shoulder and helped him to his feet.

  "I'm not sure how helpful I could be, I'm not… like you."

  Bernard smiled, and lifted the small cushion Vincent had been sat on. Beneath was a long wooden box. Its lid creaked open, revealing its contents. A long slender metal tube sat inside. It was painted a light khaki colour. In one end was inserted a thinner wooden tube topped with a large metal bulbous shape. It was a panzerfaust, a German weapon designed to launch an anti-tank grenade a considerable distance. Laying in the box next to it was a rifle. It was similar to the ones the soldiers chasing Vincent had been carrying, though this one had been fitted with a large optical scope.

  "I think maybe, with this yes?" said Bernard.

  Vincent was once again laying on his stomach in the same field he had made his way across earlier. He was right at the edge of the tree line, struggling to make out the German camp in the field ahead. He knew that the Frenchmen had spread themselves out evenly around the field, though he had no idea where. They had melted away into the shadows, vanishing into the night. Vincent lifted the panzerfaust tucking it under his arm as he had seen the Germans do. It was much lighter than he expected. Carefully he aimed it, the shadow of one of the tanks, its looming shadow easiest to stop in the moonlight. He pressed down the peddle on the underside of the tube that acted as a trigger. and fired.

  The grenade arced through the air. Vincent had never fired one before, and his shot was poor. It hit the tracks of the tank, failing to penetrate the armour. Luckily for Vincent, the Germans had been lax. Upon refuelling the tank, they had left the half-filled fuel canisters alongside. The exploding grenade sent the now burning canisters catapulting into the air, spraying their contents across the camp. Tents caught alight, great walls of flame erupted across the grass and soldiers sprinted half-dressed into the open. Vincent dropped the now spent launcher and picked up the rifle. The Germans were easy to spot now, silhouetted against the flames. He lined one up in the scope and pulled the trigger.

  The vampires wasted no time in their attack. As Vincent's rifle shot rang out they leapt over the flames. descending into the panicking soldiers. There was another rifle shot, striking a German in his exposed chest, his trousers half around his ankles from the rush to escape his burning tent. Another turned to flee but was cut down by Bernard. A swift strike with a trench shovel separating the fleeing man's head from his shoulders.

  Vincent stood in the aftermath of the attack, the fires dulled down to flickering embers. Caught between the fire, Vampires and Vincent's rifle, the Germans had fallen quickly and brutally. Blood and body parts were strewn across the camp. Vincent found it hard to equate the destruction with the jovial men he had met. They laughed now, three of them, playing with some German helmets they had found. They smiled at each other, flashing fanged bladed mouths, the fire dancing behind them. Then the tank opened fire.

  Blood and dirt sprayed into the air. Gore showered Vincent, covering him in a thick layer of scarlet. There was a moment of silence, as the air rushed to fill the now vacant space. The silence broke, the screech of metal on metal as the tank's turret turned. Vincent felt a heavy thud against his chest, sending him crashing into the ground. The space where he had been filled with bullets, the tanks co-axial machine gun unleashing a drumbeat of death. Vincent rolled to his side and saw Bernard rising to his feet. He had shunted Vincent out of the way, saving his life.

  "A German must have hidden in the tank!" shouted Vincent. His ears were ringing, and he had no idea if Bernard could hear him. The Vampire roared, his fangs bared. He sprinted forward, wet mud flying from under his feet. As he ran Bernard began to change. His face stretched, his mouth becoming an elongated snout. His nose became stunted, its tip pointed. His ears became sharp knives completing his bat-like visage. His arms swelled, becoming longer as he ran until he bounded across the ground on all fours like an ape. He leapt, landing atop the Panzer. He stretched his arms wide, their skin splitting, wings bursting from his forearms. Small at first, but quickly expanding into an impressive leathery display. The monstrous thing reached down tearing the turrets entry hatch away with a flick of its wrist. With a second stroke, it pulled a screaming German out into the night air. He kicked and thrashed as Bernard placed one clawed hand onto his head. The soldier's neck twisted as Bernard turned, eventually tearing, its head and spine coming free in his hand. Bernard held the now separate parts of the German aloft and shrieked triumphantly.

  Vincent sat in his bed reading his newspaper. That felt like all he did these days, sit in bed as some nurse attached drugs to his arm. That arm was wrinkled now, the years having taken their toll. He sighed. He had survived the war, and the fifty years afterwards, only to be brought down by a combination of age and illness. Sometimes, privately, he wished he had perished in that field in France. It would have been better than slowly deteriorating. To become the doddering old relic of a man that he was. He put down the newspaper on the small wheeled cabinet the hospital had provided for him and swit
ched off the large swing armed reading light. The room he had been given had meant to bring him privacy. Instead, it felt like a cell, somewhere to hide a dying man so no-one else would have to watch. Vincent felt like a shameful secret, squirrelled away from prying eyes.

