The Last Hellfighter

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  Ben had crept to the bedroom and peeked inside. Mina was fast asleep or at least pretending to be asleep. Her back was turned to him. Not wanting to wake or argue or try to explain why he never told her the things he knew she would have never believed, he turned and started back down the hall.

  Helwing sat at the kitchen table, his wrinkled suit coat hung across the back of his chair. Using a rag, he wiped the edge of his unsheathed silver blade. The cane sat on the table along with all the other meagre weapons they were able to collect from around the farmhouse, an oak but stocked trench shotgun—Winchester M97 left over from the War, and an axe used to split firewood for the stove. He glanced up as Ben flopped down in a chair opposite him.

  "Mina's asleep," Ben offered, "I do not want to wake her."

  The aged professor smiled. "Ah, the ways of the heart, young Harker. Once upon a time, I too was in love. Her name was Hellen, she was from my ancestor's village in Harsz. Golden hair with hints of ginger. We were to be married, she and I."

  Ben patted his jean overalls. Producing his corncob pipe, he struck a match and puffed until smoke circled around his head. "And what happened? Did you marry her?"

  Helwing shook his head. "No. I was never destined for what you called, 'a normal life.' While I loved Hellen, my heart was to my studies—to this dark pursuit."

  Puffing, Ben watched as Helwing talked. Narrowing his eyes, he said, "This is why I came home—I was afraid it would become an obsession. The discovery we made in Egypt awoke something in me. In the Argonne, I didn't want to believe. But then I was at a precise, if I took but one step, I felt as if I would have been lost forever."

  Nodding, Helwing continued cleaning his silver blade. "And do you feel you made the right choice?"

  "Yes. Absolutely. I love Mina—I wish what happened between Renfield and I did not happen the way it did, but no, I do not regret coming home and moving here to Texas. We're going to have a son. Mina thinks the baby is a girl, but I have a good feeling it's a boy." Ben clenched his pipe between his lips and leaned back in his chair.

  Helwing smiled. It was a warm and kind expression. "I'm happy for you, Private Harker. And don't concern yourself too much on Renfield."

  Ben looked at the table, at the ornate handle of the silver blade—a hawk. "I can't help but feel guilty, he was my best friend. I loved—love him."

  The old professor swiped the rag across the blade again. "You must accept that he may never forgive you. As I said before, the ways of the heart. Love, you see, is the one force that cannot be explained, that cannot be broken down to a chemical process. It is the beacon that guides us back home when no one is there, and the light that illuminates our loss. Its absence robs us of all pleasure and joy. It makes our nights darker and days gloomier. But when we find love, no matter how wrong, how sad, or how terrible we cling to it, it gives us our strength, it holds us upright. It feeds on us and we feed on it. Love is our grace, Private Harker, but love...love can also be our downfall."

  Holmwood snored loudly from the living room, drawing both their attention.

  "Well," Helwing laughed, "at least one of us can sleep."

  Ben laughed, drily, parched, but honest. His shoulders relaxed. His mood quieted. So much seemed to have happened in such a relatively short space of time he was amazed he could breath at all. Again, his eyes landed on the ornate handle of the cane-blade.

  "It's a hawk," Helwing said, noticing where Ben's attention had gone. He sheathed the silver blade and handed it to him.

  Ben took it and studied the outline, the curves with his fingers. "It's beautiful, where did you pick this up at?"

  "Renfield," Helwing answered, taking the cane back from Ben, marvelling at the features of the handle himself. "We stopped in Bagdad on my way back to Cambridge. We had searched and searched and found nothing, I suppose he felt bad for me and did not want me to leave empty handed. He spotted this in a market and gave it to me as a gift before we parted ways."

  Nodding, Ben asked, "And where did Renfield go from there?"

  Helwing shrugged. "He said he wished to stay and continue searching—honestly, I think he was still lost and needed more time to find his way. Between the War and what that filthy vampyre had done to him, I can't say I blame him."

