Vampire's Tomb

by Shawn Underhill

  “You’re very special,” he said.

  She shrugged it off. Of course she was special. But she couldn’t agree with him without sounding like a conceited snot.

  “And very sweet,” he added, leaning in for a kiss.

  “Not really,” she said, pushing him back.

  “You’re very patient, very gentle. You’re like a delicate flower, Evie. But much stronger. And sort of intimidating. Like a bulletproof rose. I love flowers. It’s just … so sad when they wither die. That’s why I feel like I should always be with you, to make sure nothing bad ever happens to you.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Don’t even worry about it. And as for withering, I’ll still be turning heads when you’re eligible for Social Security. If the program even exists then.”

  He forced a smile. “You’re very understanding, Evie.”

  “No, I’m not. I just want you gone.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “Not planning on it.” And yet some people dislike me for failing to be a clichéd airhead.

  She walked with him for a bit, helping him along. Then she let go of his arm and encouraged him to walk on his own. He was laughing and smiling and gaining confidence with each step. Brimming with the pride of a child just learning to ride a bike without training wheels.

  “I feel almost alive,” he said.

  “Good. Just keep walking.”

  “But I’m afraid that I’m running from love.”

  “You’re not,” Evie said. “If you think about it, the most touching love stories usually employ the pain of separation as their primary device. So just keep going, tearing us apart and making the audience reach for tissues.”

  “Good point,” he said. “But the fact is, I’ll never find another girl like you. You can’t deny that.”

  “No, but you couldn’t handle me anyway.”

  He came back and hit her shoulder playfully. She hit his in return. He winced and stepped away again.

  “See?” she said.

  “Point made.”

  “I think you’re just confused,” she said. “It can easily happen these days. Much of the entertainment we consume portrays the myth of attaining happiness by means of romantic relationships.”

  He nodded without enthusiasm.

  Evie started to speak but then suddenly paused. She realized that she was imparting a valuable yet unpopular lesson in the same manner as her grandfather. She understood how book boyfriend felt. Yet she also understood why her grandfather was always so immovable. There was no way of legitimately helping someone apart from dealing within the realm of truth. Anything less would be participating in games rather than actual assistance.

  “Do you need a hug?” boyfriend asked.

  “No,” Evie said, holding out her hand to keep him away. “My point is, other people can’t really make you happy. Sure, the idea works as far as selling music and novels and movie tickets to young people willing to believe the lie, but the actual evidence of real people says otherwise. Look at the divorce rates. Then consider that at least half of those that do stay together report feeling trapped and miserable. The fact is, other people are just other people. They’re not magicians here to satisfy our constantly changing emotions in this uncertain world.”

  “You’re right,” boyfriend said bitterly. “I’m going to end up like up like an old Michael Bolton video, crying alone in the cold rain.”

  “No, no, no,” Evie admonished him. “It’s high time for you to start thinking positively. Somewhere out there, I know there’s a special girl just waiting to act like your mommy. She won’t make you feel perfect all the time, but she’ll agree with all your opinions, wash your clothes, feed you, listen sympathetically while you whine, and hold you while you sob. If that’s what you really want, you just need to make up your mind to get out there and find her.”

  “But … I’m not sure where to begin,” he said.

  “Okay,” she said. “You seem nice enough, so I’ll give you some great advice.”

  He looked at her expectantly.

  “Get a guitar.”

  He made a face.

  “Write a ballad, dummy,” she said. “Girls will flock to you and then you can have your pick.”

  “That would be great … if I had some musical talent.”

  She smiled with a nonchalant wave. “Talent doesn’t matter in the twenty-first century. It’s the same as the art form previously known as literature. Any hack can self-publish his fiction these days.”

  “So, you honestly think the music gimmick will work?”

  “Do you honestly think Page and Plant took out personal ads to meet girls?”

  “Great point,” he called, his tone brighter. He began walking faster.

  “That’s right,” Evie called after him. “You’re doing great. Just keep walking. One foot in front of the other. Go get that guitar and get busy practicing.”

