by Joseph Rubas
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Art raised the gun, his finger tightening on the trigger, but didn’t fire. Ahead, Dracula swung around a corner. Just before the turn, a man came out of his stateroom, looked around, and flinched when he saw Art, red-faced and huffing, a gun in his hand: The man wisely withdrew into his room and shut the door.
The corner around which Dracula had disappeared concealed a stairway. Leaping, Art hit the second-to-last step. In the hall, a man in a tux sat dazedly on the ground, a hand to his head. Some feet away, Dracula went through a door.
Art skirted past the casualty. “Dracula!” he yelled.
The doorway opened on another set of stairs, this one leading into second class. The hall was empty here, but ahead a rush of people moved unaffectedly up the main staircase, some of them wearing lifebelts, many not. He didn’t see Dracula.
Forsaking decorum (because the bastard was soooo close), Art rudely shoved through the crowd. “Out of the goddamn way!” he grumbled.
A few people whispered. Someone said “He’s got a gun!” as though he were a common criminal.
He turned right into another hall.
It stood empty.
Huffing, Art stopped, tossed a glance around, and shook with rage. “Dracula! Fight me like a man! You coward!”
The bastard was probably hiding!
Art went to the first door and ripped it open. An empty room, the lights still burning. Across the hall he did the same; a woman sat astride a man, her back arched and her hand on his chest.
Art slammed the door closed just as the woman jerked in his direction.
“Dracula!”
He went to another door and opened it, and a fist smashed him in the jaw, knocking him back. Dracula rushed out, and threw another punch, this one low, connecting with Art’s side.
“You’re mine,” Dracula snarled.
He grabbed Art by the lapels and shoved him against the wall. Art punched him in the side of the head. Blood gushed freely from the beast’s ruined eye.
Without thinking, Art headbutted the bastard; pain exploded through his skull, but Dracula let go and stumbled back.
Looking up, blood trickling from his nose, the vampire sneered. “You...”
Art raised the gun and fired.
The round took Dracula in the shoulder, spinning him partially. Smoke instantly rose from the wound; the cross etched onto the bullet had worked.
A look of horror crossed Dracula’s face, and he wailed.
Art stepped forward to deliver the final blow, but before he could, Dracula lashed out, hitting him in the temple.
For Art, the world went dark.
***
In the smoking room, the men who had earlier been playing cards were still at their posts, dealing hands, talking, and chomping on their cigars. A steward stood dutifully by, and was twice called upon to refreshen drinks. A few ladies were present near the door to the deck, wearing thick padded lifebelts over their coats. Their husbands stayed close to them, laughing with one another and discussing the dreadful inconvenience that being ferried to a rescue ship presented.
“Why must White Star be so blamed cautious?” Van Helsing overheard one man bemoaning.
“Insurance against lawsuits,” another replied matter-of-factly.
The chair before the fire was unoccupied, and Van Helsing sank into it with a grateful moan. Seward remained restlessly standing.
“John, you are making me nervous,” Van Helsing finally said, motioning to one of the couches, “sit down.”
“Sorry,” Seward mumbled, and took his seat.
Van Helsing removed his pipe from his jacket, and began packing it. “What time is it, John?”
Seward checked his pocket watch. “12:45,” he replied.
“If Arthur is not back by one, you can go.”
Seward nodded, “Thank you.”
Van Helsing smiled. “Why don’t you go and take a walk or something? You look like you are going to exploded with energy.”
“I’m fine, Doctor.”
“No you are not. Go out onto the deck and see what’s happening.”
“Honestly, Doctor, I’m…”
“I would like to know the situation,” Van Helsing retorted with firm finality.
Seward nodded and stood. “Okay. Are you sure you’ll be fine?”
Something like searingly hot air rose in Van Helsing’s chest. Fine without my chaperone, you mean?
“Yes,” he said aloud, “Dracula is currently eating Art, so I am safe.”
Van Helsing chuckled at his own unexpectedly morbid humor, and launched into a full, crying gale of laughter at Seward’s expression. “I am sorry. You either laugh or you cry sometimes. Go on.”
With a nod, Seward disappeared.
Turning his attention to the flames, Van Helsing sighed.
***
On the starboard deck, smatterings of people stood back as one of the forward boats was loaded by harried officers. Most of the ladies, Seward noted, seemed disinclined to board, and stood by their men. Officer Murdoch stood tensely by the davits as a few of the women were gently forced into the boat by the cooing of husbands.
Due perhaps to the women’s reluctance, a large number of men were admitted to the boat.
Seward was about ready to return to the smoking room when, from aft, the sound of music struck up. Along with most everyone on deck, Seward’s head turned, and he saw further up the deck the ship’s musicians in a small cluster, playing as though this were nothing more than an eloquent dinner party.
Someone laughed. “Music to drown to.” A few of the other men tittered.
A terrible joke, Seward thought, almost as bad as Van Helsing’s.
Speaking of Van Helsing…
Seward turned, and the old man was behind him, grinning. He hadn’t recognized his voice.
“You are full of gloom and doom tonight,” Seward commented.
Van Helsing shrugged.
***
“Sir? Sir, are you alright?”
Art came shakily to his senses. A man was crouched over him, a worried expression on his face. For a moment Art didn’t know where he was, but then it came flooding back to him: Dracula.
There were other people in the hall too, some of them standing in doorways. “How long have I been out?”
“Three minutes, maybe four,” the man said, “but...”
Art got to his feet.
“Sir, I think you should...”
“To hell with what you think.”
Shaking his head, Art staggered down the hall. He didn’t know where Dracula had gone, but he was certain it was deeper into the ship, where he could lick his wounds and plot his next move...if indeed there even was a next move. The bastard was practically dead already. A stiff breeze and he would be mincemeat.
***
Dracula shoved the boy into an unoccupied stateroom and closed the door behind him. The kid, barely sixteen, watched him with wide, milky eyes. “Give me your neck. Now.”
The kid obeyed, leaning his head to one side and exposing his neck. Dracula plunged his fangs into him and shuddered as hot, coppery blood gushed forth. He felt it instantly: A warm, tingling sensation beginning in his center and radiating out. Strength flowed into him. The aches and bruises dulled.
When he was done, the boy was dead, his veins entirely empty: Dracula let him fall to the floor.
Back in the hall, he stood indecisively for a moment. He was still too weak. He neede
d more.
Three women rounded a corner and started past.
Dracula took them all.