Eternal Samurai

by B. D. Heywood

  Kuso, where in the hell was Bana? Tatsu knew his partner would never ignore a Status Red. Hell, the Irishman lived for this stuff. Had Bana started drinking again? Tatsu’s concern for his missing partner wiped out any other distracting thoughts, including Arisada.

  The door at the far end of the Snake Pit opened. Tatsu’s head snapped around expecting to see Bana. No such luck.

  Two strangers followed Cooperhayes into the briefing room. The first, middle-aged, dressed in an expensive suite, clutched a battered briefcase to his chest as if it were a shield. His not-quite-in-full-panic gaze locked on to the Major. A slim youth crowded nervously in behind. The boy’s letter jacket and tailored jeans were torn in several places and splattered with blood. Abrasions and deep scratches covered his face and hands. Bruise-dark circles under his eyes contrasted sharply with the sick pallor of his face. His shell-shocked gaze bouncing around the room.

  “This is Mr. Robert Terrance, President of Rainier-Scopes University, and Marshal Ortega, a student. Mr. Ortega, please explain what happened.” The Major indicated with a nod of his head that the two clients should sit.

  The youth, Ortega, stared at his hands, fingers knotted together in an effort to hide his trembling. In halting, sometimes garbled sentences he told how he and four others from the football team were enticed from Belladonna by two female vampires and imprisoned by a group of vampires.

  The boys had been taken to a vampire called the Daimyō. Instantly, Sadomori had killed two of them after screaming that drugs polluted their blood. Ortega managed to escape but two students were still held captive.

  The sound of Sadomori’s name hauled Tatsu into the present. With a guilty start, he glanced at the wall clock. Two hours since the Red Alert and still no Bana. Tatsu turned back to the Major who was issuing orders for the rescue operation. The clients, faces filled with a hopeless misery. shuffled out. Lepers separated into teams and left to collect weapons and munitions.

  “Mr. Cobb, a moment.” The Major’s sharp command halted Tatsu halfway out the door. “Your partner is not answering his cell. Find him and report back.”

  Tatsu’s protest froze in his mouth at the withering look from his boss. “Hai, wakatta.” His angry strides took him past the others on his way to the motorpool and his bike. Shit, he would miss the action—all because his damn partner couldn’t stay away from the bottle.

  Tatsu pushed the Drifter to insane speeds, redlining the engine until the machine howled. He ripped through the near-empty streets, jumping curbs and skidding around turns. Rationality returned when the Kawasaki became airborne for the second time as he crested a hill. He eased off the throttle but only a little.

  Guilt replaced Tatsu’s anger. Had his obsession with Arisada caused him to miss signs that Bana was in trouble? Tatsu had avoided his partner outside work. Hell, more than avoided. He bolted for cover any time Bana even looked like he was gonna say. “What’s up boyo?”

  He checked the Whore first. Felt relief when Doris said she’d not seen the Irishman for a few days. Said he might be shacked up with his new girlfriend.

  “Arigatō,” Tatsu yelled on the way out to the street. Shimatta, he had no idea where this girlfriend lived. No, wait. A couple of days ago, Bana was grumbling that he’d been dumped. The man didn’t handle rejection very well. Especially female rejection. Probably why he’d fallen off the wagon.

  Tatsu skidded the bike to a halt in front of the Irishman’s apartment. Praying Bana was home, he took the stairs three at a time up to the second floor.

  “Bana, open up! It’s Cobb.” He pounded on the apartment door. No answer. He thumped again so hard the heavy door shuddered. Kuso, no one could sleep through this much noise. Bana must be out. Or out cold.

  “Hey, punk, shut the fuck up. We’re trying to sleep,” one of the Chinese shop owners shouted from below.

  “Is Mr. Murtagh home?” Tatsu yelled down the stairwell.

  “Probably. That piece-of-shit truck he drives is still out back,” followed by an angry slam.

  “Fakku.” Tatsu lost all patience, spun on one foot and kicked. With a satisfying crack, the wood splintered. Another slam of his foot and the door bounced open. He almost fell into the darkened vestibule.

  The putrid smell hit him like a physical blow. It reminded Tatsu of a slaughterhouse—blood, shit and terror-filled animal sweat. He unsheathed the wakizashi and slipped silently through the living room and kitchen. No sign of Bana. Tatsu moved down the hall. The rank stench thickened. His skin crawled at the terror and pain that hung like a thick miasma in the air.

