The Hunt (A Chilling Vampire Short Story)

by J. Thorn



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  "Chilling, beautifully evocative, with an ending that made me say 'uh-oh.' Wonderful."

  K. Sozaeva

  Vine Voice, Top 500 Reviewer

  "Talk about some fantastic writing! J. Thorn created an incredible story that ended too quickly. Bring on another story in that world. Loved it!"

  Shellsy, Online Reviewer

  "...a lot of fun to read I had a hard time putting it down."

  Craig from Online Reviewer

   

  The Hunt (A Chilling Vampire Short Story)

  By J. Thorn

   

  MAIN MENU

  Start Reading

  Acknowledgments

  Other Works

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Table of Contents

  The Hunt

  Second Edition

  Copyright © 2009 by J. Thorn

  All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

   

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, places, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

   

  Edited by Talia Leduc

  For more information:

  https://www.jthorn.net

  jthorn.writer@gmail.com

  Take a bite. For the Boutique du Vampyre in NOLA.

  Table of Contents

  The Hunt

  Acknowledgments

  Other Works

  About the Author

  Copyright

  I stumbled upon the Boutique du Vampyre in the French Quarter on a trip to New Orleans, falling in love with it long before Twilight ruined vampires for all Bram Stoker fans.  The city and the shop inspired this particular tale that won first place in the Lullabies Short Story Contest for 2009. With a few more revisions and a new title, please join me on "The Hunt".

  The Hunt

   

  Maidens like moths, are ever caught by glare, and Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

  --Lord Byron, Childe Harold, 1812

  Time fixed the stars upon the black canvas, pushing them through the endless universe. The celestial show no longer excited Tilla. She ignored the mechanical satellite that plunged from the heavens like a burning metal corpse, cutting a line across the sky. The relics that succumbed to planetary gravity after the Fall would do so without an audience.

  Tilla moved through the forgotten wreckage, knowing the animals could be hiding within. She moved swiftly past plates of rusted iron, the paint worn away ages ago. As the urban decay bled towards the trees, her senses sharpened. The animals loved the primitive habitat even though it was as lifeless as the concrete world they had destroyed so carelessly. Tilla paused at the edge of the silent forest and glared down into the valley.

  She reached for the knife strapped to her hip. Tilla’s black leather pants had worn thin, and she could feel her knees pushing against the hide. Her lustrous hair spilled like ink in the night, framing an alabaster, oval face. Tilla’s bony fingers left the knife and moved to the edge of her full, red lips. She tasted wild sage on the gust through the trees.

  The new moon hid behind the clouds while the fire cast a low light upon the forgotten landscape. Tilla caught movement in the valley and recognized the leader instantly, even though she could barely hear his guttural shouts.

  Cut off the head to kill the beast, she thought.

  Tilla could see four figures clothed in shadows, the leader’s harem of personal guards. She approached her target with caution—scorned women could be as deadly as armed men. She crawled down the barren hillside, hiding behind a twisted tree as she reached over her shoulder and grabbed an arrow by its shaft. She twirled it into the bow in one motion, pointing the arrowhead at the leader of the pack as he gnawed chunks of flesh from a bone.

  She paused and drew a deep breath.

  If they ever organize themselves, I’m finished.

  Tilla pushed the thought from her mind in an attempt to refocus on the target. Her arrow whistled through the air with deadly accuracy. The beast rocked backwards, arms outstretched in a pose of crucifixion as he stepped to the right of the fire and crashed into the spit, throwing smoke and burning ash out into the camp. The man screamed while his flesh sizzled on the pulsing embers, filling the camp with the stench of burning hair.

  Tilla exhaled and watched the clan flee from their skewered chieftain. Shrieks echoed through the barren slopes, rising from the valley floor to her position. Two figures embraced in panic while others hid where they could.

  Loose scree preceded Tilla down the hill. She darted from tree to tree, the black leathers concealing her from the chaos below. Another arrow split the night before piercing a skull of ragged hair. Tilla lunged from behind a boulder and landed at the foot of the dying creature, plunging a knife deep into his chest. Thick, dark blood covered his tattered t-shirt.

