The Last Hellfighter

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  Mr. Harker was silent for a moment, he seemed to be chewing on what Clyde had just told him, assessing in his own way how much if any was the truth.

  "Okay," he said finally. "Give me the low and dirty."

  Clyde exhaled. Took a deep breath and told him. The low and dirty, as Mr. Harker had expressed, was simple enough. It started in some small port town in Maine called Jerusalem and then it spread, slow at first. Entire towns were disappearing. Like lights on a board, one bulb flickering out at a time, all along the eastern seaboard of the United States. The President and what remained of his Cabinet and Congress and the Joint Chiefs of Staff were relocated to Cheyenne. Homeland re-established in Dallas along with most of the Administrative Ministries. And last he heard, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Mississippi had gone dark. Whatever this was, it was spreading west. And it was building momentum. And there were rumors, talk over secure channels, whispers of loved ones come back from the dead, changed...different...lethal. Tales of nightmares come true. Of monsters and legends.

  "And what about the people, the citizens, is there any protection being offered? Has there been any military engagements with...the changed? Do they even know what's happening?" Mr. Harker began huffing, again out of breath. He crossed his arms and rested them on his chest.

  Clyde shook his head. "People have been scared for some time, even before all this started. Some think this is all just some government conspiracy cooked up to weed out any dissenters against Adams. The country has been engaged in an active Cold War with itself for years. Each faction blaming the other. And this particular administration, President Adams, he's a real piece of work. Uses the Office like a hammer. He re-established the Public Relations branch to control the flow of information of TV, the movies, hell, even what's broadcast on the radio. Propaganda, most of it. Why do you think they were out here today?" He smiled ruefully. "What better distraction than a story on the oldest living man in the world.

  "As for protection, well, according to the official statement—there is no official statement. This, of course, caused more riots to break out, violent, more than just civil protests, and they were met with strong retaliation." Clyde paused, looking away from Mr. Harker. "I knew some of those people, good people, shot down in the streets of Washington, and Worth Avenue, and Atlanta, and Boston, and New York, and..." pausing, he wiped his eyes. "Sorry."

  Mr. Harker took a moment to respond. "And you don't believe this is a government conspiracy?" he asked. "You don't think it's just rumors?"

  Again, Clyde shook his head. "It doesn't make sense if it was. Adams had control. What protests there were were limited and scarce and for the most part boxed in by Adams's propaganda machine."

  "And you think this is—"

  "Vampires," Clyde interrupted. "I know, it sounds insane saying it out loud. But you didn't chase me off your porch with a broom, so I must assume you know a little something of what I'm talking about."

  Mr. Harker rubbed his hair, of what little white remained on his otherwise bald and wrinkled scalp. "Maybe, or maybe I'm too old to be chasing anyone off my porch. Maybe I'm just lonely out here in No Man's Land and wanted someone to talk to, even a loony such as yourself."

  Clyde nodded. "Maybe. Or maybe the stories my Pepaw told me at night when I was a kid are actually true. Stories of when he was a soldier and when he was in Iraq he'd encountered something ancient and evil, about how an old man who saved them from those things. And most importantly, he knew how to kill them."

  Mr. Harker's eyebrow arched. He squinted at Clyde. "What did you say your name was?"

  "Clyde. Clyde Bruner."

  "Bruner?"

  "Yes, do you remember him? My Pepaw?"

  "Bruner...Bruner..." Mr. Harker mumbled, he seemed to be struggling with himself, trying with some effort to root out some lost memory. After a moment, he pointed at the uncluttered cabinet against the wall. "Play one of the records, one of the newer ones."

  Frowning, Clyde stood and went to the cabinet. He looked back at Mr. Harker.

  "Yes, open the top. Put on one of the records," the old man said impatiently.

  Clyde did as instructed. The top of the cabinet opened and a record player stared up at him. Gleaming in the light, a bronze plate of a small dog and the name Victrola. But no records. He turned again back to Mr. Harker. "Records?" he asked.

  Rolling his eyes, Mr. Harker said, "You're making me feel very old, young Bruner. The records are in the lower part of the cabinet."

