Eternal Samurai

by B. D. Heywood

  Sadomori tucked his chin to gain a little air, but already the pressure around his trachea was excruciating. His lungs heaved for even the smallest gasp of air. His vision danced and began to turn black.

  Iie! No! He would not let surrender his life to a demon. With blind desperation, he pounded the rounded, metal end of his saya against the creature’s temple—three, four, five brutal blows. The monster grunted with each clout yet his deadly stranglehold did not loosen.

  “I shall take you for my own, warrior,” the oni growled in the impeccable dialect of the Imperial Court. He tore Sadomori’s sword from his hand.

  Stark horror possessed Sadomori at hearing the cultured language of the nobility. He dropped his sword. Agony, as teeth sharper than any known weapon, punctured his neck. The scalding heat of his own blood gushed down his chest. He scrabbled to pull his tanto from his obi. With mindless desperation, he drove the razor-sharp edge into the demon’s thick neck. The monster growled but those teeth never relinquished their bite.

  In rank desperation, Sadomori twisted the blade, sawing it back and forth, praying to pierce the monster’s brain. Unconsciousness threatened. A comforting black void that promised peace. Only his fierce will drove his blade.

  The creature thrashed but that jaw refused to loosen. Blood—samurai and monster—sprayed the air, streamed down their thrashing bodies.

  Suddenly, the monster’s neck separated from the shoulders. Jets of arterial blood drenched Sadomori’s face. The body dropped to the floor with a loud splash. But those fangs remained buried in Sadomori’s neck, the head resting on his shoulder like that of some hideous lover. He clawed at the rigid jaw, trying to pry it open. No use, every tug threatened to tear out his jugular.

  Exhausted, Sadomori sank to the ground, ready to embrace the Void. He prayed the word of his triumph would reach home and enhance the honor of his family name. His last thought was for his Emperor.

  Sadomori did not know how long he lay in the brackish water as his consciousness faded in and out. There were times his body raged with a fever, other times he shivered so violently he thrashed against the walls. He should have died; perhaps the utter cold in the tunnels sustained him.

  When he finally awoke, his throat was swollen, his mouth dry, tongue pressing thick between his parched lips. No thought existed except to slake his thirst. He scooped up a handful of the filthy tunnel water. He retched at its foul taste but forced himself to sip only a small amount. His body cried for more. Yet he knew, to drink too much would bring death from belly cramps.

  Sometime during his delirium, the putrid head had dropped from his neck. The wound from the monster’s bite had festered, the stench of his pus one of many among the rank odors including his own shit. Exhausted, he sank once again insensible to the wet floor of the tunnel.

  The second time consciousness returned, Sadomori knew he must quit the tunnel or die. The compulsion to bolt from the claustrophobic tomb of the mine nearly took his reason. With incredible strength, he controlled his panic. He would not leave until he found his sword.

  Sadomori gagged on the putrid stench of the decomposing flesh. He groped beneath the corpse and retrieved his nodachi. He located the monster’s head, wrapped it in remnant of his coat and fastened it to his waist.

  Time lost meaning as Sadomori inched his way up the incline. He gave no thought to the decomposed remains of the boy as he passed. All that existed was the act of dragging one knee forward then the other, repeating the move, all other thought subsumed by the metronome of that simple act.

  Sometimes he heard voices crying out for him. Other times it was the whisper of a soft spring wind blowing through the sakura tress or the delight in his children’s laughter. When at last the tunnel widened, he was too weak to stand. Babbling with delirium, he inched over the last pile of rubble and collapsed in the main chamber.

  Many hours later, Sadomori awoke and stretched his limbs. He felt as refreshed as if from a long, restful sleep in the most luxurious bed. New vigor pulsed through his body. He explored the hideous wound in his neck but could not even find a scar. Was the oni merely a terrible nightmare? No, the evidence of the creature’s existence was tied up in his cloak amidst the stink of decomposing flesh.

  He exited the mine and stood, stretching his arms and breathing in the rich mountain air in great, intoxicating gulps. The sliver of a new moon showed through the clouds. He had been under the mountain for three weeks.

  Despite his weakness, Sadomori found an icy pool. He dove in and scrubbed himself and his soiled clothing. This was no vanity; an enemy could detect a warrior who smelled. Then he staggered toward the village. The steady beat of a human heart sounded as loud as a taiko drum. In fact, the sounds and scents of the forest were overwhelming in their intensity.

  The smell of fresh blood assailed Sadomori’s nostrils with such force he staggered. The delicious scent made him reel with hunger. His mouth flooded with saliva. He lurched from the last of the underbrush surrounding a field. In three swift strides, the samurai reached the man rising from his squat. Sadomori intended to demand succor from the peasant. Before the words left his lips, he embraced the peasant as if they were lovers and buried his mouth against the warm skin of his neck.

  “My Lord, we feared you were dead,” the man stammered.

