The Nosferatu Chronicles: The Aztec God

by Susan Hamilton

  As Dujot sprinted away, he could hear the distant cries of the cart driver followed by the high pitch of a police whistle. Although he was now safe from capture, Dujot was disappointed that he was unable to finish his grotesque work. The mutilation thrilled him the most. For hundreds of years he had been a loner amongst the humans, and his hatred for them knew no bounds. In his mind he was still fully Vambir, but on the rare occasions that he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, he cursed the transformation that had brought about his hideous exterior.

  He had hoped that his return to the Old World would mean the attainment of wealth and power. Dracula had done it, but Dracula had been born into human royalty, and his behavior before his transformation had been so brutal and odd that no one had deemed his sudden avoidance of sunlight to be peculiar.

  Vlad the Impaler — ha! The Aztecs would have laughed at such feeble scare tactics.

  There had been brief moments when fortune smiled upon him. His magnetic personality had made it easy for him to latch onto wealthy humans who were enthralled by his Bohemian lifestyle. When he was in favor, he lived in opulent surroundings. But sooner or later, there were always questions about his avoidance of sunlight and why he would never partake of food or drink in anyone’s presence. He could never let his guard down. Those who were jealous of his unearned status were always plotting to bring about his downfall. Somehow, he had always managed to flee before being exposed, and it had become a perverse game that he had long grown tired of.

  Centuries of the macabre routine had taken its toll on his mental faculties, and his recent activities in Whitechapel had provided a distraction to the monotony of his existence.

  As he was about to reach the safety of his cloaked pod, he narrowly avoided running into a woman vomiting in the street.

  Another drunken whore!

  *******

  “Read it for us!” pleaded one of the patrons.

  The publican sighed. “It’s the same every time.”

  “Not this time,” said the barmaid. “He killed two of ’em in one night. Oh please, just read it!”

  The publican picked up the newspaper and began to read aloud the transcript of the police surgeon’s report to the crowd that had gathered around him.

  “The second body was found on its back, the head turned to the left shoulder,” he said. “The arms were by the side of the body, as if they had fallen there with both palms upwards and the fingers slightly bent. A thimble was lying off the finger on the right side.”

  “Skip over the boring stuff,” complained one of the patrons.

  “The clothes were drawn up above the abdomen,” continued the publican. “The thighs were naked, with the left leg extended in a line with the body. The abdomen was exposed. The right leg was bent at the thigh and knee. The bonnet was at the back of the head, and there was a great disfigurement of the face. The throat was cut and the intestines were drawn out to a large extent and placed over the right shoulder, smeared over with some feculent matter.”

  “What’s feculent matter?” asked the patron.

  “Shite,” sneered the publican. “Now shut yer gob!”

  “Don’t pay him no mind,” said the barmaid to the publican. “Go on!”

  The patrons waited anxiously in hushed silence for the publican to continue.

  “A piece of about two feet was quite detached from the body and placed between the body and the left arm, apparently by design. The lobe and auricle of the right ear were cut obliquely through. The death was immediate and the mutilations were inflicted after death. The peritoneal lining was cut through on the left side and the left kidney carefully taken out and removed. The body was quite warm, and she must have been dead most likely within the half hour of being discovered. There was no blood on the skin of the abdomen or secretion of any kind on the thighs.”

  “Ol’ Jack didn’t get the business!” cackled the barmaid.

  “Most likely wasn’t able to!” shouted the patron. “That’s why he slashes ’em up! Gotta release that tension somehow!”

  The patrons erupted into raucous laughter. Seated alone at a table in the corner, Dujot pretended to slowly sip on a pint of ale. His face and calm demeanor hid the rage welling up.

  Ignorant, disgusting Primitives. I could go into berserker mode and slaughter every one of them in an instant. They are in the midst of death yet delude themselves into believing they are immune.