  “Will do,” he called.

  At long last, when book boyfriend was finally out of sight, our exhausted heroine breathed a heavy sigh of relief. One freaking ordeal after another.

  Then the clown cleared his throat behind her.

  “I haven’t forgotten you,” Evie said as she turned back to him. If memory served, the last number she’d stated in her countdown was three. Not two. And definitely not four. The number of the counting was surely three.

  Now, her patience spent, she didn’t bother finishing the countdown. She had pretty much given up on the sweet fairytale charade, and deep down she really was a territorial wild animal at heart.

  Time to set it loose.

  ***

  In a blink she transformed, her body doubling in size, tearing her amazing outfit all to shreds, and she leapt with a snarl at the clown with her massive jaws ready to rend and destroy.

  A moment later the clown’s severed arm dropped to the ground. The balloon floated up from the disconnected hand, while the rest of the clown began screaming in sheer terror, staggering and stumbling and bleeding. He was wishing he could go back in time and make better life decisions. Perhaps become a defense lawyer for child abusers. Possibly an opiate dealer. Maybe a telephone scammer of the elderly.

  In the next instant Evie’s wild senses kicked in. A familiar scent reached her nose. Another wolf was approaching fast. And not just any wolf. It was her grandfather. She scanned around and stood waiting, watching his white bulk flashing between the shadowy tree trunks.

  “What have you done?” he asked, looking from her to the body flopping on the ground.

  “He was one of those clowns from the news.”

  “Very well,” answered the great elder. “Now that your ordeal here has ended, I ask that you turn your attention to helping us.”

  (“Help!” screamed the dying clown.)

  “What can I do?”

  “The pack requires your presence. At the least it requires your attention.”

  (“I’m sorry,” gasped the clown. “It was only a joke. A bad joke. But a joke.”)

  “Let us return to the house,” Evie said. “I tire of this scene.”

  Her grandfather nodded, and walking at her side, asked, “While you have been away, have you made peace with your role?”

  (“Heelllppp!”)

  The two wolves exchanged annoyed glances. Even living in the middle of nowhere, enjoying a little peace and quiet seemed a hopeless pipedream. It just wasn’t possible to have a smooth and uninterrupted conversation, regardless of where one went to have it. They sped up to get away from the clown, but putting him out of earshot was no easy task, given their exceptional ears.

  They were back to the farm in a few minutes and much of the pack, now wolves, was impatiently milling about the back yard. The sight of them all gathered there in the early light of day was overwhelmingly beautiful to Evie. Over one hundred wolves, all beautifully and uniquely colored. Strong and nimble. Growling and whining. Some of them restless, their hackles bristling as they anticipated the battl
e to come. Just seeing them in that moment made her heart swell with love and awed pride.

  “This is your dream,” Joseph said to her. “We may all act independently, as you see. But we cannot go easily beyond your boundaries. It would be much easier on us if you would bring us east to Maine.”

  “Otherwise you must all run a great distance,” she said.

  “Yes. There is no other way to transport so many wolves.”

  “Then, let us be done with it,” she said resolutely. “Where arguments fail, beauty speaks clearest. I now see my selfishness, and I see it clearest by the beauty of my great pack. Above all else I am one of you. My love for you all and my territorial instincts far surpass the momentary selfish urges of my human side. Forgive me, all!”

  Of course there were no real hard feelings with the pack. Only restless energy and simmering impatience.

  “Such is the greatness of our lives,” said her grandfather, taking the chance to impart a lesson. “Our hearts and loyalties surpass even our majestic bodies. No grudges are held. Only fools hold grudges against one’s own body. We are one great body.”

  “But I am sorry,” Evie said. “I have slowed our response to this terrible threat. Now let us join the eastern pack. Let us defeat this destructive force once and for all!”

  And be done with this crazy dream.

  ***

  The Fog brothers looked at each other. Then they glanced around at their new surroundings. They were no longer in the oak house of Ludlow. Nothing but fields and trees surrounded them as far as they could see.

