A Vampyre's Daughter

by Jeff Schanz

  Brandt shook his head, his warm feeling of hope disappearing. Mikhail was the kryptonite to everything he had planned, and there was nothing he could do about it. He watched the Pterodactyl-like form of Mikhail circle around the mountain peak for a moment, searching for his quarry. Don’t fire, baby. Find cover and keep still.

  He saw no flashes of gunfire, so it looked like Lia was doing just that. Brandt briefly wondered what would happen if he hit Mikhail with the flare gun. Would the asshole catch on fire? He did have another flare, and he didn’t have a good reason to keep it, now. He loaded the flare gun again.

  That’s an impossible shot.

  You got a better idea? He didn’t. He took aim. Then Mikhail made an incredibly fast dive at the peak.

  Oh, no.

  A bullet whizzed by Brandt’s ear, altering his focus, and making him duck and cover his head. He scrambled under a bush and tried to see where the shots came from. Three men had taken positions down the slope and were firing behind two statue-sized boulders. Brandt traded his shotgun for a rifle and sent a few bursts down the slope. They returned fire. He was pinned down. He couldn't go any further up, and the only real path down was now blocked.

  He looked up to find Lia. For a moment he saw nothing, which gave him hope. And then the hope was dashed. Mikhail appeared overhead carrying the flailing form of a girl in his talons.

  No! No, no, no. Brandt wanted to scream at the gods of Heaven and Hell and throw something at the sky. He knew Mikhail wouldn’t kill Lia yet. Mikhail needed her alive to drain her blood. According to Lia, the moment the Living vampyre’s body dies, the blood changes. He needed Lia’s blood as a Living vampyre. But once he was done, she would be dead. Or undead. That was worse to Lia. She would refuse to live that way.

  Mikhail shot like a rocket toward the yacht. He had his prize. Brandt had lost. Almost lost. There’s still time, but I have to get to her fast! But even if he ran, and even if the enemy let him pass unmolested, and even if Mikhail took his sweet time hooking up Lia to whatever contraption he had designed to drain all her blood, and even if there was a boat waiting for Brandt to race to the yacht, he still might not get there in time to save Lia’s life. His kryptonite had just punched him in the throat and all he could do was curse at the sky.

  Are you going to sit down and cry about it, or are you going to get your ass down there and get on board that yacht? Move soldier! There was nothing else to do. His life was tied to Lia’s now. He had promised that Mikhail would die, and his own life was forfeit unless he did, maybe even forfeit in order to do it, and he would keep that promise. One way or another, he had his purpose.

  A life with Lia, or his death to avenge her. It seemed like his situation had come full circle in a week and a half. But he was no longer risking his life for guilt, he was risking it for love. He hadn’t been in control of his life for a while now. If God was saving him for some good reason, this had to be it. And if God couldn’t recognize love as the best reason to keep Brandt alive while he rescued someone else, then what good was God?

  He risked a few seconds of precious time to kneel behind the rock to pray, while another bullet clipped the edge of the rock.

  “Dear Lord. Do whatever you want with me, but I’m going down there to save Lia, and kill that evil son of a bitch, Mikhail. I pray, please keep Lia safe, and grant me the strength to vanquish my enemies. And if you won’t help, then stay out of my way. Amen.”

  Brandt scrambled to his right and picked up the fallen RPG that one of the strike team had dropped. It was already ready to fire, save for one step. Brandt completed the step, took a breath, then stood.

  Bullets flew around him. One bullet tugged at his sleeve. Brandt kept steady and sighted the spot between the three men. He fired. The RPG rocked him backward, but he held his ground as the little grenade shot forth, trailing a sizzling mist. The three men dove for cover as the grenade hit the ground between them and exploded. At first, all Brandt saw was a brown and white plume of smoke and sandy debris, but he soon saw other larger things that had been broken apart and sent skyward. Pieces of rock, twigs, sand, flesh, and bone. A scrap of uniform flew by, then someone’s helmet. A twisted chunk of gun metal bounced near his feet. As the smoke cleared, Brandt stepped forward, his spent RPG traded for an AK-47. The smoke became a transparent haze which showed him a much larger space in between the two rocks he had fired at. In fact, the rocks were tilted in opposite directions, now. Brandt had seen plenty of RPGs before, and the cheap ones would do ok damage, but the good ones would obliterate whatever they were aimed at. That RPG was a good one. Mangled carcasses of all three men were scattered across the ground. There was no movement. Not even a tremble or a moan.

  Either, God was helping him, or God had stayed clear. Either way – I’ll take it. Brandt ran down the mountain.

  He met no resistance until he got to the bottom of the mountain path when he ran straight into fire from three sides. The last three men. One on each side and one in the middle. Brandt hit the deck behind the last substantial rock before open ground. The men had positioned themselves well. They had flat ground to move around and Brandt had a narrow path forward as his only escape. He had an AK-47, a shotgun, a flare gun, a pistol, and a knife, plus one crazy little invention: a little chunk of C4 with a detonator and a timer. It wouldn't destroy three spaced-out men at once, but he may not need it to.

  He popped up, laid down some automatic fire, and the three men ducked. Then the three men sent a few shots in his direction and Brandt ducked. Brandt took out the little blob of C4, the detonation stalk, and the timer. The timer was set for fifteen seconds. He embedded the stalk, mashed the C4 around it, and clicked on the timer. Moving quickly left, so the gunmen would have to adjust their aim, he cocked his arm and threw. The little C4 bomb flew into the clearing. It bounced and rolled only a little before it stopped well short of the triangle of men. It would harm none of them. But that's not what Brandt had in mind. Bullets ripped the ground at his feet and something stung his leg as he ran forward.

  The little makeshift bomb blew. The blast ripped some boards out of the barn, and a sent a few fences posts toppling, but for the most part, it simply made a big fuss and a lot of dirty smoke. Brandt started to sprint toward the blast. He fired his shotgun at the last known location of the gunman on the left, then did the same for the gunman on the right, then the middle guy. He pumped the gun and repeated the effort, giving a rebel yell as he ran. Only a few bullets sailed past him. The gunmen wouldn’t be able to see him clearly through the smoke, and would be cursing from the little stinging shotgun pellets whizzing around them. It was what he was betting his life on.

  He was counting on them to fall back into the clear and wait for him to emerge from the smoke. He tossed the shotgun and began to spray bullets from the AK in a wide arc. They needed to fall back, or this stupid stunt would be his last stunt ever. He continued to yell as he ran forward.

  He ran into the clearing hoping there weren’t rifles trained on his head from his left and right. There weren’t. All three men had just finished running back toward the house to get out of the smoke and had turned around just in time to see Brandt run into the clear. He sprayed the last bullets from his magazine. The men dove to the ground and fired back as they did. Nothing hit Brandt.

  He tossed the AK and yanked the flare gun out of his pocket. The moment it took to do it made him a sitting duck. Running duck. The three men rose quickly and aimed their rifles at Brandt’s chest as he fired the flare gun.

  The plan needed them to retreat far enough back that they would be near the house. The only tripwire that never got tripped was the one near the front doors. The doors had been barred to prevent anyone from hiding behind them when the blast went off. Likely, none of the strike team ever believed Brandt or Lia was in the house, and they were right, but that also left one more unexpected trick up Brandt’s sleeve. And it would be the hardest trick to pull off. The flare would have to hit just in front of them,
and at least one of them would have to jump back and run into the tripwire. Only then would it work.

  The flare curved down and bounced and sparked along the ground, veering right. Not where Brandt wanted it to go. All of the men held their fire temporarily, confused by the glowing projectile, but not immediately moving. The flare spat and spasmed like an angry lightning god, spurting magenta flames in all directions, but essentially would do no real damage besides setting the grass on fire. The man on the far right, however, wasn’t taking chances, probably unsure that the strange missile was only a flare. He raced in the other direction toward the house, slid to a stop at the front door stoop, and was already in the firing position, getting off two shots at Brandt. Brandt sprinted right and both shots clipped the ground behind him. Then the bomb blew.