  * * *

  Hours passed and still nothing—no sign of the vampires. Ben had eventually fallen asleep on the couch, daring not to wake Mina by trying to climb in bed. Holmwood relieved Professor Helwing who in turn slept in the same overstuffed chair the sheriff had slept in until again it was Ben's turn to take watch. He sat up from the couch, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, surprised really that he was able to sleep at all. He stood, stretching his back, smacking his lips, wanting desperately for a glass of water or something, anything to wash down the crud in his mouth and throat.

  Tip-toeing past Helwing, Ben crept into the kitchen across creaking floor boards. Holmwood was standing with his back to him, whispering something like a prayer or a plea.

  "Sheriff? You say something?" Ben asked, coming closer to the table. "Holmwood—?" and then he saw her, a woman dressed in a flowing red dress standing a yard or so outside the kitchen window. She was floating almost as if a whirlwind blew around her, fluttering the loose velvet looking fabric with her ginger hair whipping about. He knew her, had seen her before outside what the locals in town called the Red Building.

  "Lucy...?" Holmwood whispered hoarsely.

  "Sheriff, that's not—" Ben started.

  Holmwood turned and pushed him away.

  Ben stumbled and fell back.

  The front door opened and slammed shut.

  By the time he was on his feet, Holmwood was already outside. Ben watched through the window, his thoughts locked in panic and curiosity.

  Was that really Madame Westenra out there? Was she turned?

  Holmwood approached her, his hands outstretched as if taming a wild dog. She seemed to respond, coaxing himself almost to come closer.

  "Who is that out there?"

  Ben jumped by the sudden voice.

  Mina stood beside him, her face a mix of emotions, from apology to fear to uncertainty. She reached for Ben's hand and held it firm.

  "Holmwood is out there—and some woman from town, Westenra—" Ben whispered to her.

  "That's no woman." Helwing, now awake, stood between the living room and kitchen. His cane held tightly in his withered hands. He looked older—more aged than he had before in the jailhouse. Whatever vigor he had looked lost now.

  Mina glanced at the old man and back to the window. "If she's not a woman than what is she?"

  "One of them, the vampyre," Helwing responded curtly, exhaling, leaning against the frame between rooms.

  Ben turned to him, taking a step towards the door. "We have to help him. She'll kill him."

  The professor held out his hand, gesturing Ben to stop. "Its too late. Do you think she is the only one out there? Don't be a fool, Private Harker."

  He shook his head. "We can't just do nothing?"

  "Oh God!" Mina cried.

  Both men turned and stared out the window.

  Holmwood stepped closer to the woman in red, pleading with her.

  Madame Westenra smiled, but it was no human smile. Her mouth full of razor teeth glimmering in the fat moon light, extended and unnatural, she reached for him, snatching the sheriff into her embrace.

  He moaned, struggling to distance himself.

  Too late.

  She bit down.

  A crimson geyser jetted from his neck.

  His knees buckled.

  She followed him to the ground.

  And more came, bursting suddenly from fog and shadow, surrounding the lustful feasting. Growling, hissing with shark-shaped faces and jagged fangs.

  From inside, they watched.

  Mina with her hand covering her mouth, another cradling her swollen belly as if she were shielding her child from the horror.

  Helwing and Ben stood, mouths agape.

&nb
sp; And then the professor turned and started for the door.

  "What are you doing?" Ben called after him.

  "We have to bolt the lock—they'll keep coming. We'll have to hold them off until daybreak." Helwing wheezed.

  Ben turned to Mina. "Hide. In the bedroom, lock yourself inside and be quiet, okay? Please, for our baby." He gestured for her to go.

  She licked her lips, glancing at the nightmarish hungry moans from outside, Mina shut her eyes. "I can't leave you."

  "I'll be okay—but I need you to be safe. Please, Mina. Hide."

  Frowning, Mina nodded. "I'll look after James, then. I'll lock the door behind me."

  Ben held her, breathing in her performed hair.

  She kissed him. "I love you."

  He kissed her back. "I love you—and him." He touched her belly.

  "Her, you mean." She smiled between tears.

  Ben grinned. "You wish." He gestured to the hallway. "Go on."

  And with that, she was gone. Pausing briefly to give Ben look last glance, disappearing into the shadows of the house.

  A loud bang drew his attention back to the living room.

  Ben ran out, picking up his trench shotgun along the way.

  He pumped a round into the chamber, the metallic click hardly registering among the crashing and cracking of the front door.

  "Its not going to hold," Helwing said, not taking his eyes away from bulging wood and snarls and gnashing of teeth sounding from the other side. He glanced at Ben. "That won't do no good."

  Ben looked at the shotgun in his hands. "It might."

  Focusing back on the front door, Helwing said, "You know better, Private Harker—you know what'll get the job done."

  Shaking his head, Ben raced back into the kitchen. He set the shotgun on the table and picked up the long-handled axe, the very one he used to break apart logs for the fire and for the stove.

  He came back into the living room, taking a batter's position.

  Helwing unsheathed his silver blade.

  And then the door broke in, crumbing down the middle and falling onto itself.

  Standing in the ruined doorway was someone Ben had known—Doc Seward. His face was pale and oddly misshapen. His eyes wide and red. Nails on his hands like talons. And his teeth, fanged and wet with red. He regarded both men for a moment. And then he lunged at the professor.

  Helwing sidestepped, lashing out with his silver blade.

  Seward howled. His midsection smoking. The already ragged clothes, his slacks and suspenders and dingy undershirt ripped open, revealing white flesh beneath.

  Losing his balance, the professor tripped and fell to the floor.

  Seward, snarling like some feral thing, turned about, locking in on the fallen man.

  Grunting, Helwing shouted, "Finish him!"

  Ben held his breath.

  And then he pivoted and swung his axe.

  The bit impacted Seward's neck, sinking in deep, cracking bone.

  The once doctor shuddered once and then dropped to his knees. His head hanging on lopsided, dangling by a cord of nerves and sinew.

  Heaving thunderous breaths, Ben took aim and removed Doc's head.

  He kicked it away and stood, hunched over, taking deep pockets of air.

  Another shadow crept in the doorway.

  A woman—though not in a red dress.

  She was pale, like Seward, but dressed in a plain colored ankle length sandy dress. Ben recognized her by only the description his wife had given him of the woman in town who wouldn't allow her into her Beauty Boutique.

  Already back on his feet, Professor Helwing stepped between the woman and Ben. Blade gleaming in the lamp light, he swung in a quick sweeping motion.

  Bab's—the former Boutique owner, blinked with her hideously large red eyes, her shark like teeth not quite fitting completely in her mouth. And then her head tumbling off her slim shoulders, thudding on the wood floor, soon followed by her collapsed body.

  Helwing glared at her motionless form and turned to Ben, his back to the open door. He smiled at Ben—as if proud that after all these long years, he still had what it took to rid the world of these—

  Something blurred in the doorway.

  And Helwing was gone—wide eyed—sucked out into the darkness.

  Chapter 30

 

  "Professor Helwing!" Ben shouted into the dark from the stoop of his porch. He could hear him, muffled grunts and groans—a struggle, but hidden in the impenetrable soup of night. Axe in hand, he took a step and stood on the ground, willing his eyes to adjust to the blackness. Goosebumps prickling his dark skin.

  A scream echoing in the cold night, moving farther out.

  Ben ran towards the sound.

  More screams.

  Hissing.

  "Professor!" Ben called again, eyes wide, a chilled sweat beaded his brow. His lips parched and thirsty. Heart pounding in his chest.

  "Don't!"

  "What?"

  "Don't, Private Harker—it's a trap!" Helwing growled—struggling against some unknown pain.

  Ben couldn't register the words—it didn't make sense. So, he continued to run and run until shapes formed in the gloom. Illuminated only by the moon and the red eyes of Todd Oliver—the fella who played all the good Harlem jazz on the radio. Helwing was on the ground, panting, bloodied. And standing above him—

  "Renfield?" Ben whispered, blinking, unsure if he'd slipped into a dream, or madness, a nightmare brought on by spoiled milk or moldy bread. Too many late-night radio shows of The Shadow or Orson Wells or listening to the endless breathing of the wind and dust during the really bad times.

  His old friend glared at him through circled spectacles that hid his lidless eyes. The porcelain of his artificial jaw worn to mask his amputation glimmered dully. An oversized trench coat did nothing to hide the weight he'd lost—nearly skeletal. He held a dagger, dripping crimson onto the dusty dirt.