  Dujot decided it was time to move on to new hunting grounds. The random butchery he had inflicted in Whitechapel had done nothing to quell the fire that raged within him. He had been forced to kill quickly out in the open and had not had the time and privacy to properly vent his pent-up rage. He was out of place, both literally and figuratively. He stifled a laugh when he remembered all the petty black-market schemes he had masterminded while on Vambiri.

  Leaving the full pint of ale on the table, he got up and walked out into the dark lane.

  I’ll smuggle the cloaked pod into the steerage section of a ship and leave this cursed place behind. The Mediterranean might be nice…

  He would have loved nothing more than to find a deserted island and live out his life away from humans, but that would mean starving to death.

  If I must find a new home, I prefer to be among a better class of Primitives.

  His thoughts were interrupted when a woman’s voice called out to him.

  “’Allo, lovey!” she cried as she stumbled toward him.

  “Be gone, wench!” shouted Dujot. “Sell your filthy business to someone else!”

  “Now, don’t be like that,” she protested as he walked past her. “I got me own room! You can stay the whole night and do whatever you like in complete privacy.”

  Dujot stopped in his tracks.

  The woman giggled. “That’s right, lovey. No alleys for us. C’mon — a warm bed with Fair Emma is just what you need.”

  ********

  “Read it again!” cried one of the patrons.

  “Cor blimey!” cursed the publican. “It’s been over a year since he killed the last one! Ain’t you tired of hearin’ it? I’m damn sure tired of readin’ it. You should have it memorized by now!”

  “You’re not the only geezer what can read,” said the patron.

  The publican knew he was right. His business was still profiting from patrons who came to listen to his macabre “story time.”

  “Post-mortem report for the Mary Kelly murder,” recited the publican as he opened the worn newspaper.

  “Fair Emma,” interrupted the patron.

  “I heard her name was Ginger,” said another, “but she also went by ‘Black Mary.’”

  The publican slammed the paper down on the bar and began to walk away.

  “Alright, alright!” pleaded the first patron. “We won’t talk no more ’bout her bleedin’ name!”

  The publican picked up the paper and returned to his reading. “The body was lying naked in the middle of the bed, the shoulders flat, but the axis of the body inclined to left side of the bed. The legs were wide apart, the left thigh at right angles to the trunk and the right forming an obtuse angle with the pubes. The whole of the surface of the abdomen and thighs was removed and the abdominal cavity emptied of its viscera. The viscera were found in various parts: the uterus and kidneys with one breast under the head, the other breast by the right foot, the liver between the feet, the intestines by the right side, and the spleen by the left side of the body. The flaps removed from the abdomen and thighs were on a table. Both breasts were more or less removed by circular incisions, the muscle down to the ribs being attached to the breasts. The skin and tissues of the abdomen from the costal arch to the pubes were removed in three large flaps. The right thigh was denuded in front to the bone, the flap of skin, including the external organs of generation, and part of the right buttock. The left thigh was stripped of skin fascia and muscles as far as the knee.”

  “Bloody ’ell,” murmured the first patron.

  The publican n
odded to the barmaid, who drew fresh pints of ale for distribution.

  “Ol’ Jack must be dying,” said another as he signaled for a new drink. “Five deaths in three months, then nothing for over a year — you don’t just suddenly stop. If anything, it gets worse.”

  “How could it get worse than what happened to Fair Emma?” asked the first patron.

  “I heard that only a doctor could have cut her up like that,” said another.

  “Why not a butcher?” asked the first patron. “They know as much about giblets as doctors.”

  “Doctors and butchers have businesses to run,” said the publican. “You can’t be respectable by day and a slasher by night — not for any extended period of time. Mark my words — Jack’s not human. He’s a half-breed.”

  “Half human and half what?” asked the first patron.

  “Dunno,” said the publican, “but half of him ain’t human.”

  Of the myriad of theories about the identity of the Whitechapel murderer that abound to this day, the publican’s was the most accurate.