  Clyde nodded and opened the lower cabinet, revealing a row of records within, some worn and frayed along the edges of the cardboard sleeve in which they were contained. Many were of instrumental bands, as far as he could tell. And there were some he recognized, from his Pepaw's own collection of CDs. He picked the one with a 1970s vintage looking cover of three men in what looked like sitcom detective outfits. Scrawled across the top was the title, Sabotage. Taking the record out of the sleeve, he placed it in the player, and carefully set the needle down.

  "You have to crank it," Mr. Harker added.

  Clyde took out a bronze looking handle from within the box, plugged it into the hexagon shaped slot on the side of the cabinet and began winding. After a moment, a light came on near the record, and he turned the knob. A thunderous rock tune started playing with a familiar beat he recognized as one of the grandfather's favorites.

  The vocals growled.

  Mr. Harker closed his eyes, grimacing, leaning back in his recliner, and finally relaxed, somehow, despite the raucous music.

  "I can't stand it I know you planned it

  But I'm gonna set it straight, this Watergate..." the song roared.

  After a few moments, "Bruner...yes, I remember. I remember!" Mr. Harker sprang upright in his chair, signalling for Clyde to shut off the music.

  Clyde did as he was instructed. The loud song ceased, leaving his ears ringing.

  Mr. Harker was looking at him intently. "Bruner, you're Jacob Bruner's grandson?"

  Clyde beamed in response. "Yes, that's right."

  "Jacob Bruner...horrible taste in music." Mr. Harker reclined back in his chair. His gaze turning inwardly. Remembering. "Jacob...a grandfather, really? He couldn't be that old."

  Clyde came back to the couch and sat down. "He was sixty-eight when he passed."

  Staring at him, Mr. Harker asked, though more as if he already knew the answer, "Passed? Recently? During the disappearances?"

  Clyde frowned, somewhat startled by the old man's strange clairvoyance. "Yes...how did you—"

  Mr. Harker waved him off. "If what you have told me is true, then there could be no other reason. Jacob was a strong young man. Resourceful. Sharp. And best of all, open minded. He took to the truth of things without much prompting on my part, I must say. He was of great help to me."

  Falling back into the deep pillows of the couch, Clyde rubbed his forehead. "So, it's true then. They're real?"

  Mr. Harker looked at him quizzically, shuddering with a quiet laugh.

  Clyde smiled weakly, shrugging. "Truth be told, Mr. Harker, I was partly hoping that you'd tell me the opposite, that I was insane, and that there was some other logical explanation." He chuckled, drily, almost in a squeak.

  "I'm afraid not, young Bruner." Mr. Harker watched him carefully.

  Sitting up, Clyde tried to compose himself. He rubbed his cheeks and eyes. "Okay," he started. "What do we do?"

  Nearly coughing, Mr. Harker asked, "What do you mean, what do we do?"

  "How do we stop...it...them...this Vermin you referred to."

  "Young Bruner, I'm afraid my hunting days are long past me...and even if I were younger, as it sounds I don't know how much good it'll do. If what you said is accurate...well, I've never seen them spread so far and fast."

  "There has to be—"

  "How much time do you think we have left? I'm afraid this is beyond anything I've ever seen or face before."

  "There must be something we can do." Clyde tried not to sound defeated.
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  Mr. Harker seemed to think. He looked as if he had something to say but didn't know how to say it.

  Clyde pressed. "Can you tell me what you know, how you discovered them, how you fought them, killed them?"

  Mr. Harker pressed his lips, whispering, he asked, "And what would you do with this information? You are alone against millions."

  Standing, Clyde turned away. There was no dancing around this. If he wanted what he needed from the old man, he'd have to trust this...stranger, by all accounts, a man only known to him from bedtime stories; but if not for what his grandfather told him, to honor his memory, then he had to try for the countless others whose lives depended on this small fraction of hope.

  "Is there something you're not telling me, young Bruner?" Mr. Harker prodded.

  Clyde turned back to him. "I didn't know how much to tell you. It's sad, actually. In this day and age, not knowing who you can trust."

  Mr. Harker smiled warmly. "Son, I'm a 144-year-old black man living on the edge of No Man's Land. Who exactly is it that you think I work for? I suppose I understand your hesitation, though. Truth be told, after what happened to me, I hung up my rifle, so to speak. Retired. Thought it was the end of it. Thought if there was no one left to trust, what was the point of it all. Hoped maybe they'd stay away. Slumber. Hidden in the grave. But as it turns out, I was wrong...once again. Or maybe some part of me knew they would come back...its so hard to keep track, too many years, too much to hold on to."