  “Dude, where are we?”

  “I’m guessing eastern Maine. That weird family kept talking about Maine and other wolves. I guess we’re there now.”

  “How’d we get here so fast?”

  “Who cares? At least we didn’t have to ride our bikes.”

  “Totally, man. But think about it. It’s Maine. You know who comes from this state?”

  “Lobsters?”

  “I meant Stephen King. What if he gets involved in this? We’re way out in the boonies here. Some seriously scary crap could go down.”

  “Dude, I’m not even worried. We’re all set.”

  “Honestly, we sort of suck at killing monsters.”

  “No joke. But you see the size of those wolves? See how many there are? No one’s messing with them in their element like this. It would be total suicide. Even our blazed hippie parents could see that.”

  ***

  “Did you invite those brothers?” Janie asked her daughter. They were both dressed in jeans and flannel shirts, fitting with their locale. Sitting in a fairly nice treehouse about fifty yards from the Fog brothers, they were overlooking a huge field of young spruce trees. It was a Christmas tree farm. A dirt road ran through the center of the field, leading into the shadows of the eastern woods.

  “I didn’t invite them,” Evie returned. “I’ve never even seen that movie.”

  “Must have been me,” Janie said. “I admit it, I love The Lost Boys.”

  Evie was nodding as she said, “So I guess we’re left out of the battle.”

  “I don’t want to fight. Unless there’s no other option.”

  “Same here,” Evie said. “But a small part of me can’t help resenting Papa, and ultimately our author for this. You know, for being so overprotective of us.”

  Janie shook her head. “I don’t get kids today. You enjoy all the perks of being a favored one, and yet you resent being left out of a vicious battle?”

  “The world’s headed straight to hell,” broke in an older man on a horse. He tipped his cowboy hat to them and then rode off heading west.

  “Who the heck was that?” Evie asked her mother.

  “Reminds me of the sheriff from No Country for Old Men. Our author must admire Cormac McCarthy.”

  “And who’s that scary guy holding what looks like an air tank?” Evie asked, pointing.

  Janie looked. She felt herself shudder. It was him. The terrible man whose name sounded something like Sugar. The prophet of death. He was staring after the sheriff on the horse with what looked to all the world to be bad intentions. Then he started to follow him.

  “Kill him,” Janie said to her daughter. “Quick, have the author kill the scary guy! Before he hurts the sheriff.”

  Evie made the request to the author, though it wasn’t necessary. He had it covered.

  Sugar stood still. A fine pink mist puffed out from his chest and then a low thump was heard, like the sound of a door closing in the distance. A strange expression passed over Sugar’s face. It was a look of surprise mingled with pain. He made not a sound. A black-red stain spread out across his shirt as the life pumped out of him. He touched the stain and then contemplated the blood on his fingers as the world slowly darkened around him and everything he had ever been and had ever done ceased to matter. Then he died. His dead body crumpled over, his whole existence reduced to nothing but fertilizer.

  Mother and daughter looked around. About a hundred yards away they saw a tall man dressed in camo stand up from behind a tree. He held up his rifle and nodded to them. Then he faded back into the trees without expecting any further recognition or thanks.

  “And who was that?” Evie asked.

  “Reminds me of legendary SEAL Marcus Luttrell,” Janie said. “It’s fitting, actually, that a Texas boy should be watching out for the old sheriff.”

  “Okay,” Evie sighed. “It was nice of him to take care of that, but let’s not argue or even talk anymore, so we won’t provoke anymore randomness. Let’s just wait quietly and see how the plot unfolds.”

  “Good call.”

  ***

  The morning was mostly clear. In the distance a thin bank of clouds was rolling in from the east. Unnaturally thin and dark. Black. Faint thunder could be heard. Little bolts of lightning flashed here and there. The light of the rising sun shone dim behind the small storm, casting strange beams all around the low block of darkness.

  “The vampire uses the weather,” said Joseph Snow, the great white wolf. He was standing before the assembly of warriors, a wild army over three hundred strong. Some of the pack had remained in Ludlow and some had remained in the Maine village of the Snows, to guard the children. And, in the event of a tragic loss on the battlefield, to ensure that the family bloodlines would not be completely lost.

  “Father,” said Lester Snow. “The scouts return.”

  The white wolf turned east and watched the small group of fast wolves crossing the open area. They ran with all haste until they were nearly upon the army, and then slowed, catching their breath as they told of what they had observed of Dracula’s army.

  The news was worse than expected. Dracula’s force had swelled to four thousand vampires. They made slow but steady progress under their protective dome of dark clouds. Most of the converts looked crazed with the hunger for fresh blood. And at the front of the force marched an increasingly growing force of wild animals. Common wolves and coyotes, bull moose and bears.

  “The wild animals respect us,” Joseph said. “Yet Dracula’s powers of persuasion are strong.”

  “We have no choice,” said Harold of the Maine pack, another white Snow wolf. “We must use Spartan tactics against their greater numbers. We must punish them on the narrow road and crush their will to fight.”

  “Sound tactics,” said Joseph. “But I wish no wolf to be lost in such a battle. Dracula is from a noble line of warriors. It is my hope that he will offer terms before the battle. I will go and meet him. I will offer myself to him, alone, that we may avoid this war.”

  “No, father,” growled Lester.

  “I must do what must be done, or lose my honor. If he defeats me, avenge me with all wrath.”

  A great many growls and grumbles erupted from all the nearby wolves. It was fear and sadness and naked fury.

  Joseph Snow took one last look at his pack, his family. Then he turned from them and began marching slowly east, alone.

  “Father!” ca
lled Lester, a huge gray wolf now in a trembling fit of rage. “This cannot be the way!”

  “Do as I order,” his father called back, striding confidently toward the black storm.

  Lester could not contain himself. He bolted from the line and it took three wolves working together to push him back and hold him down.

  “Stay down, boy,” growled Harold, a great elder and veteran of wars. “You will only distract him if you interfere. You will only lessen his chance of victory.”

  “No king meets without his generals!”

  Harold returned through his snarls, “As you say, few are bold enough to stand alone. He will fight easier on his own, without concern for us. And he will intimidate the vampire more with his solitary stand.”

  ***

  Across the open space, at first Evie could not believe her eyes. But after a moment she did believe them, and Janie had to tackle her daughter and use all of her strength to hold her pressed against the trunk of the tree holding the treehouse.

  “Calm down,” she was saying over and over. “He knows what he’s doing. Don’t change. Don’t distract him.”

  “He can’t go alone!” Evie was saying through her tears. “We can’t let him!”

  “It’s his choice,” Janie said through her own tears. “I don’t know why, but it’s his choice. We can’t interfere now. We’ll only make it harder for him.”

  After a minute or more of bitter struggle, Evie relaxed physically and wiped her face on her shirt. She felt sick. The wolf was just a second away. But she knew that she couldn’t set it free. Her mother was right. There was nothing to do in that terrible moment but trust in her grandfather.

  “I don’t understand this,” she said.

  “I don’t either.”

  “It’s a nightmare, Mom.”

  “I know. Hold on. Just hold on. We’ll get through it. Okay? We always do.”

  “But you know what they say about dying in a dream. What if Papa dies in my nightmare?”

  “Don’t think that way. Please, don’t even think that way. Maybe … Maybe he’s trying to distract Dracula. Maybe he’s trying to get into his head. If Dracula loses control over the weather, the sun might scatter his army. That could be his tactic. I really think it is. I hope so.”

  ***

  Dracula rode atop a stolen horse. He was wrapped in blankets taken from a clothesline, and every hour he took a fresh convert to his cause and drained that convert of every last drop of blood. Otherwise he would be too weakened by the effort of maintaining the storm. And remaining on the move was critical. To stop and rest would invite these strange modern humans to attack him.