  Tilla spun and struck another with the heel of her boot, striking him between the eyes. Before the body hit the ground, she had lodged a dagger in his throat.

  The remaining members of the clan took flight into the gaping maw of the primeval forest, and Tilla sighed and sat on the trunk of a fallen tree. The roasting flesh of the leader wafted from the fire and drew a bead of saliva from the corner of her mouth.

  Now is not the time to feed.

  Polaris blinked from the zenith of the infinite sky, and Tilla glanced at the gray band of stars, the smear that civilization had called the Milky Way. She estimated three hours until the sun rose on the empty world.

  “Mah. Mah. Mah.”

  Tilla’s hair sliced through the mist as she spun to face the phantom sounds. She nocked an arrow on the bow to greet the young girl emerging from a hole in the ground. Dirty blonde hair hung from her scalp to her shoulders like serpents tethered at the tail. White eyes shone through a dirt-encrusted face. The remains of blue denim unraveled at her knees, revealing bruised and bloodied shins, and cotton strips clung to her torso with the help of cloying sweat.

  “What is your name?” Tilla asked, not expecting an answer.

  The girl shivered, mumbled again, and sat on the ground. Her chest hitched, and her mouth opened in a silent scream. Her gaze crawled across the leg of the man protruding from the wrecked fire.

  “He was your father?”

  Hands with torn fingernails caressed the chieftain’s blackened heel.

  “I guess so,” Tilla said. She dropped the bow to an angle, keeping the arrow drawn.

  “Pa,” the girl mumbled, her tears tracing white streaks on a brown face.

  It’s cute now, but what happens when it grows up?

  The girl cowered, silent sobs shaking her fragile frame. Tilla slung her bow over her shoulder and set her hands on her hips. She scanned the area for others and determined that they had fled deep into the forest, living to die another day.

  Hunger pangs tugged at Tilla’s core, pushing her towards the broken girl at the foot of the human roast. Tilla squatted low as her black leathers creaked in protest. With one hand on her knife, she placed the other on the girl’s shoulder.

  Tilla jumped and held her breath as the girl crawled into her lap, nestled her head into the crook of Tilla’s arm, and pulled both knees up
into a fetal position.

  She pushed the girl’s hair to the side, revealing a bright, white neck. Eyes wide, Tilla gripped the child’s shoulders, and her incisors burst through the gum line, spilling the coppery taste of blood into her mouth. She leaned over the whimpering savage and licked a bead of sweat from the girl’s ear. Her mass of black hair enveloped the child’s head.

  Tilla shoved her away. “Go. Get out of here.”

  The child dashed from Tilla’s lap on all fours. She hissed and sprinted deep into the darkened forest.

  When the child left, and when Tilla was no longer able to smell her, she sat down in the bloodstained dirt. She stood and vaulted after the child, ran a few paces, and then returned to the fire. Tilla kicked the dead man’s leg. The remains of the camp were scattered around her, and she hefted a nearby fuel drum high into the air with an ungodly scream, spilling the contents across the ground in a trail of flame. She gathered her weapons, pulled her arrows from the slain, and climbed to her stronghold on the east side of the valley, cursing the encroaching dawn.

  ***

  Tilla woke and left the cave in time to see bands of orange, red, and yellow wash across the western sky. The salty taste of the child’s sweat still resonated on her tongue. Venus climbed the horizon, and two hawks circled high above, scouting for their next victim.

  She gazed into the valley, where the fires of the previous night had left piles of smoldering charcoal.

  They buried their dead. When did that start again?

  Tilla’s tongue felt like a wad of dry cotton. Her vision wavered as if she were standing in the middle of a desert. The belt on her leather pants sagged lower, and she yanked the buckle hard to her left, sinking the pin through the last hole. Tilla ignored the numbness in her legs as the mountain’s slope helped her descend into the valley.

