"Fucking gook was hiding, Cap," PFC Marsters shouted.
"So, she's probably scared out of her mind." Harris approached, cooing at the child.
Marsters rolled his eyes. "Come on, sir. How do you know she isn't some slant-eyed killer?"
Agent Oz spoke up, lighting one of his non-filtered Camel smokes. "How about you take Shimerman and a few of the fresh faces and pull perimeter."
Marsters glared at Oz, unsure perhaps if the civilian should or could give orders.
Sergeant Strong nodded, gesturing for Marsters to do as the man said.
Marsters started off, but not without mumbled disagreement.
Strong glanced at Agent Oz and then looked back to Captain Harris, watching the officer attempting to calm the girl. He spoke without looking at him. "Sorry about that, sir. Spike is wound tight—we're all wound tight, truth be told. Something about this place ain't right."
Oz inhaled and exhaled white smoke. He nodded. "Your thoughts, Mr. Harker?"
Ben glanced at him and continued to watch Harris, as was everyone else not on security. "The girl isn't VC. I have serious doubts this village is a strong hold or ammo dump."
Corporal Boreanaz stepped forward, joining the conversation. The radio on his back was silent, all but for a soft crackle of static. "If its not a strong hold, then what? Just some hooch village? If you're right, then...where are all the villagers?"
Looking up, Ben traced where the sun stood, rapidly creeping towards the horizon. Dusk would not be far off. And after dusk, they would come—he knew it in the marrow of his bones. This was the place she wanted the final meeting, the final stand. They could make it, maybe, if they ran and a Huey could pull them out. Maybe. But did he really want to run? Hadn't he travelled across the world to face them, to face her? Indeed, he had hunted that devil for thirty-seven years—since the day Mina and his unborn child were murdered. Thirty-seven years since that chance for a normal life had been snatched out from under him. Sure, they could run...but he had no intention to.
"Mr. Harker?" the Corporal everyone called Angel asked again.
Strong was staring as well.
Harris was able to calm the little girl enough that she went to him, wrapping her little arms around him as much she could, sobbing horribly. Every now and then she would say something barely audible.
"...mẹ của tôi ở đâu...mẹ của tôi ở đâu..."
Ben stared at Agent Oz, making eye contact at the last second, pushing his thoughts as hard as he could and gesturing with his head, signalling the spook to follow. Walking off as the others were distracted with the heart felt scene, he found a place to sit, rubbing his knees.
The man in the suit joined him. Keeping his gaze fixed on Harris and the girl, he asked, "What is this place, Mr. Harker?" He took another drag and exhaled.
Patting his pockets, Ben retrieved his corncob pipe, stuffed some tobacco, and struck a match. He took a couple of puffs, blowing smoke away from him, wafting what lingered with his hand. He glanced at the agent and at the sky. "I believe this place was meant to be a trap—that girl is meant as bait."
"Bait?" the Agent asked, without much question in his voice.
"A distraction. This village has been marked by the vampyre, the villagers most likely have been turned."
"And the girl?"
"Spared."
"As bait, you said."
"Yes. To distract us."
"From what?"
"Searching. Leaving. Taking away our objective—pitting our nature to protect the innocent against us."
"Are you suggesting we—"
"Not at all."
"Should we leave?"
"Do you want to?"
Agent Oz looked to Ben, studying his face. "Do you?"
Ben glanced back and then looked away. He shook his head. "Maybe we should. These men; you have no idea what's coming. It'll be a slaughter.
Agent Oz huffed, "For them."
"For us."
"Then why stay. Maybe we should leave, huh, Mr. Harker?"
Ben shrugged.
"I'm sure you have your reasons for wanting to be here." Oz nodded.
"As do you. You want to know, don't you? You want to see for yourself."
Agent Oz laughed. "How could I resist—to see fantasy become reality."
Ben bit down on his pipe. "This will be no fantasy—this will be a nightmare."
"Still, we'll see." He took one last toke before snuffing out the cigarette. "He looked over at the men, at Captain Harris and his radioman, Angel, and at Strong, and the others as they kept watch. "What do we need to do?"
