by Pete Clark
“Liberty may not wait but mhemegbeioa,” Prescott mumbled quietly.
“What?” Adams and both of the guards leaned in closer.
“I said: you should have tied my legs.” Prescott lifted himself and the chair to his feet. He swung his backside hard around and hammered both guards on his left with the chair. It burst apart on contact and they were slammed to the ground. Now only a few stray pieces of wood clung to Prescott’s arm. He got a grip on one and used it to club another guard in the face. As the last guy not named Revere or Adams drew his sword and advanced, Prescott parried his blow, twisted his blade with the chair piece, and, in a swift magician-esque maneuver, took the sword away and held it himself. He used his free hand to punch the confused man in the face. Adams had half-heartedly drawn a pistol, but Prescott was on him in a second. He slashed his blade across the barrel of the pistol, sending it flying. He then lifted his leg and planted a solid boot into Adams’ chest, driving him hard into the wall. Seeing that Revere was frozen, Prescott advanced and put the sword, point first, against Adams’ Adam’s apple.
“So,” said Prescott. “Let’s get to the point or we’re going to find out if this legend is immortal.”
Adams looked up at Prescott with a mysterious smile. He chuckled softly. “Maybe you are the man for the job.”
CHAPTER FIVE:
Succubae and Tea Will Generally Ruin Your Weekend
December, 1773. Boston
Dawes had forgotten where he put his pants. This was unfortunate as there was someone at the door. After debating the merits of not answering the door versus social decency, he decided just to answer it. Outside stood a man in his late twenties to early thirties. He was rather handsome and Dawes could see a fire in him that was ready to erupt.
“Put some pants on, man. I hear you can help me find the cowards who have yet to start this war.”
“What,” babbled the confused and pants-less Dawes.
“You Bostonians have sat around while your liberties have been shat on long enough. I’m here to help see that justice is done.”
“Great. But who are you?”
“I guess you didn’t get my letter. I’m Benedict Arnold.”
Whatever you think you know about Benedict Arnold is probably bullshit. He was not some money-grabbing traitor who was looking for a chance to betray his country. Rather, he was a bold and innovative military commander and leader of men. He was the type of man who not only ordered a charge into heavily defended positions, but also led said charge. He had a thirst for glory, that is true, and perhaps he could let his pride get the best of him, but don’t be confused. The man who stood before Dawes today was a patriot without question. He hungered for revenge due to the mistreatment by the British crown and he would prove to be not the largest villain of the revolution, but rather one of its greatest heroes. In fact, the war, quite simply, would not have been won without him. But here we are getting ahead of ourselves. There is no war yet. Arnold, however, is certainly among those who want that to change.
“How do you even know who I am?” Dawes sputtered.
“A friend of mine happens to know you as a low level member of the Sons of Liberty. If I want to make a difference, I hear that they are the ones who can help me make it.”
“Okay. But first I really need to find some pants.”
****
Winter in the Carolinas sucked. Sure, there was snow and it was cold. But the worst part was all the damn snow beasts. Big and fast like werewolves, but you didn’t need silver to kill them. That was a nice bonus. However, the fact that they would attack you day or night, full moon, no moon whatsoever, was sort of a downer. Boone, Morgan, and Marion had spent the past several months trying to track down an existing tribe of Croatan who could help reveal some of this mystery. Yet it turns out that they were very hard to find. And now that everything was covered in snow, they were even less likely to be strolling around looking to answer questions of a mystical nature.
And what was with the giant bats? Man, there were some big ass bats around here. Luckily, Morgan was as accurate a rifleman as there was. He would pick off those bats for fun it seemed, since he laughed each time he hit one, and occasionally shouted things like “kazoom” and “el scorcho” when he had a particularly nice kill. Still, somewhat lacking in purpose, the three wayward heroes decided that they should try to get over to Roanoke Island itself. Maybe they could figure something out from there.
The snow was not so heavy that they could not travel through it and they did have the right men for the job. Boone was practically a professional at cross-country travel on horseback; Marion was an awfully hearty man who was very familiar with the area; and Morgan was an ornery son of a bitch who was obviously made of some steel like substance, perhaps iron or titanium. Or maybe he was just forged from pure hate. Either way, the cold, the rippers, and the lack of food and quality sleep didn’t bother him. The only thing that really seemed to upset Morgan was when it took him two shots to hit a small moving target when he figured he should have done it in one.
At the moment, they were trying to get through a pretty tough storm. The wind was ripping holes through both their jackets and souls. Boone’s damn hat looked pretty useful now. He had wrapped the filthy tail around his mouth and neck a bit to fight the cold. The smell must have been horrendous, but he was probably warmer than Marion felt. Marion was really starting to worry. This weather was not meant for travel. Neither for people nor horses. They needed to find some kind of shelter or quickly make one. Otherwise, they could have a serious situation with frostbite.
Morgan declared, “It’s cold as fuck out here. Let’s find a place to settle in before I lose permanent use of my man parts.” He certainly had a way with words.
Boone could not believe how rancid his hat smelled. It was beginning to dawn on him that he had not washed it for at least a year, if that. It kept him warmer, but was it worth it? Maybe death by ice would be better than breathing in this raccoon corpse.
Wait, was that smoke up ahead?
“Smurklems,” Boone said.
“I’ll shoot it,” said Morgan.
“What?” Marion asked.
Boone pointed. “Smorglesm.”
“Take that damn hat out of your mouth. We can’t understand you.” Marion had little patience for this kind of shit.
Boone spit the fuzzy ball of stank out of his mouth. “Smoke, you bastards. Smoke.”
Marion looked in the rough direction of Boone’s pointing. Sure enough, there was a trail of smoke. They spurred their horses. The horses seemed a little pissed, having to pick up the pace with the snow and the wind, but they gave it a shot. After a few moments, they saw where the smoke was coming from. Luckily, it was not a dragon smoking a cigar, because dragons can be downright cranky in the cold and a cranky dragon was a deadly dragon. Instead, it was a small cabin. This was great because not only were cabins not generally cranky, but they often had roofs to stop snow from hitting you and sometimes fireplaces as well. There was also a decently sized barn. The horses didn’t say anything, but they were probably pretty happy to see the barn. Horses also hated dragons.
Boone jumped from his horse, landed on the snow, and fell on his ass. Morgan laughed and shot the ground next to him, just because he was crazy. Unfazed, Boone got to his feet amid Morgan’s scratchy but maniacal laughter. He approached the door and knocked. They just stood there waiting for several minutes. You sort of had to cut cabin people a break; they didn’t get many guests, especially in blizzards.
Boone knocked again and then turned around. “If we don’t get an answer in one more minute, I’m just breaking the door down.”
As if on cue, the door opened. Standing on the other side was a pretty old guy who was clearly an Indian and also not that surprised to see three freezing guys standing outside.
“Come on in,” the Indian said in pretty solid English.
“Can we-” Marion started.
“Yes; put the horses in the barn. The
re is space and feed and the door is open.”
After the three icy gents took care of their horses, who could finally relax, they entered the cabin where this Indian, who was quickly gaining hero status in the visitors’ eyes, had already prepared dinner and had a fire going. Boone wondered if this was some kind of government travel program stopover. But he didn’t think that those types of things existed. He thought that would be a good idea. Perhaps a future business venture.
“This is great,” said Marion. “We really appreciate you helping us out like this.”
“It is no problem for me. Very few people travel through here. Too many monsters and also many violent Indian tribes who like to kill white men like you.” He smiled then, which didn’t seem that ideal.
“Oh, okay,” said Boone. “So what’s your name?”
“Mahrak. It means ‘blade of the devil.’”
“Catchy. I’m Boone; this is Marion and Morgan.”
“This area is full of danger. Why have you come here?”
“Danger,” snickered Morgan. “If anyone tries to screw with me, I’ll kill them. Twice.”
Mahrak seemed perplexed, but after a solid look at Morgan, he could tell that he meant it.
“Well,” Boone began, “we’re searching for both Roanoke Island and for a member of the Croatan.”
“I am Croatan.”
“That is just damn convenient,” smiled Morgan.
“Why are you looking for a Croatan?” Mahrak asked.
Instead of rehashing what you all know by now, let’s just skip to the part where we assume that the three mighty travelers told the whole story to Mahrak. In fact, let’s assume that it was an extremely exciting retelling that set your blood on edge and there were even some clever laughs thrown in.
“That was a tremendous summary of the events of your recent lives,” Mahrak said with great sincerity.
“Certainly. It was an epic retelling that will forever resound in history. But enough of this stewing in our own successful juices. Can you tell us anything about what happened to the people of Roanoke, or if you know anything about the curse that seems to have stemmed from that event?” Marion asked.
“I can tell you. These are stories that are part of the Croatan tradition. We pass these stories down with pride. How we have kicked off the magic that will eventually destroy the white men and send them from our land.”
“So you like to gloat. But won’t the monsters eventually eat you, too?” Boone asked.
“We didn’t really think of that when it all started. It is a bit of a problem,” Mahrak confessed.
“Exactly. So maybe you can tell us what happened and why and we can figure out a way to solve the problem?” Marion said.
“I can do that. But first you have to pass the gauntlet.”
“There is always a gauntlet,” Boone spouted angrily.
“I don’t mind a little gauntlet,” said Morgan. “I haven’t shot anything all day.”
****
Franklin’s recent series of meetings with the French had gone well. He wanted to travel over to England in an attempt to try and broker some treaty efforts. Even though he knew it would be a waste of time, the thought that it might delay some of England’s military advancement on America and buy time for the colonists to raise a larger army provided some merit to the idea. But as England was already at war with France, and as it was common knowledge that Franklin was dealing with the French, he was not welcome. In fact, it was rumored that the British government was entertaining the idea of attempting to have Franklin assassinated.
It turns out that Franklin’s danger was not going to come from the English at all, however. As was common for Franklin, he spent his evenings strolling through the streets of Paris. He enjoyed the feel of the city, the beautiful architecture, and the seemingly endless lights. The click of his heels on the boulevards brought him peace. The click of his heels and of his guardian Marchand’s heels. But was that a third set of clicking heels? He turned, but there was only Marchand. His brain perceived some additional movement, but it must be a mistake as there was nothing there.
“Perhaps,” Marchand called from over his shoulder, “we should call it a night. The wind grows cold, there are rumors of assassination, and you are returning to America soon. If someone is set on trying to kill you, it seems like now would be the perfect opportunity.”
Franklin patted the long, curved sabre at his side. “I can defend myself. Plus I’ve got you.” He patted Marchand on the back playfully; again, he thought he caught a wisp of movement. A milky translucent fog seemed to descend from the nearby building and evaporate into the shadows.
“Perhaps you are right,” said a somewhat disconcerted Franklin. They turned, heading in the direction of the hotel in which Franklin was staying.
The three sets of footsteps continued. Franklin started to pick up his pace, but he did not dare look behind him again. He started to think that he should start taking his walks during the day. In fact, it seemed as if everything took place at night. “Marchand,” Franklin whispered. “Do you happen to notice anything strange?”
“You mean the nearly silent guy who has been following us?”
“Yes. That. Observations are only of value when acted upon.”
“I guess,” said Marchand.
“A man who sees much but says little has no advantage over he who sees nothing.”
“I’m not sure I agree with that. Observing but reserving opinion can be a valuable trait.”
“When wisdom is not heeded, it becomes ignorance.” Franklin seemed to be losing his patience.
“Great. But what should we do about the guy following us?” Marchand asked.
“Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Right. Well, we are almost back to the hotel. If he hasn’t struck yet, then he probably isn’t going to.”
“Jinx,” said Franklin.