  Clyde nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. Glancing every other word at the old black man leaning back in the recliner. "There are pockets of resistance movements outside government control. You say you're too old to fight. Okay. I understand. Then teach me, trust me with what you know. Whatever you share, I will take back to them. I will teach others."

  For a while there was silence, nothing but the constant wind blowing, whistling against the farmhouse. And then Mr. Harker again smiled with that warm disarming smile of his. He nodded. "Fair enough, young Bruner. Where would you like me to start?"

  Smoothing back his hair, Clyde said, "At the very beginning, when you first encountered a vampire." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a slick thin black box. "Do you mind if I record this? I won't live stream it, but I can at least upload the information...just in case."

  "Go ahead," the old man replied. He seemed to be mulling over some memory. "At the beginning, huh?" He looked over at the Victrola. "Could you do me a favor? After 144 years, my recall is not...instantaneous, I guess you could say. I've found music helps me remember."

  Clyde stood and went to the record player. "Sure, which record do you need?"

  "The one labeled, Harlem Hellfighters," Mr. Harker answered.

  Harlem Hellfighters

  1917

  "There's a machine gun, holy spades!

  Alert, gas! Put on your mask.

  Adjust it correctly and hurry up fast!

  Drop! There's a rocket from the Boche barrage...

  Down! hug the ground, close as you can,

  Creep and crawl, follow me, that's all...

  What do you hear? Nothing near

  Don't fear, all is clear

  That's the life of a stroll

  When you take a patrol

  Out in No Man's Land

  Ain't it grand?

  Out in No Man's Land,"

  —Performed by the 369th U.S. Infantry Band, sung by Nobel Sissle.

  "A man's brains splattered on

  A stretcher-bearer's face;

  His shook shoulders slipped their load,

  But when they bent to look again

  The drowning soul was sunk too deep

  For human tenderness.

  They left this dead with the older dead,

  Stretched at the cross roads.

  Burnt black by strange decay

  Their sinister faces lie,

  The lid over each eye,

  The grass and coloured clay

  More motion have than they,

  Joined to the great sunk silences,"

  —Dead Man's Dump [excerpt], Isaac Rosenberg.

  Chapter 4

  "Which floor sir?"

  "Twelfth."

  "Yes, sir. Twelfth floor it is." Ben Harker pulled down on the lever and with an electric hum, the elevator rocked gently and started upward. He stood with one hand clasped behind his back, the other readied on the switch, his gaze fixed up on the glowing numbers as they steadily ticked away. Gently, he brought the elevator to a rumbled stop. Above, the twelfth-floor button glowed. Ben pulled open the grate and stood aside, gesturing gentlemanly for his passenger to exit.

  "Watch your step, sir," Ben said politely.

  The white man dressed in a nicely tailored brown suit walked briskly out without a word.

  "Have a nice day, sir," Ben called after him.

  The fellow never stopped.

  Closing the grate, Ben pulled the lever, returning the elevator to the lobby.

  Another day and I'm happy.

  I'm happy because I'm working.

  I'm working therefor I'm earning.

  Earning means I can eat.

  If I'm eating, I'm happy.

  —Right, you keep telling yourself that. Take that forty-four cents and see how far it goes.

  Ben sneered at himself.

  He opened the grate.

  A white woman and her male escort walked into the elevator. Her hair was kept up in a bun and across her shoulders lay some sort of animal fur. Ben couldn't guess what kind of animal, but it looked expensive. Her fellow was dressed in a brown suit not unlike his last passenger.

  "Which floor, sir?" Ben asked the gentleman.

  "Ninth, please," he said, each word over eunuchated. He rubbed his pencil thin moustache and then turned to the lady on his arm, continuing whatever conversation they were having prior to walking onto the elevator.

  Again, with an electric hum the box elevator shifted and started upward. Ben watched the lights, keeping his hand steady on the lever, readied to slow when he needed.

  "Do you think we'll get involved?" the woman was asking her male escort

  The fellow grinned, with a sort of smirk. "If President Wilson has his way."

  The woman looked away, brushed her expensive looking coat with her delicate perfectly manicured hand. "It all seems ridiculous. To read what they're saying in the paper. Just ghastly. Americans ought to mind their own business, if you ask me."