  He placed his glasses down atop the newspaper and closed his eyes. There was a loud coughing, and it took a moment for Vincent to realise it wasn't himself.

  "Good evening Vincent," said a voice in a thick French accent. Vincent sat back up and rubbed his eyes. Bernard stood at the end of his bed, smiling at him. He wore a black suit and tie, clearly immaculately tailored. "I am sorry for waking you."

  "Bernard? What's going on? Why are you here."

  "Ah, I am glad you remember me. It seems age has not taken your mind at least." Bernard's smile became a grin, brilliant white dentures gleaming in the faint moonlight creeping in through the window. "It would seem things are not so good for you my old friend no?"

  Vincent laughed, a faint squeak escaping from his chest as he did. An audible declaration from his lung cancer that it was still alive and kicking after this round of chemotherapy. "That would be an understatement."

  "I have kept tabs on you, my friend. You and some other men I met during the war. When I learnt of your illness I made haste to England." Bernard took a seat at the bottom of the bed, resting his arm on its metal frame. "I have come to make you an offer. I can save you, from this disease wasting away at your- "

  "Do it," interrupted Vincent.

  "You would not be human anymore?"

  "I don't give a shit. Humans never did anything for me. Sent me off to die in some stupid war. Hailed me a hero when I got back they did, gave me a medal. Then they left me to rot for fifty years. Stuck in some shitty council flat, forced to collect dole money every week. Treated like scum. Even in here they hide me away, ashamed to see how they treat an old man. No. I don't care about humans. Not anymore."

  Bernard sat there for a moment, shocked at what Vincent had said. "Ok," Bernard said. "If you are sure." He stood up, and closed the hospital room door, which had been left slightly ajar. On the front of the door was a sheet of laminated paper, the patient's name scrawled in blue dry erase marker. It read "Vincent Ladstone."

  Chapter Sixteen

  The siren wailed. Its horrid piercing screech announcing impending death, like a modern banshee. Lights flashed to announce its presence, alternating blue beacons of a life in the balance. The ambulance wove deftly through traffic, which acquiesced to its presence, courtiers parting for their king. Inside the speeding vehicle, a paramedic desperately tending to his patient, a young woman with several stab wounds, all bleeding profusely. She seemed stable for now, unusual for the drastic amount of blood. He worked tirelessly anyway, acutely aware that stability was just a fragile façade. Strapped tightly into one of the folding chairs was another woman. She was tall, with bright red hair and sharp features. She was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks in a waterfall.

  "Shauna! Shauna!" said the woman who the paramedic would later be told was called Jess. She held her friends' hand. Whilst the patient wasn't getting any worse, she was also unresponsive.

  "She's ok for now love," he said, suddenly aware it must look very much like she was dead. "We'll get her to the hospital and get her stitched up, some blood and fluids in her and she'll be right as rain, you'll see." He was as much trying to convince himself as he was the young woman. The stab wounds were the worst he had seen for a long time. Whoever had done this had struck over and over into her chest. He could scarce imagine the frenzy that had resulted in this.

  "Are you ready?" asked Mark. Shauna was sat in a chair in the office's small kitchen area. They had laid down plastic, though Shauna was adamant there would be no blood. Mark had a small audience. Jess was there, so were Sandra and Gemma. Florence had emerged from her office to supervise the whole thing, whilst she knew that technically Shauna was on board, it still bothered her.

  "Yeah, I'm ready," said Shauna. She smiled much too casually for what was about to happen.

  "Right ok well…" began Mark. He stared at the large kitchen knife in his hand. He tested its weight gingerly. "You know, I had to buy a whole box of these. Apparently, you can't just buy one anymore."

  "It's because of knife crime. Makes it more expensive for kids to get one," said Gemma. She crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently.

  Sandra let out a snort. "They tried the same thing with fags. Remember you used to be able to buy singles from the ice cream man? Didn't work then, kids would just pool their money and split the pack. If anything, it made it easier, you would give the money to the oldest looking kid and there was less chance to be caught."

  "Come on," moaned Shauna. "Less changing the subject more getting this over with."

  "Why do I have to do it anyway?" protested Mark.

  "You drew the short straw," said Florence.

  "When did we draw straws?"

  "Oh, did I misspeak, I meant because I said so. We decided who was doing what whilst you were, what was it Holden?" said Florence.