  Sharp pain filled Sadomori’s mouth as long fangs ripped from his upper and lower gums. With a low growl, he struck, sinking his teeth into the villager’s throat. The man had no time to cry out.

  The thick, succulent taste filled him with ecstasy. Never had he experienced such sublime joy as that of his first taste of hot human blood. His cock hardened, pounded with painful need. He had to fuck his prey. He tugged at his clothing, ready to free his cock.

  Too late, the life force fled the peasant’s body, and Sadomori held only a cooling corpse. Lust fled the vampire. With a snarl, he dropped the body. He ran his tongue over his lips and razor-sharp fangs, lapping up the last drop of blood. He had never tasted anything so sublime.

  Then the horror flooded him, as he understood the truth of his actions. He had not slain an oni. There was no oni. He’d killed something far more evil, a kyūketsuki, a monster that fed off the blood of men. And in that act, he’d lost his own life and humanity. The samurai Ukita Sadomori no longer existed. What was left was a monster cursed never again to walk in the light of the day. He raised his head to the indifferent stars and screamed his rage and loss.

  Instinct kept him alive as he made his way home. Instinct drove him to find sanctuary well before the day’s first light. Weeks of hiding, of hunting, of learning the ways of the night, honed a new set of killing skills for the cursed samurai.

  His body hummed with its new supernatural strength. At first, the intensity of every sense was painful. He saw colors never before experienced. No sound within a hundred fieldsquares escaped him. There were times he recoiled at the fetor hanging over all human habitation. However, he could scent blood, or hear a heartbeat from vast distances. His appetite was insatiable, and he often fed three or four times in a single night, not caring if it were man or woman. But he could not feed from a child. That first taste sent him reeling with revulsion.

  His need for blood was matched only by his sexual hunger. Every time Sadomori fed, he fucked his prey. His climax lasted longer and was more intense than any he had ever known.

  He believed he was more than oni. He was chi no kami—a god of blood.

  Even as his strength grew, so did his ambition and his cunning. Before his transformation, Sadomori desired only to become worthy enough to achieve the rank of Hyoe no Suke, captain of the Imperial Guard. Now, with his inhuman powers, Sadomori wanted nothing less than the throne.

  As the early spring rain fell, Sadomori arrived at the outskirts of the new capital Heian-kyo. He slipped past the guards and passed unseen through the city. His estate was but an hour north. When he crossed into his own shoen, a modest-sized farm of a few hundred acres, an unexpected peace settled in him.
He noted with satisfaction that the fields were in order and spring planting was under way. His trusted overseer and his wife would have kept his property in perfect order no matter how long he was absent.

  Body thrumming with power, Sadomori planned his triumphant return. First, he would bathe. His most beautiful serving girl would dry and scent his body, then help him dress in his best clothing. He would present his success to his entire household but not show the demons’ rotting head.

  The next night, he would answer the summons of the Emperor Kurosaki no Gitako. Sadomori planned his tale to be eloquent yet thrilling, a story designed to validate his bravery. He pictured the Emperor commanding his generals to acknowledge Ukita Sadomori as the most-honored of his warriors. As a sign of his imperial favor, Kurosaki would grant Sadomori permission to climb the pedestal and sit on the right of the golden takamikura.

  However, the moment Sadomori reach the side of the throne, he would pull out his rotting trophy and hold it aloft. He imagined every man rendered immobile with horror. Before anyone could react, Sadomori’s fangs—the fangs of a God of Blood—would tear open the Emperor’s neck and drain the royal blood. Then, he would slay every warrior present. Death would come with such swiftness that none would have time to react.

  There would be no honor in the killing but Sadomori’s ambition left no room for honor. None would be left to challenge Ukita Sadomori’s right to the title of Emperor.

  As he climbed the final hill to his home, Sadomori eagerly sought the first glimpse of his ancestral banners. He halted puzzled by the alien flags fluttering in the night wind. Why were the standards of Lord Oshahito flying above the main gate of his home? Confused, he looked around. The Ukita mons was nowhere to be seen.

  Sadomori crept around to the back wall, opened a hidden gate and slipped into the garden. So silent was his approach, he did not disturb the croaking of the young frogs. All appeared in order, the delicate sakura trees on the verge of blooming, his prized cypress trimmed to perfection, the ume, plum, trees green with new leaf. He listened to the trickle of the streams connecting each pond, the distinctive “tock” of the shishiodoshi’s bamboo tubes filling then emptying with water.

  But the scent of his home was wrong—alien and rank. The foul odors of dozens of unknown males assailed him. One stank with the unwashed odor of a meat glutton. Sadomori knew of only one man who refused to bathe—the Emperor’s first cousin, Oshahito no Kano.

  He crouched lower among the bulrushes. He could not sense his wife, his children or his concubines. Brays, laughter and drunken revelry replaced the normal, orderly sounds of his household.