  PURSUIT

  Finland, 1910

  Once the sun had set, three Dominican friars disembarked from the boat that had smuggled them over the Baltic Sea to Helsinki. Halley’s Comet blazed above them in the night sky, eliminating the need for torchlight. Cadmael and Eadrich stoically kept to the slow pace set by Albinus. The two Mayan novices pulled their hoods down to protect their faces against a strong gust of wind that caught them by surprise. Never before had they experienced such bitter cold. A faster pace would help their circulation, but it was out of the question for Albinus.

  The once vibrant albino friar now resembled a walking skeleton, with his leathery skin hanging loosely from his face. His frail body belied the steely determination in his hollow, sunken eyes. He had refused sustenance for three days, and the novices were deeply worried for him. Although their ancestors believed that only sunlight could kill Albinus, they secretly wondered if the brutal conditions he was enduring in his weakened state would be enough to do him in.

  As they trudged through the frigid darkness, Cadmael and Eadrich sang Gregorian chants to distract themselves from their bodily sufferings. Albinus remained silent — the mere act of breathing was taxing enough on his lungs.

  The novices kept their heads down as they walked methodically to the chant. Such was the intensity of their concentration that they did not realize Albinus had fallen to the ground until they tripped over him.

  Cadmael bent down and cradled Albinus in his arms while Eadrich withdrew his knife and made a small cut in his own palm.

  “Drink, Master,” said Eadrich as he made a fist and squeezed the droplets onto Albinus’s lips.

  “No!” protested Albinus, jerking his head away.

  “Hold him still and open his mouth,” ordered Eadrich.

  “You must drink, Master,” intoned Cadmael as he held him tight. “You cannot hope to defeat the Antichrist in your present condition.”

  As Eadrich’s blood coated Albinus’s throat, he could instantly feel its replenishing effects. He knew that Cadmael was right and suppressed the gag reflex in order to complete his holy mission. His strength restored, Albinus got to his feet and removed the worn newspaper clipping from the pocket of his robe.

  “I’m coming for you, Antichrist,” he said to the picture of the ragged monk posing with a group of Russian noblewomen.

  There was no mistaking the thick, bulbous nose, the tattered black hair, and the piercing gray eyes. It was the face of Friar Alonso, the demon responsible for Albinus’s condition.

  After the shipwreck in 1510, Albinus had thought himself to be the only survivor and made contact with a friendly native tribe. Believing God had purposefully marooned him in order to do His work, he learned their language and used his oratory skills to convert them to Christianity. For a few idyllic months, all had been well; he had performed baptism, weddings, and funerals in the Christian rite, and the natives had completely abandoned the savage blood sacrifices their old gods had required.

  Then, quite suddenly, strange tales of a jungle demon emerged. Impervious to poisoned darts and moving faster than a jaguar, it was rumored to feed on the blood of humans. Albinus had scolded the natives for believing such fantastic stories until he saw the corpse of one of the demon’s victims. The body was riddled with bite marks and devoid of blood.

  Albinus had led his followers deep into the jungle to hunt the demon. Taking heart from the courage displayed by their pastor, the natives tracked the creature and surprised it as it was feeding.

  When the startled demon looked up, Albinus had instantly recognized it as Friar Alonso. While the natives stood frozen with fear at the sight, Albinus had charged at it and smashed a rock against its head. Although the demon bled profusely from its wound, it still eluded them with lightning speed.

  But the macabre spectacle was far from over. Blood spatter from the demon had entered the mouth of the victim on whom it had been feeding. Albinus and his followers watched in horror as the victim’s body reanimated. Albinus alone ran forward to fight the transformed Mayan but was quickly overpowered.

  Albinus had no memory of what happened in the immediate aftermath. When he regained consciousness, he found that he too had been transformed. The village elders had explained to him that the transformed Mayan had drained him to the point of death before fleeing. For two days Albinus had clung tenuously to life, and his devoted flock devised a way to save him. A volunteer had cut himself with a knife and waited for the transformed Mayan to pick up his scent. As the creature had lunged at him, a tripwire was activated and captured it. Eight sturdy men restrained it and brought it to Albinus. Believing that Albinus’s purity would protect him against evil, blood from the transformed Mayan was drawn and then fed to the dying albino friar.