Ben exhaled smoke, his gaze following the sun as it slowly tickled the edge of a far-off mountain ridge. "We prepare, Agent. We prepare. God help us...we prepare."
Chapter 36
Ben sat on a cliff on the edge of Hill 750 searching for a place to collect his thoughts and ready his mind and body for the coming fight. Meditation had never been his strong suit, too many horrible memories swimming in the same pool. Regardless. He sat and breathed in deep cadenced breaths. He was still within earshot of the soldiers as they bickered quietly amongst themselves. Understandably they were frustrated. Why stick around? Why not make their way to the LZ? Why where they taking orders from an old man? Etc. Etc. Even Captain Harris wasn't all too thrilled to hear the news of making camp for the night in the abandoned village. Typically, units didn't stick around waiting for an ambush. The young officer did not quite believe in Ben's story about vampires. What he did believe could descend upon them while not mythical nevertheless terrifying. Threat of Viet Cong guerrillas often sounded just as lethal as the vampyre and spoke of in similar ways around camp, told in tight knit circles in dreaded awe. Like shadows, they could move through the jungle unseen until it was too late. They would set booby traps and bamboo whips and more insidious traps with spears placed at the bottom of hidden pits called Punji Sticks. If only Harris; they knew...there was something worse out there tonight, waiting for the last rays of sunlight to fade. Waiting for darkness to slither through the landscape, licking the peaks and valleys and the souls of the habitants.
Footsteps approached.
Ben glanced back at Captain Harris. The officer wore a concerned expression pressed in wrinkles around his otherwise ageless face. He plopped down next to him, admiring the sunset, exhaling loudly.
"I know you do not believe—but we would never have made it back to the LZ." Ben watched the sky, the light breeze swaying the trees around them and below. Already, shadows were creeping up from the valley under their dangling boots.
Harris sighed. "I suppose." He glanced at Ben. "You really believe vampires will show?"
Ben nodded. "Without a doubt. Had we tried to run, they would have swarmed here or back at base camp. At least here we can keep the evil contained."
Harris shook his head, smiling. "Too late now, vampires or Viet Cong, something is coming. You can taste the electric charge in the air, like anticipation burning a hole in the gut. Here," he held out a .45 calibre pistol, "you better arm yourself."
Ben glanced at the weapon, held his cane out in front of him and unsheathed the hidden blade. The silver caught the sun, glimmering brightly. He smirked at Harris's shocked expression. "This used to belong to a great friend of mine, Professor Georg Van Helwing. He carried this sword with him wherever he went. He taught me of this evil spawn...of course, at the time, I was much younger and like you less inclined to believe, even when I saw one of them with my own eyes."
Captain Harris eyed the silver sword. "What happened to this Professor friend of yours?"
Ben sheathed the blade back into the cane shell. "He was killed—while protecting my family."
"You have a family? Wife? Kids?"
"Had."
"Oh." Captain Harris looked away and then gestured again at the pistol, "Still, you ought to have a backup."
Ben inhaled and exhaled thoughtfully, pursing his lips. He'd never cared much for guns, not since the war,
not since what had happed to Mina. All these years he'd hunted with the blade alone, allowing much more adventuresome hunting partners the use of such uncivilized artillery. He groaned low, knowing the young man would not leave it alone. He took the pistol, checked the clip, and pocketed it.
On the horizon, the sun gave a final fluttering wink of pink and purple, and then vanished from the earth. A coldness swept over him like death's breath, foul and chilling to the bone.
* * *
The troops of the 9th Infantry patrolled in a near constant circular rotation. Wide white eyes searching the dark. Angel and Captain Harris were chatting in hushed voices into the radio mike, giving another check in with Colonel Giles. Marsters was cursing at one of the baby-faced recruits to keep their shit wired—the white boy hated being out here just waiting for something to happen. He'd much rather be doing something. And so on and so forth. Sergeant Strong lit some of the lamps around the hooch village, bathing the huts in soft glowing light, while Sergeant Shimerman checked and double-checked the traps and claymores they had set around the perimeter.