  A shiaijo slid aside and a drowsy man, scarcely more than a youth, stumbled out. He made his way to the bamboo privy reserved for the lower castes. He fussed with his clothing and pulled out his penis. With a long sigh, he let out a hot stream of piss. The acrid tang of his urine filled the air.

  Before the soldier tucked his prick away, Sadomori grabbed his neck in one hand and threw him to the ground. He stood astride the stunned guard.

  “Where is my family?” Sadomori bared his fangs.

  The man’s eyes bulged at the hideous demon looming over him. “Oni. Oni,” he shrieked, and covered his face with his hands. He shit himself.

  Sadomori dropped down, driving his knee onto the man’s chest. Heard the sickening crunch of broken ribs. Sadomori gripped the guard’s shoulder and ground the joint until it parted from its socket. A scream rent the night.

  “Again, why do Lord Oshahito’s banners hang from the walls of my home?”

  The guard writhed as words spilled from his lips. Within moments, Sadomori knew everything he valued—his lands, his family and his honor—was lost. Emperor Kurosaki no Gitako had murdered the entire Ukita line. Sadomori’s wife had slit the throats of her three children including his infant son before taking her own life. His consorts had committed seppuku, even as loyal guardsmen died defending his household and his name. All serfs had been sold to the slavers from China.

  “When did this happen?”

  Only blubbering noises came from the guard’s mouth.

  “When?” Sadomori leaned closer, snarled against the man’s neck.

  The soldier defecated again. “The week after you left for the mining village. The Shogun decreed you dassōhei, a deserter.”

  Cold hatred filled him as he realized the monstrous extent of the betrayal. The moment he left on his mission, all he valued was stolen. What a fool he had been! A trusting fool who believed his Emperor valued him. Sadomori’s mind raced, recalling tiny clues and minute insults that should have alerted him. When his vanguard was ambushed by a band of brigands far more skilled than mere outlaws, he should have sensed treachery then. Despite the severe injury to his leg, his duty to the Emperor kept him going.

  He considered the law of the land, which dictated all samurai live or die at the will of the Shogun. But to take lives and property without justifiable cause was an act of pure greed.

  And to brand Ukita dassōhei was unforgivable.

  With less effort than breaking a straw, he snapped the young guard’s neck. He would not deign to drink the blood of one who served the Kurosaki name. Unheeding of who would hear, Ukita Sadomori, threw his head back and howled into the night sky.

  Dozens of guards poured from the house, brandishing their weapons and shouting at the unknown threat. Sadomori leaped to the top of the high palisade, crouched on its thin edge. His face was a hideous mask, all trace of humanity gone.

  “I swear by all Gods, all kami, all oni, I will exterminate the House of Kurosaki, every man, woman, child. None shall be spared.”

  Not a single soul bearing any connection to the Kurosaki house—the Oshahitos, Oyamades and Tanakatas—would escape. Not the highest general or the lowest of the eta would live. Sadomori would eradicate every sign of Emperor Kurosaki’s existence.

  “Bear witness, oh God of Blood, the last breath of air to fill my lungs will be free of the taint of these names, these vilest of scum.” He hurled the putrid head toward the house. It splattered against the wall, leaving a foul, black stain.

  “That is now my new mons, the mark of kyūketsuki.” He screamed before disappearing into the night.

  Not even time had the power to stand in the way of his revenge.

  .

  Twenty

  The Seattle Quarantine, 2024

  Tatsu was drowning, water filling his mouth, lungs burning, breath gone. The wave inundated him, tumbling him deep into the freezing murk. Rocks battered his body, every jar made him cry out. Each time Tatsu broke the surface, another black rush pushed him below. His arms and legs thrashed; all reason gone as he fought for the elusive surface, clawed his way from the abyss of terrors yawning beneath him.

  His head broke free. With a gasp, he sucked in a precious lungful of air. His leaden legs kicked furiously away from the undertow that threatened to drag him down into a hell he could never imagine. A wave crested pummeling him under, then another, in unending rolls. Exhausted, he surrendered and sank to the bottom.

  “Wake up Atsilí!” Sage commanded. Tatsu dragged his eyes open against the weight of the dark water. The Navajo stood before him. Sage’s hair swirled like black seaweed in the green murk of the water. “Fight! It is not your day to die my little Ninja Boy,” he commanded.

  “Sage, I want to go with you.”

  “Atsilí, your journey is not yet done. Someone waits for you. Now swim!” The Navajo, eyes full of sadness and regret, smiled and began to drift away.

  Tatsu reached out, his fingers clutching, eager to grasp his boyhood love. As if from far away Tatsu heard Sage’s voice or was it that of another? “Come back to me, koibito. Come back. Please, for the love I bear you.”

  Tatsu fought for the heaving, distant surface.

  “He fights hard, that one,” Fornax commented as he held the struggling Tatsu facedown by his shoulders. He ignored the stench of blood, sweat and body fluids as the injured youth thrashed beneath hi
s hands.

  “Please, keep him still,” Dr. