The Last Hellfighter
Page 25
Ben, perhaps having read Clyde's expression, waved his thin arm. "I don't need your forgiveness—I know what I've done. What I need, young Bruner, is for you to git while you can, I need you to survive to carry on the fight. This is your world now, son. Treat it well, and wait for the signs." Shaking now, he leaned forward, stretching, holding a set of keys up for Clyde to take.
Clyde took them.
"It's gassed up, loaded with some—mementos. My journals are in a box in the passenger seat. Who knows, maybe you'll find a use for them." Ben leaned back with a look of exhaustion and something else, a smile as wide as the earth. Satisfaction perhaps, he was finally at the end.
Clyde looked at the keys and then at Harker. "Did you know? Did you know I was coming?" he frowned.
Harker gazed up at him. "I didn't. But I hoped. I hoped someone would come along at the end. I prayed as much. Mina is my angel, maybe she made sure you were here in time with me. Few things are more terrifying than not knowing if what you started will ever be carried on. Professor Helwing had a successor in me, and now I have one in you." He turned to the window, his dark skin faded paler by the second. "Go! The Countess is not far. I can smell the stink in the air. Go, young Bruner. Go!"
Chapter 42
Ben watched as the grandson of Sergeant Bruner ran down the hallway and waited for the sound of the back-door slamming shut to move. On shaking knees, he stood and shuffled to the Victrola. At the end, he knew he wanted something that reminded him on Mina. Opening the bottom cabinet, he searched and quickly found what he was looking for.
Pulling out the record from the sleeve titled "Round Midnight," he placed it on the player and set down the needle. Giving the Victrola a few cranks, the bulb lit, and smooth piano began playing through the speakers.
Despite the strain of every muscle in his body, Ben began tapping his foot to the beat of horn and drum and the key strokes of the piano.
"My dear," he said, "you would have loved Thelonious Monk. He was a true Harlem poet if there ever was one."
Content with his music choice, Ben made his way back to his recliner. Exhausted, he fell back into his chair, padded his jean overall pocket for his corncob pipe, stuffed in some fresh tobacco, and struck a match. He puffed until white clouds stung his eyes.
Outside he could hear the old Chevy's engine firing up and Clyde pulled out onto the road. He was glad the kid had sought him out. And in fact, knew that he could not have carried on with the final act without him. Ever since Iraq, or maybe before then, his mind drifted and it was increasingly hard to focus. Memory came and went—but now, now he knew what he was supposed to do. Clyde had brought back clarity by forcing him to remember.
Harker reached for what looked like a remote from the cluttered side table next to his chair. He palmed the device and leaned back, rocking, and exhaling smoke. Letting the jazz soak in as he waited.
And he didn't have to wait long.
Just as the record was starting a new song, the front door creaked open and slammed shut. Slow methodical footsteps came into the living room. Ben shuddered against the sudden cold as a shadow drifted over him.
He looked up into the horrid face of the Countess. Bald and oddly beautiful, all but for the alien vileness of her eyes and the large, sharp two front teeth.
She smiled at him in her own strange way. "Harker—are you not surprised, did you not think I would come?"
Ben waited to speak as she moved to the couch where moments before Clyde Bruner had sat and listened to his tale. "Oh," he said, "I figured you'd show one day. Never thought you'd be so bold in how you did it. Didn't think rats enjoyed such exposure."
The Countess glared at the couch, sniffing the air as if anticipating the taste of a hot meal being pulled from the oven. She turned to Ben. "Civilizations end, Harker—America is no different. My children will spread until nothing remains. Eye for an eye."
Ben inhaled and exhaled smoke. "And tooth for a tooth, but then what?"
The Countess looked at the couch once again. "We will retreat as we always have, leaving the land to return as it once was—fertile, to fatten mankind."
"Promises, promises," Ben smirked.
"You could see this new world, if you wanted."
"I'd rather burn."
"Would you really? No, the world is a better place with you in it, Harker—you've been such fun," she cooed in her strange echoing voice.
The old man sneered. "And you've been nothing but a disease—a cancer itching to be eradicated. You're nothing but an old fat rat. You feed on man because you cannot survive without him—dependent. Loathsome. Pest."
The Countess turned on him, gnashing her large front teeth, her black cloak fluttering around her as if it were alive "What game are you playing, Harker? Do you wish for me to end your pitiful life? Is that it? Taunting me with your pitiful insults. I'd rather keep you as you are, for as long as that might be. Ignorant and stubborn, amusingly so. Still you do not see the truth. The vampyre will always endure as long as man's hate endures. And man's hate can no less be removed than his pride or self-ambition. We—I, Harker, are forever."
Ben held up the remote.
The Countess glared at it dumbly, as if confused.
"No, you are not forever, nor am I," he pressed the switch. Ben felt a surge of hot blinding light and the glaring expression of shock and fear from the vampyre, and then nothing at all.
* * *
Hesitating only a moment, Clyde started for the kitchen. Without really thinking about it, he grabbed the hawk handle cane and went out the back door. The night was cool and strangely quiet. As if all the crickets and owls and toads and cicadas knew something wicked was coming, and were silent in veneration. All but for the rats. They scurried about the edge of the wheat field without concern.
Trotting over to the barn, he pulled open the large creaking door. Inside was the truck Ben had mentioned, a 1965 Chevrolet C/K Truck. The blue paint was nearly faded, but it looked in good condition. Opening the driver side door, Clyde peered over in the bed. There were wooden footlockers spray painted on the side in black lettering, "Ammo."
He shook his head, smiling. Inside the cab he rested a hand on a file box. Ben's journals. Over at the house, Clyde could hear music playing, some sort of bluesy jazz. He fired up the engine and shifted into gear. Keeping the headlights off, he slowly pulled out of the barn and turned down the main road.
He drove in the dark, not wanting to risk the lights. For want of vampires or drones or both, Clyde didn't want the hassle. Not yet at least. Let him get some miles first and then he would find his way.
Suddenly, as he repositioned the rear mirror, a bright blinding light illuminated the night behind him. The ground shook horribly. Following by a piercing howl unlike anything he'd ever heard before. The screech faded with the burning silvery light.
Clyde slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop.
He turned in the direction of the blast, smiling from ear to ear.
"You did it, Mr. Harker," he said to no one. "You may have doomed us, or you just may have saved us. Whatever future holds for us, rest in peace."
He shifted back into drive and continued down the road.
"But now, for the first time, I see you are a man like me. I thought of your hand-grenades, of your bayonet, of your rifle; now I see your wife and your face and our fellowship. Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony--Forgive me, comrade; how could you be my enemy?"
―All Quiet on the Western Front, Erich Maria Remarque.
Acknowledgments
Stories are never written on islands, there are inspirations and help along the way. Huge help came for THE LAST HELLFIGHER from Stephen L. Harris' epic history book Harlem's Hell Fighters: The African-American 369th Infantry in World War I. Also Timothy Egan's The Worst Hard Time: The Untold Story of
Those Who Survived the Great American Dust Bowl. PBS's three part The Great War documentary, and the very excellent and hard to find Men of Bronze, which included first person testimony from veterans of the Harlem Hellfighters. And a big thanks to photographer Rick Jones and his creation of a female Nosferatu, the inspiration for my protagonist. I'd be amiss also not to give a shout out to Michael Bray for his awesome work on the book cover design. He took my ramblings and made something truly born from the story. And a nod to my editor, Jeff O'Brien for piecing all of my incoherent thoughts together. And lastly to Chad Clark, for his enthusiasm for taking this under the wing of Darker Worlds Publishing.
About the Author
Who doesn't love a good story? From great works such as, All Quiet on the Western Front and Salem's Lot, Thomas S. Flowers has a passion to create similar character-driven stories of dark fiction ranging from Shakespearean gore fests to paranormal thrillers. Residing in the swamps of Houston, Texas, with his wife and daughter, Thomas has published several novels, including, Reinheit, The Incredible Zilch Von Whitstein, Apocalypse Meow, Lanmò, The Hobbsburg Horror, Beautiful Ugly and other Weirdness, Feast, and PLANET OF THE DEAD. In 2008, Thomas was honorably discharged from the U.S. Army where he served 3 tours in Operation Iraqi Freedom. In 2014, Thomas graduated from University of Houston-Clear Lake with a Bachelors in History. He blogs at www.machinemean.org, where he reviews movies and books along with a gambit of guest contributors who discuss a wide range of strange yet oddly related topics.
Stay in touch with Thomas by visiting his website:
www.ThomasSFlowers.com
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