"Think those will do?" Agent Oz was smoking beside him. The amber of his Camel reflecting off his thick framed glasses.
"The spikes are crude, but they'll be effective. As I said, holy water, prayers, crosses, these will only deter them—long enough to remove the head." Ben watched the troops work, cane in hand, gazing over at the sharpened poles they had fastened to a trip wire. Each spike bathed in water Ben had blessed. He knew it wouldn't last. The traps may catch a few by surprise, and then after that...that would depend on him. Did he have the strength? Could these unwitting men pull off what he'd been struggling to do since Mina had been taken from him? Was it fair that none of them knew the real danger they were facing? Was any act of war fair? No. But that fact did not relieve the pang of guilt he felt.
"We should have brought the priest," Agent Oz remarked, exhaling smoke.
Ben shook his head. "We'll be fine."
Oz glanced at him. "Will we?"
"You wanted to see for yourself, didn't you? And you'll see sure enough. More than you'd bargained for. Everyone wants to know, at first. Until the moment comes that they finally understand—understanding is something you can't come back from."
"Knowledge is key to survival, and I want to survive."
"You just might, Agent Oz. You just might."
Agent Oz looked at Ben sideways. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
Ben laughed, his body already feeling drained. Age was taking its toll. "You know, the Professor didn't put much faith in what he called 'The Old Ways,' said it was nothing more than silly superstition. He much preferred evidence and science."
Oz laughed, nervously. "Well, if the holy water doesn't do the trick, the claymores ought to. I figure seven hundred steel spheres packed with a pound of C-4 ought to be science enough for them." He snuffed his cigarette out on the ground.
Ben started to say something but stopped when the first cry broke the silence of the night. Gunfire from somewhere near the left flank.
More shouts and more gunfire.
Ben unsheathed his sword.
Agent Oz drew his pistol, glancing at the silver blade as it reflected the glow of the lamps around them. He smirked and aimed into the dark, tracing the screams. "You are full of surprises, Mr. Harker."
Captain Harris trotted to them, his M16 held close to his chest, eyes wide, and breathing heavy. Angel stood nearby, the radio slung over his back chattering. "Reports of contact all over camp. Private Ralston and Private Martin are missing. Something's wrong. I don't think the VC are firing back. I never seen anything like this, its as if they are poking our defenses, teasing us or something."
Ben looked to Harris, "I told you what this is. You need to bring your men within the perimeter. Anyone outside will be slaughtered quickly. Bring them in. Make a tight circle."
Captain Harris looked as if he wanted to argue and then turned to Angel, taking the radio mike and barking orders to his men positioned around camp. Slowly, Ben could see the soldiers making their way back, keeping their M16s and M60 machine gun aimed at the dark places around them. They came together, the survivors of the first wave.
To their right, a bright orange explosion rippled the night with a horrible wail, an unearthly howl Ben was more than familiar with.
"The claymores!" shouted Strong over the rumbling of the ground.
Ben nodded, pleased. Beheading the vampyre was preferable, but dismemberment from the blast would serve the purpose just as well.
For a moment, there was nothing. Ben wondered if the vampyre would retreat into the night. Was this all for naught? Would she not appear? And then he saw them, slowly inching towards them, coming into the soft glow of the lamps. Just as he had predicted, the Vietnamese villagers had been turned. Once peaceful farmers and mountain folk caught between two lines in a war they cared little about now turned beastly and shark-mouthed. Glowing red unnatural eyes. Growls and sucking sounds. Viper tongues flicking out, tasting the anticipation and fear of the troops. Extended hands now claw and soil stained garments as if they'd freed themselves of the grave. Pale, lifeless flesh came one by one and in groups, massing in front of them into a herd of fang mouthed undead.
"My god..." Captain Harris breathed.
"Yes. Seeing is believing," Ben remarked, glancing around, searching for the one he truly wanted. "And believing can be a terrible burden."