  He stepped into the dark bedroom. Saw the huddled form of Bana curled up, facing the wall. Tatsu dashed to the side of the bed and dropped to one knee. The man was still wearing his shoulder holster. His clothing was drenched. He had soiled himself and everything, including his guns, was soaked with sweat, piss and shit.

  “Wake up, partner. You missed the Red Flash.” Tatsu felt the back of Bana’s neck. Heat poured off the man’s skin like a smelter. “You don’t look so good. Let me help you.” He tugged on Bana’s shoulder.

  The Irishman rolled toward Tatsu. Crimson feral eyes glared up at him. Blood coated the Irishman’s mouth and chin. His lips drew back over four very long, very white fangs.

  An animal growl ripped from Bana. Faster than any human, he lunged off the filthy bed. His heavy body drove Tatsu backward into the dresser, which splintered apart, showering them with wood and glass. They crashed to the floor, Bana on top, pinning Tatsu against the filthy carpet. Bana’s mouth struck at Tatsu’s throat. Instinctively, Tatsu blocked the attack with his forearm. Bana bit through the leather sleeve deep into Tatsu’s muscle.

  “Stop, Bana. It’s me, Cobb!” he screamed, ignoring the searing pain. With another mindless growl, Bana released Tatsu’s arm, and grabbed his jaw, twisting it brutally sideways with neck-breaking force. Spittle sprayed the air as he lunged for the pulsing line of Tatsu’s jugular.

  Tatsu clawed his tanto from his boot and, without thought, began to stab it into Bana’s ribs. An instant before the knife penetrated, the horror of his action shot through him. He flipped the tanto around and slammed its hilt against the Irishman’s temple with all his strength—four, five desperate, panic-driven blows. With a sudden, odd grunt, Bana’s eyes rolled into his head, and he went limp.

  Tatsu lay for a moment, lungs pumping, adrenalin-flooded muscles shaking. The stocky body lay on top of him like a giant rag doll. He rolled Bana onto his back and crawled to his hands and knees. Fakku, he’d nearly killed his partner. Fighting off the edge of panic, Tatsu dug out his cell phone and punched the Colony’s emergency code.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered praying the service would connect. Miracles of miracles, an answering click.

  “Cooperhayes.”

  “I’m at Bana’s, something’s terribly wrong,” Tatsu shouted into the tiny speaker. A furious feedback screeched into his ear.

  “Status, Mr. Cobb?”

  “I think he’s turned,” Tatsu sobbed. Shakily, he climbed to his feet and sheathed his tanto.

  “Copy that.” Cooperhayes’ usual dry voice quavered as he assured help was on its way. “ETA thirty minutes.”

  “Can’t wait.” Tatsu snapped the instrument closed, grabbed the semi-conscious man under his arms and hauled him upright. “Get up, partner, we’ve got to get to the Colony.” He snatched up Bana’s truck keys from the foyer table.

  In a grotesque parody of the night they met, the two stumbled down the stairs and out into the thick fog. Tatsu’s desperate grip around Bana’s waist forced the man to keep stumbling along. When they reached the truck, Tatsu struggled to open the passenger door and hold on to his disoriented partner—for he refused to think of the Irishman as anything else. Just as he shoved Bana halfway into the cab, Tatsu heard those distinctive growls, low and hungry.

  One by one, the vampires materialized out of the fog. “Hey, hey, what do we have here? Dinner and a drink by the looks of it.”
A squat kyūketsuki unsheathed his katana. “And look at those swords. That’s the punk killing our kind.” Mere hours ago, he had fed from the Daimyō. Now, he burned with a rogue’s insatiable killing rage.

  “Sadomori will reward us good if we bring his head in,” another snarled.

  “Gets better. Looks like we’ve got a new Clan member,” the lone fem crowed pointing to Bana. The pack’s responding laughter resembled the yips and barks of hyenas circling their prey.

  The Irishman’s low growl of recognition alarmed Tatsu. With a strangled croak from deep in his throat, Bana jerked free. He looked at Tatsu. A moment of clarity filled those blood-red eyes. “Let me go, boyo, it’s too late,” Bana pleaded in fang-slurred words.

  The entreaty spoken in that disturbing, wet voice devastated Tatsu. “You’re not going anywhere but with me. Get in the truck,” he cried.