  There were two C4 bricks on the tripwire, one on each side, each surrounded by a package of nails from the tool shed. The blast was intense. Brandt had positioned the bombs at a distance that shouldn't damage the house too much since the house's base was made of overlapping stone, but anything in the vicinity that wasn't stone would be ripped apart. Brandt hit the ground, though he was probably at a safe distance, it felt like the right plan. He looked back as the smoke cleared and saw no human forms standing. There were only dark, bloody shapes spread across the ground writhing in agony.

  He had counted the men that had come. There had been two dozen. Two dozen were now dead or too badly wounded to pose a threat. I actually did it.

  Half of it. He needed to get to the yacht.

  Those assholes better have left their boat at the beach. Lia had very little time and he was already late.

  CHAPTER 33

  Alex saw the explosions briefly light the night sky, then disappear. He knew the men he hired had RPGs, and they planned to pin Brandt down in the mountains, so he was hoping that was what he saw. Regardless, he wasn’t too concerned anymore. His master had just brought back the girl, and the master was already satisfied. Though, he would be even more satisfied if Brandt was dead, too.

  He lowered his binoculars and scanned the sea. Whatever men that were left, if any, would eventually drive their boat back to the yacht. Alex could care less about who might have survived, but he wanted the big launch back. It was an expensive 38-foot Chris Craft that was decked out with a master bedroom, bar, etc, for outings from the yacht. Mikhail would be pissed off if the launch was destroyed, too. This assault on the island had resulted so far in the deaths of half of Mikhail’s personal henchmen and scores of hired men. Alex forgot how many, and didn’t care. He did care about the destruction of the helicopter, so he was not about to lose the Chris Craft too.

  Alex saw something on the water and brought his binoculars up. It was the Chris Craft racing at full throttle toward the yacht. He focused tighter and got a glimpse of the men in the boat. Three of them, all with their black balaclavas on. The captain and two of his men were the last soldiers remaining alive the last time Alex talked to them, so what he saw made sense.

  Alex spoke into the microphone. “Sea craft approaching from the east. Identify yourself.”

  Alex knew who it was, but he wasn’t going to take chances.

  There was no answer on the com. Alex focused on the driver, who was gesturing something. The man tilted his head up, waving his hand at his neck. There appeared to be a lot of blood there. His throat is cut? Then, something did come over the com. It was a raspy, almost gargling sound.

  “Can’t talk. Barely breathe,” rasped the driver’s voice.

  “Copy, Captain.”

  “Team destroyed. Two men injured. Coming in,” said the hoarse voice.

  “Copy.”

  So, the captain survived, and he and his last two men were injured. Through the binoculars, they looked already too far gone, but if the captain wanted to waste his effort dragging the likely corpses back, that was his business.

  Alex sent three men down to the docking area. There was a hydraulic bay that was lowered and flooded so the launch could slip into it. Once the launch was aboard, the bay would be raised and drained to keep the launch parked inside the yacht. Alex would help the captain as long as the master desired it, but he’d prefer if everyone died. Less money to hand out.

  His master had ordered the murders of hired men before, and Alex would gladly do it again if asked, but so far he hadn't been asked. He was down to his last half-dozen men, which was bare minimum to maintain security on this tub. He'd spare three to get the launch in and then get the hell back out to sea before the Coast Guard showed up.

  * * * *

  Alex’s men helped the captain out of the boat. The captain had blood caked all over his neck and looked very weak. It took two of them to help him out. One of Alex’s men jumped into the launch to tend to the other unconscious men. He was confused. After examining the men, he found they were both dead. One had no left arm and the other was tied to the seatback because his legs had been separated from his body. The legs had been lashed to the seat.

  “What the hell?” he asked. He turned to his comrades, but there were no comrades. “Hey!” he shouted. Everyone was gone. Unless they were all lying down on the dock behind the side of the boat, where he couldn’t see, which made no sense. He began to vault the boat railing, but his feet never touched the dock. A long knife skewered him in the middle of his chest. He choked and spat, trying to find words of surprise and desperation. Nothing coherent was uttered. The knife pulled back and then slashed at his throat. His world started to go black as he fell to the dock, alongside his two other comrades.