  Renfield gestured at Ben with the weapon. "Surprised?" he asked, his voice no longer as it had been, before the war, vivacious and boyish humor and young and innocent, now his words sounded exaggerated, forced out by a sluggish grey tongue and the constant sucking of spit.

  Ben shook his head—still not sure if he were dreaming or awake. He looked at the ground, and then he looked at the vampire standing nearby—the beastly creature waiting and not attacking, why? What was it waiting for? Why hadn't it attacked Renfield? Why wasn't it attacking them both?

  Unless...

  He stared at his once friend. "Renfield, what are you doing?"

  Though he couldn't see his eyes, Ben could feel him glaring through those dark lenses.

  "What? What! Yes, what, of course you'd ask that...why not." Renfield gurgled, forming the words as best he could. He suckled and swallowed hard, keeping the wet blade up, gesturing at Ben. Suddenly, he reached down and grabbed hold of the old man, pulling him by his hair, exposing his neck. He glanced at what used to be Oliver, "Hungry?"

  The vampire, dressed in a dirty black striped suit hissed agreeably, his shark teeth poised and glistening. Its red eyes narrowed on the bleeding old man, lips trembling as if it was just barely keeping from swarming on the easy waiting meal.

  "Don't!" Ben warned.

  "Come and eat," Renfield ordered.

  Hunching like a bird of prey, the vampire lunged toward the old man on the ground.

  Helwing tried to kick him away, clutching at his seeping gut wound, but Renfield held him in place by his hair.

  Yelling, Ben bolted forward, pivoted and swung the axe. The bit cleaved upwards, sinking deep into the flesh of the vampire's throat.

  Oliver—undead—a look of shock and confusion on his shark like face, fell to the ground, kicking up dust and dirt. Legs twitching but otherwise deceased.

  Ben stood above him and brought the axe down again—removing what remained connecting the fellow jazz enthusiast's head to his body.

  Panting now, Ben turned to Renfield.

&nb
sp; His dagger now at Helwing's throat, Renfield shook his head, "Doesn't matter. There are more out there—more to eat your pretty wife. I brought them here, just for you, Ben."

  Ben took a step sideways away from the decapitated vampire. "Why? How? Are you working with these things now? Are you controlling them?"

  Renfield gurgled, as if swallowing a bucket of saliva. He growled, clearing his throat. "Controlling them? Hardly. Using them—maybe."

  Taking a slow step toward him, Ben asked, "But why? After all we had seen and done together, why bring them here?"

  Renfield cocked his head, eyebrows arched. "Isn't it obvious?" Without waiting for a reply, he yanked up Helwing's hair.

  "Stop!" Ben lunged at him.

  The dagger opened the professor's throat.

  With the wooden handle, Ben knocked Renfield back, cocking him in the face.

  Renfield stumbled and fell into the dust and dirt.

  Dropping the axe, Ben fell to his knees beside Helwing.

  The old man clutched at his gushing neck, trying to hold back the inevitable. Preserve what little time he had left.

  "Professor!" Ben tried to help, his hands trembling horribly he pressed down on the wound, blood seeping between his fingers, soaking onto the ground, into his jean overalls.

  Helwing's eyes were wide like mirrors reflecting back Ben's horrified face. His hands fell away. Mouth partly open. Body ridged—and then limp.

  "No!" Ben moaned, tears stinging his eyes.

  Laughing—a gurgled hiccup from the dirt.

  Ben turned and glared.

  With his spectacles knocked away, Renfield fixed on Ben with two large lidless strained eyes, manic eyes—laughing and giggling between his ruined flesh and false face.

  Beside the old man lay his cane.

  Laughing still, Renfield panted, "Too long—I've waited to watch you suffer."

  Screaming, his head burning, muscles strained, Ben unsheathed the silver blade and flew at the man who had once been his best friend—since childhood—and the war—but nevermore. Nevermore. In less than a second but feeling so much longer, he impaled him, sinking the sword, piercing flesh and bone and heart and spine. Pinning him to the ground.