  When it became clear that Albinus would recover, the transformed Mayan had been decapitated.

  Horrified at what he had become, Albinus steadfastly refused the blood offerings of the Mayans. Weak from starvation, he resolved to wait outside for the daylight. As his skin began to burn at the first light of dawn, he had a divine vision: God had allowed this hideous transformation to take place in order for him to be on equal footing to do battle with the Antichrist. Trusting in God, he accepted a Mayan blood offering and went in pursuit of Friar Alonso. To his intense distress, he caught sight of the fake friar being rescued by Hernando Cortés. Watching as the ship took him away, Albinus swore upon his eternal soul that he would not rest until he had tracked down and killed the demon.

  For over a century, he remained marooned on the island. The natives regarded him as a god, although he would not allow them to refer to him as such. He accepted just enough blood offerings to stay alive and insisted no one be put to death in order to obtain it.

  The elders provided Albinus with two native companions, and as time took its toll, young replacements would arrive. Cadmael and Eadrich were the latest in a long line of companions that would protect Albinus on his sacred quest with their lives. Their travels had taken them around the world, and after seeing the picture in the newspaper, they were steadfast in their belief that the frozen land of Russia was where the Antichrist would be found and defeated.

  “We will cross into Russia, and you will obtain work as field hands,” said Albinus. “We will lay low and blend in, no matter how long it takes, and learn everything there is to know about the demon-monk — his family, his circle of friends, his habits, and his enemies. God will use us to strike him down in His good time, not ours.”

  Lifting his eyes toward the comet, he raised his arms in supplication.

  “You have given us a celestial sign, O Lord,” he intoned. “We are your holy assassins and will not shirk from our duty.”

  CHARADE

  Guyana, 2012

  “It’s hard to believe,” said Nadia after Jasper told her what had happened at White City. “Are the Vambir mother and son out of stasis?”

  “No,” said Jasper
. “The mother might require years to regenerate. Her tissues were practically mummified, but her son is faring better. The hemo-nectar introduced into his system is accelerating the reverse metamorphosis, and as a result, the human contagion has gone into remission.”

  “What about Pocatello?” asked Nadia.

  “When I left Kozheozersky, she had recovered from the snake venom and was most anxious to donate her blood to Quetzalcoatl,” said Jasper.

  “But that won’t happen now. How did she take the news?” asked Nadia.

  “When it was explained that Quetzalcoatl was not a god but rather an alien,” said Jasper, “and that human blood was preventing him from recovering, she accepted it but insisted on remaining nearby in case Kevak’s hypothesis was incorrect.”

  Nadia looked at Jasper in disbelief. “Just like that, she threw away generations of passed-down stories that her god would die without fortified blood and went along with efforts to restore him to his Vambir form? Wasn’t the mother hated because she refused blood in order to avoid the transformation?”

  Jasper shrugged. “Pocatello’s an esteemed epidemiologist. She had the intelligence to recognize the scientific merits of Kevak’s opinion. Kevak’s presence alone is enough to convince anyone of the Vambir’s alien origins, not to mention the fact that she is being housed in the lifeboat, with its superior technology and stasis pods.”

  “That’s all well and good,” said Nadia, “but no one changes their faith in an instant, especially someone who went to the lengths that Pocatello did to serve her master.”

  *******

  *

  Kozheozersky Monastery

  “Do you feel strong enough to sit up?” asked Kevak, speaking in Vambir.

  “Yes,” answered Kwetz.

  The med-pod slowly adjusted Kwetz into a sitting position. He could see that the Vambir attending him was accompanied by a human priest. Strangely, the Vambir also wore the robes of a priest.

  “You are my kinsman,” said Kwetz to Kevak. “One of the ancestral gods.”

  “It is true that I am your kinsman,” said Kevak, “but the other details are more…nuanced. You were in the shielded chamber at White City for over 450 years. One of your devotees, referred to as the ‘Alpha Priest,’ arranged it so that on the night of each Venus transit, the descendants of White City would attempt to cure you with their blood.”