  Ben continued watching the numbers steadily tick by, listening.

  The fellow sighed. "It's only a matter of time now. Just you wait, soon there're be a draft and they'll be asking for all kinds of men to join the Cause. To go help those poor bastard English and French with their trenches. Fighting in the mud, who'd ever heard of such a thing?" He glanced up at the glowing numbers.

  The woman squeezed his arm. "Don't say that. I couldn't bear—"

  "They won't fill the ranks with our lot, please," the man interrupted curtly. He straitened his jacket. "My father wouldn't allow it. They'll recruit those of...lower stock." He whispered the last part.

  The woman seemed happy at this. "Good," she said. "War is a horrid affair. Who would want to find themselves mixed up in something like that."

  At this, Ben couldn't help but silently agree.

  Finally, the ninth-floor button glowed and Ben slowed the elevator to a stop. He opened the grate and gestured for his passengers to exit. "Have a nice day. Watch your step."

  The man gestured for the woman to exit first. He followed. And then he turned and said, "Not that you have to worry, huh boy?"

  Ben blinked and looked at the man in the suit. "Sir?"

  "About going to war, I've heard there are no deployable Negro regiments."

  He swallowed. "No, sir. I suppose not."

  "You should feel lucky."

  "Yes, sir..."

  The white man grinned that smug sort of pampered smile and turned and started down the hall with the woman draped on his
arm.

  "...I suppose I should." Ben closed the grate and pulled the lever driving the elevator back down to the lobby.

  Chapter 5

  Ben stood outside the Keller Hotel wondering if he could make it back to Harlem through Brooklyn in time for his shift bussing tables at Kratz's deli. The old Jew was a kind man, but he had his limits. If he lost this job he'd have to go back shining shoes, fighting for a space near the train platform on 5th Avenue just to make ends meet. Or worse, his pops would finally force him into taking a position as a laborer working the docks.

  There must be something better than this, he told himself.

  Elevator operator. Bus boy. Shoe shine. How many more jobs did he have to get just to scratch together a living and still be able to live? How many pursuits of meaningless jobs until he'd had enough?

  Come on, man.

  Like you got a choice.

  Work the docks like pa and never see an inch of freedom.

  Or scrape as much as you can and enjoy what you got.

  Ben ran up Manhattan Avenue and hopped on the tail end of a trolley as it started to take off. Glancing behind him, he had to make sure no one noticed. No one did and that was good. It was a long haul from here to Katz's. On the trolley, he could ride it all the way north into the Jewish quarter of Harlem. He ducked low so the conductor couldn't see him and kept to the very edge, watching as the city passed by. Seemed like more and more each day, the streets were being congested with Model-Ts and Lancia Epsilon's and Studebaker Big Sixes, looking like low-cut metal wagons with rubber wheels and in place of a horse, a block engine that puttered and spat out black smoke, all topless expect for the Studebakers. There were still a few traditional wagons on the roads, mostly as rigged carts for vegetable and fruit venders. Rolling every which way. Up and down streets and alleys that seemed to steadily rise higher and higher as if the world couldn't be content to just stay put on the ground, they had to get to that next rise, higher and higher. And none of these buildings were what would be considered elegant. Blankets and sheets and rugs hung out most of the windows. Laundry lines stretching across the roads high into the air on just about every floor, penned with trousers and dresses and button shirts. Business signs nailed a foot or two above the entrances. Coffee Southern Pot with a woodcut kettle pot, and bakers of all kinds, Coca-Cola signs and cigar shops and restaurants like the Douglas who offered passersby a vaudeville appearance. Modernization, and the city carried the scars to prove it. Just a few years ago there'd been that fire at one of the waistcoat factories, Triangle wasn't it, over on Greene Street. One hundred and forty-five dead. Ever since, it wasn't uncommon to find a few of those labor rights philosophers shouting from street corners, demanding better wages and better work hours, hell, some were even demanding improved safety quality. Socrates in the modern world. Ben had even seen a few women standing on milk crates. One of those women, he'll never forget. The great anarchist, or so some called her, Emma Goldman had shouted one day that if the people were hungry, they should take what they needed to eat instead of feasting from the scraps offered by the gilded swine of America.