  Jess produced a notebook from her top pocket. Jess had a predilection for keeping written notes about everything. Useful, as she also had a bad habit of breaking phones. This particular notebook was a standard black police notebook, with the addition of what seemed to be a series of glittery pink stickers in the shape of stars. Mark knew it was more likely Jess who put them there herself than the more reasonable explanation of it being the work of her young daughter.

  "Researching monster hunters through the ages. Three trips to the library, two to the vault," said Jess. "Find anything useful?"

  "Well, no…" admitted Mark.

  "So, there we go, short straw. Now, you going to get on with it then?" Florence glared at Mark.

  "Right ok, ready Shauna?" Marks' hand shook.

  "As ready as the last time you asked."

  "Ok well, here I go," said Mark, raising the knife high. He brought the blade down quickly, the metal sliding easily into Shauna's chest. It felt strange, there was less resistance than he had been expecting. He let go of the knife.

  Shauna looked down at the handle protruding from the plain white T-shirt she had chosen to wear. She needed to be out of uniform for this, which made her feel odd. She spent most of her life in that uniform, sometimes days at a time. Her mind felt ill at odds with her choice of clothing, ignoring the large kitchen knife plunged into her chest. To that, she paid no heed. "Should do a few more, really sell it."

  "Are you ok?" asked Mark, slightly frantic.

  Shauna shrugged. The knife handle wobbled as her shoulders rose. "Yeah, this is nothing really." She gripped the black plastic handle and pulled, the knife sliding out as easily as it had entered. Its metal still gleamed.

  "There's no blood?" asked Mark as he took the knife from her outstretched hand.

  Shauna smiled. "I stopped the flow in that area and moved what was there out. Figured this might be hard on you as is. I didn't want a spray of blood to add to that." She adjusted herself in the chair, stopping briefly to inspect the gash in her shirt.

  Mark smiled awkwardly. "Thanks, this is setting off my nerves as is, I'll have to go take some of my beta-blockers after this."

  "You ok?" asked Florence.

  "I will be, let's just get on with this. Right ready again Shauna?" asked Mark. Shauna nodded, and he plunged the knife in again.

  The hospital doors slammed open as the ambulance's stretcher barged through. Jess reached out her arm to catch one of the doors as it swung back on its hinges. She followed the paramedics as they went through another set of doors, this time requiring them to stop and swipe an ID card to unlock it. Beyond that set of doors was a collection of discrete bays, each with a large blue curtain across the front. They pulled one aside sliding the stretcher into the bay. A young doctor in dark maroon scrubs joined them, inspecting Shauna's wounds before the paramedic could even begin speaking. A gaggle of nurses followed, standing at the ready around
the bay.

  "Female, aged twenty-five, a Miss Shauna Wicks. Multiple stab wounds and lacerations. Pulse and breathing stable for the moment but she's lost a lot of blood."

  "It came out of nowhere, it had these claws and these fangs…" Jess muttered.

  "Ok," replied the Doctor. She was dark-skinned, her raven black hair tied into a bun behind her head. "I'm Doctor Singh, we'll get you put right. Do we know her blood type?"

  "Uh," Jess began. She didn't, they hadn't thought of that. "A negative," she said. It was a total guess and Jess hoped it wouldn't have any adverse effect on Shauna. Jess stood there watching as the medical staff began their work. She took in the bay, it's glass cabinet full of pouches and clear pipes. Its rows of colour coded drawers. Its hand sanitiser dispensers, their single clear window giving them the look of beige cyclopean skulls. One of the nurses whispered something to the Doctors.

  "Let me see," she said, picking up Shauna's arm. She slapped the wrist a few times, then looking dejected did the same with the crook of her elbow. Defeated she tried the other arm. Evidently nothing there either. "Ok, were going to have to try something else, this woman needs blood urgently." Doctor Singh stepped over to a drawer both helpfully labelled blood and coloured a deep vivid crimson. She slid it open and pulled out a small hand drill. It too was colour coded red. "This shouldn't hurt at all," she said, revving the drill.

  "God damn," said Shauna sitting up on the silver table she had been placed onto. She held the mint green sheet that had been placed over her tight to her chest, the morgue orderly having removed her clothes. "Look at this! This!" she exclaimed, gesturing to the series of holes that had been drilled into her shoulder. "That's going to hurt like hell once I switch pain back on."

  "You seem fine at least," said Sandra, dropping a pink floral tote bag onto the end of the morgue table. "Some clothes for you."

  "Yeah, nothing I couldn't handle. Forgot to tell Jess my blood type, so I had to hide my blood vessels from the doc's. She gave them the wrong type. I'm pretty sure that would have made me ill. Didn't really want to roll the dice on that. The fuck is this?" Shauna had removed a long maxi dress from the bag. It was a horrid orange colour with great white daisies printed onto it.