Shaking, Sergeant Strong opened fire first. Bright bursts boomed from his M16. He yelled, battle worn and no doubt terrified.
Angel soon joined.
And then Sergeant Shimerman, letting loose with his thundering M60 Machine Gun.
And then PFC Marsters.
And then Captain Harris.
And even Agent Oz.
Brass shells rained down to the ground.
All around them, the vampyre hissed and moaned against the volley, white flesh riddled with bullets ripped apart by the gunfire. Sulphur choked the air. And still, Ben looked for her among her ruined children.
She was nowhere to be seen.
Gritting his teeth, Ben stepped forward as one of the vampyre fell to its knees. Gaping holes in its body smoked and yet no blood.
There never was.
He steadied his hand and swung the blade in one wide sweep, decapitating the fallen vampire. Its body spasmed and then fell to the side.
Others saw and glared at him, hissing with their needle teeth and red glowing eyes.
Again, Ben pressed forward, taking the .45 pistol, shooting at the knees of a nearly naked Vietnamese man now turned and horrid and undead.
The vampyre fell.
Ben swung and removed its head.
He pressed on, lashing out with his silver blade as he went.
People shouted behind him, Captain Harris or Agent Oz perhaps, but he paid no mind.
Gunfire continued rattling around him.
A dark-skinned woman approached in front of him, but it wasn't her. The woman was—or had been pregnant, her belly still distended. She wore a nightgown that looked so much like something Mina would have worn. Ben could feel the old hate, the same hate that never left him, not since the beginning, the rage he felt was as molten as the sun, burning away his patience for the battle. Burning away his sorrow and compassion for this thing that once was human now simply in his way.
She hissed at him, and he shot at her.
Growling she longed at Ben.
Pivoting to the side, the vampyre overshot him.
He turned and brought the silver sword up and drove it into the flesh of her back, severing the spinal column with a snap that vibrated the hilt of his blade.
The vampyre twitched fell face first.
"Ben! Fall back in line. You're too far out!"
Ignoring them, he fought, and swung, and shot with the pistol.
Four more of the blasphemous vermin lay dead.
Bloodless and lifeless.
Shouting still behind him.
>
And now screams.
Ben turned, shaken from his bloodlust.
The small surviving group were being flanked.
A vampyre man with short hair and cuts all along his pale skin fell upon PFC Marsters, sinking its shark teeth into the open space of the white boy's neck. Crimson gore gushed and sprayed from the wound and down his green fatigues.
The young soldier pleaded and fell.
Ben watched as Strong reached out for him, but it was too late.
Marsters was snatched away into the dark, no longer visible but for the sounds of wet ripping and a gurgling cry.
Still on the ground, reaching for the gone PFC, Sergeant Strong was pulled away by his boots into that same wretched abyss.
Captain Harris started after him.
Ben shouted for them to stay together as he turned and made his way back into formation. He stepped forward—and then stopped.
Glancing at his shoulder, a massive elongated talon hand held him.
He traced the freakish hand, turning his head, staring up at the tall face of the vampyre Queen, at her. Ben groaned as memory shook him cold. Her skin was still as pale and her head bald and marked by odd veins. Age had not touched her as it had him. Her eyes glowed bright red. Sharp cheek bones and two large front teeth that looked impossible to fit into her mouth. She glared down at him with a look of boredom and amusement.
"Harker," she said, in her echoing feminine hissing voice.
Ben tried to turn, bringing his blade up for a killing blow across her throat.
She snatched his arm in one of her colossal clawed hands, pulling him along and up off the ground.
Kicking his boots, Ben moaned against the sudden burning in his shoulder.
His blade fell from his hand.
Brining him close to her face, Ben turned away from the rotting stick of spoiled meat reeking from her breath.
"Watch," she hissed. Using one of her elongated fingers, she pried Ben's face, forcing him to look upon his comrades.
There were so few left now.
Lost in the chaos.
It had ended before it even began.
The Last Hellfighter Page 21