  For a second, Bana placed one hand on the truck door and looked about to cooperate. The vampires, sensing their prey was trying to escape, swarmed forward. As if by some unspoken agreement, two charged.

  With no time to draw his swords, Tatsu grabbed the closest attacker by the front of his jacket, pivoted and kicked him in the gut, sending him reeling back into the second. The vampires collided and crashed to the pavement in a tangle of limbs.

  The pack surged forward. “We’re gonna kill you fer that, asshole,” a small bull shouted, lifted a gun and fired.

  The bullet grazed Bana’s ear, shattering his daze. Uttering a string of garbled profanities, he jerked the Berettas free and fired wildly in all directions. One burst stitched flaming holes across the torsos of the two vampires on the ground.

  “That’s right, run ya cowardly wankers.” Bana jeered at the vampires knocking each aside in a frantic scramble to put distance between them and the maniac with the guns. “C’mon, I’ll take on all of ya.”

  At the first explosion from Bana guns, Tatsu threw himself against the only safe place—his partner’s back. “Shut the fuck up, you idiot, we’re outnumbered,” he hissed over his shoulder even as he felt a surge of hope. Maybe Bana was not lost. The man was acting his old, cocky, Irish self.

  Pressed against the solid muscle of his Bana’s shoulders, Tatsu’s eyes swept the enemy, counted the number left. Too many. No way were they going to make it out of this. Kuso, maybe he would die this night, but he’d take as many down as he could. He whipped out both swords and stepped away from the protection of Bana’s back.

  “Ya dumb fucks.” Bana fired both guns again, taking the legs off the nearest vampire, leaving it thrashing and screaming in a bloody heap.

  One gun clicked empty. The second jammed. “Bollocks.” He shoved the spent automatic into its holster. Ignoring the pack, he worked to free the Beretta’s slide. A steady stream of profanity about “fekkin’ bloodsuckers” spilled from his mouth. Within seconds, Bana extracted the misfired bullet and chambered a fresh round just as the vampires charged.

  A bull grabbed for the automatic. Bana fired a burst into his torso. The body jerked and flopped to the ground, and tangled under Tatsu’s feet.

  Just as Tatsu disentangled himself, a berserk bull grabbed his shoulders from behind. Fangs pierced the tender flesh above his dog collar. Tatsu jerked free, turned and drove the wakizashi into the creature’s heart. He freed it, spun, his swords cutting left then right, opening the torsos of two more vampires.

  With a shrill cry, the fem landed on the Irishman’s back, wrapped her skinny arms around his chest and sank her fangs into his neck. Bana thrust his gun over his shoulder into the slavering face. The Berretta stuttered once, sending blood, skull and bits of brain into the air. Bana bellowed with pain as the firearm’s report ruptured his eardrum.

  An enraged kyūketsuki butted his head into Tatsu’s midsection. Tatsu sliced the katana across the back of the vampire’s neck, severing the spinal column. The convulsing body knocked Tatsu to the ground, pinning him, and trapping the wakizashi between them. He lost his grip on the katana, heard it spin across the wet pavement. Gasping for air, Tatsu struggled to push off the heavy corpse with one hand while the other groped for the trapped sword.

  Booted feet landed either side of Tatsu’s head with a hard thump. He stared up jean-covered legs into the crotch of a Japanese vampire straddling him. “You’re mine, pretty boy,” the kyūketsuki cried in triumph as his katana whistled.

  Helpless, Tatsu watched the bright steel of his own death slash down toward him.

  A bright flash was followed by a sharp crack. A long blade shattered that death-dealing weapon in two. The intercepting sword twisted outward, sending the broken steel spinning through the air.

  The vampire’s eyes bulged in terror when a hand clamped around his throat from behind. His screech was cut off as he left the ground, legs and arms flailing in terror.

  With ease, Arisada lifted the vampire by the neck. He bit once and drank. After a few seconds, he tossed the corpse aside.

  “You seem to get yourself in the worst messes.” Arisada’s lips spread in a ghastly, blood-smeared smile. He pulled the corpse off Tatsu, and leaned down, offering to help the surprised boy to his feet.

  “Daijoubu?”

  “I’m fine.” Tatsu brushed away the proffered hand and scrambled up. He retrieved his wakizashi. “Why are you he—”

  “Saito Arisada, you scum! The Daimyō will hear of your betrayal tonight.” One of the two remaining creatures shouted his threat as he fled the scene.

  Before Arisada had time to react, Tatsu was already running after the two. But not fast enough. With a cry, he vaulted, a huge, high leap, back arched, the wakizashi held in both hands above his head. As he dropped, he brought the weapon down.

  The air screamed with the speed of his cut. The steel sliced the closest vampire’s head in half and kept going down into the torso. The dead creature crashed to the ground, dragging Tatsu to his knees. With a desperate twist, he fought to free the trapped blade. It refused to come free.

  The last kyūketsuki had almost reached the vehicle when the coppery-rich scent of blood hit him. Compelled by bloodlust, he spun back and fell on Tatsu still struggling to extract his sword. He drove his fangs against the exposed back of the human’s neck.

  Tatsu ducked sideways, felt those deadly incisors skitter over the dog collar. The move cost him his hold on the trapped weapon. Tatsu dug out his tanto and aimed it toward the vampire’s body.

  With a screech of rage, the monster clamped his hand around the blade haft, gave it a brutal twist toward the human’s belly. Tatsu heard the brittle snap of his wrist bones followed by the cold slide of the knife between his ribs. In raw desperation, he slammed his other fist into his attacker’s face, breaking the vampire’s nose. But that knife continued its relentless path into his vitals.

  Screaming his rage, Arisada reached the struggling pair. He sliced his nodachi once across the kyūketsuki’s exposed neck. The jaw released its deadly hold, and the head dropped from Tatsu’s neck.

  Blood fountained over Tatsu’s face. “Fakku,” he sputtered with disgust as he pushed the spasming body away from him. He shook his head to clear his eyes, and without thought, pulled the knife from his ribs.

  “Is that all the thanks I get for twice saving your life, Tatsusan?” Arisada grimaced as he flicked the blood from his nodachi. He leaned closer to Tatsu and used the end of his obi to wipe the remaining blood from Tatsu’s face. “Crazy boy, one day you will get yourself killed,” Arisada murmured.

  The enormity of Arisada’s actions hit Tatsu with the force of a sledgehammer. The flame-haired vampire had killed his own kind to save a human being. Wonder colored Tatsu’s voice. “You have just killed a couple of vampires. And you call me baka?”

  “I do what I must for the sake of both our kind,” Arisada’s voice revealed none of his sorrow from such killing.

  With a grunt, Tatsu stumbled over to his last kill and jerked the wakizashi free. Then he looked down at the blood pouring over his hip and down his leg. “Kuso,”
he murmured. He started to press against his bleeding ribs, and groaned at the intense pain shooting up his arm. “Shit, I think my wrist is broken.” He turned toward his partner. “Bana?”

  Bana stood, legs-splayed, chest heaving, amid bodies littering the ground like so many fallen leaves. His sweat-covered face reflected confusion and battle lust. Through red-filmed eyes, he spotted Arisada. The Irishman growled something about “fekkin bloodsucker,” lifted his gun and aimed. The Beretta’s slide locked open with a hollow click, its magazine spent. He stared dumbfounded at the empty firearm. Tatsu reached him just as he raised the weapon again for one more futile shot.

  “Murtagh, the fight’s over, man. It’s over.” Tatsu pressed on Bana’s forearm, asked him to lower his gun. “Come on partner, we’ve got to report in. Understand?”

  Bana stared around with blood-filled eyes that turned hazel as sanity slowly returned. His fangs retracted. He looked almost human. He stared at Tatsu with a wrenching sadness.

  “Got to go, boyo. Things ain’t so good fer me now.” With a garbled curse, he spun around and bolted into the fog.

  Tatsu moved to follow but Arisada’s steel grip on his shoulder stopped him. “Let him go.” The vampire ordered.

  “But he’s my partner,” Tatsu struggled to free himself.

  “No longer. He is kyūketsuki.”

  “Iie, no! Must stop him,” Tatsu mumbled unable to make out the vampire’s expression. Psychedelic spots danced before his eyes. He could not breathe. A hot wet ran over his hip. His legs trembled with a sudden, undeniable weakness. When he tried to sheath his swords, they aimlessly waved above his shoulders as if they had minds of their own.

  Arisada took the weapons from his trembling hands. The comforting weight of the blades settled into the harness. Then the warm strength of Arisada’s arm around his waist, holding him.