  Movement caught her eye, a metallic surface reflecting the rays of the setting sun.

  You just made a costly mistake, she thought.

  Tilla walked down the steep incline, her ears tuned to the noises of the wilderness, concentrating on the reflection. She detected voices, paused at the site of the previous night’s battle, and dropped to her knees. With an index finger, Tilla scooped the reddened, moist soil and licked the blood from her fingers. The voices burst into her head like a strong radio station brought to point on the dial. To her left, she felt movement. From behind a gnarled oak stepped the girl Tilla had released the night before. The child smiled at her and skipped into the woods with a carefree giggle.

  Tilla’s instincts screamed at her, demanding she see the true nature of the young cretin. She dropped into a crouch and sprinted after her prey, tossing her bow to the ground, ripping her knife from its ties, and slashing at the branches in her path. The girl’s dirty blonde hair bounced as Tilla chased her. The child dropped over a crest and further into the valley of dark foliage, but Tilla gained on her with every step. She bared her teeth and flared her nostrils. The girl stopped, turned to face her, and spoke.

  “C’mon and play.”

  Tilla froze. She shook her head and stared into the girl’s feral eyes. Cold sweat covered her face, and sounds washed through her ears like the unforgiving tide. Tilla licked her lips, trying to coat her dry tongue with some moisture.

  “What?”

  “C’mon and play with me. Please?” the girl pleaded.

  “Who taught you to speak?”

  The girl did not reply. She stood, unfurled a bony arm, and beckoned Tilla closer.

  Tilla flashed her red eyes and roared into the lonely sky. She launched herself at the girl, fangs bared and ready to puncture flesh. Her fingers reached for the girl’s neck but fell short, and Tilla felt the ground give way beneath her feet as the child disappeared into a halo of light.

  ***

  “Is she one of them?”

  “Look at her, Samson. What do you think?”

  The burly man leaned into Tilla’s face. He stood with one foot behind the other, prepared to flee at the slightest indication. His braided beard swung low and rested on Tilla’s chin.

  “Did she kill the others?” Samson asked.

  “Have you seen a clan member dressed in black leather, shooting arrows into people’s chests?” Thebault raised his eyebrows while pointing to Tilla.

  Samson backed away, brushing off the sarcasm. He reached for Tilla’s wrists and yanked on the rope to ensure the knots held.

  “When will she wake?” Samson asked.

  “Hard to say. It’s a long way down to the bottom of the pit. I heard bones breaking. It could take weeks for her to regenerate.”

  Samson moved his hand from Tilla’s bound wrists to her left breast. He caressed the black leather holding back an ample chest.

  “What is your problem?” Thebault slapped at Samson’s hand, bruising his fingers and his ego. “She isn’t a woman.”

  “What difference does it make? There can’t be many clans left. When we scavenge the last of the canned food, we die. And when we die, they die too. Nothing matters anymore.”

  Samson finished their conversation by shaking his head, leaving Thebault to guard Tilla. He lit the coffee-can torch and collapsed into the stained, ripped front seat of a rusted truck. Samson’s heavy frame sunk to the springs, casting out the remains of mites and a mist of mold. He closed his eyes before the flames of the torch died.

  ***

  “They always come back.”

  Thebault tossed the milky plastic water bottle to the ground. It crinkled as it rolled in lopsided waves to rest on a rock. Thebault frowned and dropped to one knee to reach for the cloudy water.

  “So do rats. That don’t mean we let them live.”

  Samson nodded. A vague memory of his wife’s face passed through his head, chased away by the regenerating body of the woman in black. Since the Fall, his memories of the old ways had been dissipating like tendrils of smoke.

  “Have we ever caught one alive?”

  “‘Alive’ is an interesting word. I can’t remember ever catching one in a trap. They usually sniff those out and avoid them.”

  The child stood ten paces behind the men as they spoke, staring into Tilla’s face. She wrinkled her nose and swatted a cloud of smoke that had followed her from the fire.