“That doesn’t sound witty.”
“No. But duck.” Franklin ducked and pulled Marchand down. A fast moving man, dressed in black, was suddenly behind them. He swung a small club at Marchand. It sailed over his head as Franklin pulled him down.
Both men rolled away from each other as the attacker stepped toward Franklin. The man was thin and pale. His eyes had a strange red glow to them. Franklin got a good look at him in the lamplight. The man smiled. Were those fangs? As Franklin wondered, Marchand managed to rise and draw his sword. He swung at the man’s back. Even though the pale man could not see Marchand, he still managed to duck with perfect timing. As Marchand’s missed swing took him off balance, the man turned and struck him hard in the jaw with his open hand. Marchand went down and his sword clattered to the ground.
Franklin managed to get to his feet. But the pale man was back on him. The two locked eyes and Franklin knew he could not get away. He also knew that he was not going to be able to fight his way out, either. His only chance was to defeat his foe with a battle of wits.
“Franklin,” snarled the man. “You aren’t wanted here and your time has come.”
“My time has come. Really? That’s what you have? Did you get that from the creepy villain handbook?”
“Your foolish witticisms will not save you,” he snarled again.
“Do you have fangs? Wait a minute. Are you a vampire?”
“Label jars, not people.”
“But you aren’t real.”
“Tell yourself that as I rip out your throat.”
“The true warrior needs make no threat. But only needs understand that no threat is needed.” Franklin actually smiled. “You see, when a fake monster appears, it can mean only that the true man is gone and that the world is to move forward into a new era, in which heroes and warriors need not step forward, as all men can truly be said heroes and, when all men are heroes, then the warrior may rest his weapons.”
The man now stared utterly perplexed at Franklin. A sense of overwhelming bamboozlement and annoyance was rippling around his face. He paused. A moment lat
er, he flexed to pounce, but a sword erupted from his chest. Stunned, the creature turned to see Marchand, but Franklin drew his sword and beheaded the beast.
“Was that a goddamn vampire?”
“Yes. Obviously,” Marchand said as he pulled his sword out of the dissolving body of the vampire.
“I hate to seem ignorant. But I was firmly of the belief that vampires do not exist.” Franklin stared disgusted at the pooling goo that the vampire had become.
“I believe that the immediate evidence should counter that particular belief.”
“Yes. Okay. So now there are vampires.”
“Oh, there have been vampires for a while.”
“Wait a minute,” Franklin grabbed Marchand’s arm. “I didn’t think you had rippers over here.”
“Rippers?”
“You know. Those crazy magical monsters. Werewolves, zombies, dragons, all of that stuff.”
“Oh that. Yes. No, we don’t have a problem with rippers. In fact, a couple of decades ago, I was involved in some major scientific experiments to determine where your ‘rippers’ were coming from. We pinpointed a time period, but then the war ended and we came back here. Also, a giant Wendigo destroyed our lab, so the French government decided that we did not care anymore.”
“Good information. But I, as you say, cannot help but notice that we were just attacked by a vampire. Which I believe, if memory serves, is a supernatural monster.” Franklin emphasized his point with a loud “Heh.”
“Oh, I get your confusion. No, no, my dear Mr. Franklin. Vampires are unrelated to your ripper event. That is why you don’t have vampires over in the colonies. Vampires have been around forever. But despite the random stories you may have seen or heard, they are largely only in France. As, except in very rare circumstances, all vampires are French.”
“Well, that sucks,” Franklin said, as he leaned forward and paused. Then both men broke out laughing obnoxiously. “You see,” continued Franklin. “Wit is priceless.”
****
Prescott had taken control of the situation. Yes, he had removed his sword point from Adams’ neck, but that didn’t mean he did not have these guys where he wanted. Each of the six ass hats who had kidnapped him were sitting in chairs in a row in front of him. They were not tied down, but Prescott had gotten his weapons back and they didn’t look like the type for Prescott to worry about now that he was armed again.