  * * * *

  Brandt shoved the dead men overboard quietly, then took off the balaclava and donned one of their hats. He kept the hat low to look like one of the security forces on board, then ascended the nearest stairs and stopped with only his head above floor level. It was a long and narrow corridor along the exterior of the boat. There were several cabin doors, but only one of the doors had a guard posted out front.

  It had to be something important like Lia, or the real Mikhail. He was betting Lia, and hoped the hell so. Mikhail could wait, Lia couldn’t. She may already be dead. He had taken way too long tying the dead men to the seats in the boat, and smearing blood on his neck to fake out the radio sentry. But it worked. Everything had worked so far, it had just taken too long. He had less than zero time left.

  He bounced up the staircase and walked briskly down the corridor. The guard turned his head to Brandt. Brandt nodded while holding his hands in front like he was covering his cigarette from the wind. The guard nodded back and checked the other direction. No one else had come from the other direction while the guard’s attention was on the cigarette lighting-guy, so the guard turned back to the “cigarette man”. Brandt allowed only the briefest moment for the guard to view his face. The guard’s eyes widened in confusion.

  “Hhh…” The guard started to say “Hey,” but the word died as the air escaped through the hole that just opened in his neck from a lightning-quick knife cut. He clutched at his neck in horror. The rifle was wrenched off his back, then he was pushed forward over the rails, somersaulting into the sea.

  Brandt watched only long enough to see the man plunge into the water. He then steeled himself in front of the door, rifle ready. Please be Lia. Please don’t be too late.

  He flung open the door.

  The room was some kind of medical bay. Cabinets of medical equipment, bottles, and white boxes lined the walls. There were packages of needles, containers of some kind of injectors, and bags of blood in the kind of flat rectangular pouches you would find in a hospital. On the right was a door that looked like it led into another medical bay. But Brandt didn’t need to check in there. Lia was in front of him.

  She was strapped to a mad-scientist style table that was tilted at around a seventy-five-degree angle. Her arms were straight at her side and her legs were locked down to the base. There was a plastic drip line attached to her neck, presumably to drain her blood. She was
ash pale and nearly blue. Her eyes were closed and she didn’t tremble or move in any way when he entered.

  “Baby. Oh God, what did he do to you?” muttered Brandt.

  Brandt slung his rifle and ran up to her, pressing his hand to her neck. No pulse. He tapped her face.

  “Sweetie, I’m here. Come on, talk to me. I’m here.”

  He listened to her heart. No heartbeat. No, no, no.

  “Open your eyes. Your Brandt is here. See? I made it. We’re going to get you home. Ok?”

  He tried her wrist. No pulse. Nothing moved on her. She was ice cold.

  Goddamnit. No! His eyes started to water. He tapped Lia’s face again, but he knew it was too late.

  “But I made it. I fucking made it!” He slumped against Lia’s inert body. He started to cry. “I fucking made it, you son of a bitch! Why!?”

  He was addressing God, who had allowed him to get this far, just to find his love dead.

  Dead. Dead?

  Was she really? She was a vampyre. Maybe their pulses, or heartbeats, or whatever, acted differently with that much blood loss. Maybe. Maybe.

  Brandt scanned the room. I need adrenaline. Anything. Something. He saw a locked cabinet that had some clear vials and injectors in it. He smashed the lock with the butt of his rifle, threw open the door, and tore open the box. There were little plastic injectors alongside clear vials that had a slender green stripe down the side.

  The vials – the green stripe… He knew he had seen these before. Six months ago. When he was strapped to a post with Bony at his side, and the goateed asshole that worked for Mikhail, aka The Russian, was injecting them with some unknown shit. This shit! They had been guinea pigs to test Mikhail's elixir. That's why they didn't ask many questions because they didn't care. They just wanted to see how much damage a body could take with the elixir in their system. You son of a bitch. He didn’t have time to debate the morality of it. He pushed a vial into the injector and slammed it into Lia’s neck, shoving the plunger down. The liquid disappeared.