  “When she gets better, she’ll get me,” the child said.

  Samson looked back at the orphan and laughed. “We’ll take care of her long before that happens. Now get the hell out of here and leave us alone.”

  The girl furrowed her brow and vanished into the trees at the edge of the clearing. Samson shook his head and turned back to Thebault.

  “I hate kids,” he said.

  Thebault stared at Tilla. Her lips had twitched during the past two nights, and he had witnessed the dark bruises retreating into smooth, white flesh.

  “When?” he asked.

  “The way you’re gawking at her, sooner rather than later. You imagine her nails scraping down your back, her legs wrapped around you. Then you wake up to find your throat ripped open. Would you step away from her, please?”

  Thebault ran a hand through his hair. “I’m going on legend, here. We got no other resources.”

  “You mean the head, the stake, the burning, which one?” asked Samson.

  “More than one couldn’t hurt. I don’t want to take any chances on this bitch coming back with a vengeance,” Thebault replied.

  Samson rose and shuffled to Thebault, landing a burly hand on the man’s shoulder. “Can’t we just leave her out here and wait for sunrise?”

  Thebault shook from Samson’s touch and glared at him. “Even Stoker wasn’t sure about that. I’d feel better if we did it ourselves instead of leaving it to the forces of nature.”

  “Then let’s do it now. I’m having a hard time looking away from that fine body of hers. I swear I can hear her whispering dirty words in my head, things she wants.”

  Thebault spat on the ground and reached into the rusted remnants of a shopping cart. It stood motionl
ess, the wheels lost to oblivion. He pulled out a machete.

  “Head first?”

  Samson did not reply, shrugging. Thebault placed the machete on the stone slab holding Tilla and returned to the ancient cart.

  “That machete is as dull as your brain. I’m going to stake her through the heart first. Let’s get her on the ground,” Samson said.

  Thebault waved at him, reaching under Tilla’s shoulders, and Samson lifted her by the ankles. A shock of desire, power, and adrenaline raced through them. Flashes of skin and glistening bodies filled their minds. Thebault dropped her first, walked to Samson, and slapped him across the face. Samson dropped Tilla’s ankles and raised a fist to retaliate.

  “She’s coming around. Hurry up!” Thebault yelled.

  The blood drained from Samson’s face. He stepped on Tilla’s shoulders, his worn boots pressed down on the bare, white flesh, pinning her back to the ground.

  “Stand there until it’s done. No skin-to-skin contact,” Thebault said as he raised the wooden stake and positioned the ragged edge over Tilla’s heart. In his right hand, he held a primitive tomahawk, complete with a stone head. Samson looked at the North Star and gestured in circles, urging Thebault to get on with the deed. Thebault brought the tomahawk down on the wooden stake with as much force as he could muster.

  Tilla’s eyes burst open. Her bright red lips parted with a piercing howl. Thebault could not look away. Her sharpened teeth glistened in the weak moonlight, and her body thrashed against the bindings. Tilla’s convulsions threw Samson off her shoulders and against a tree. Her head snapped back and forth, sending locks of silken hair into Thebault’s face. She smelled like lust, danger, and death.

  Thebault lunged for the machete and hacked at Tilla’s throat, trying not to hit the wooden stake bobbing in her chest. Tears streaked his face as he struck multiple times, slashing across her neck until the machete buried itself in the profane soil beneath her. Samson watched, unable to will himself back into position, even with the protective layer of his boots between him and the creature.

  Her screams died away, and her eyelids closed, and Thebault grabbed Tilla’s hair, tossing her head into the fire. The blood popped and crackled in the heat, sending green smoke into the air.

  The little girl crawled from her hiding place, whimpering as a shiver racked her thin body. From the edge of the clearing, she watched in horrid fascination as the two men collapsed after the killing, neither saying a word. The child stared with wide eyes, brushing the blonde hair from her face as she stepped back into the darkness, her bloody mouth twisted into a grin that could no longer conceal her lengthening incisors.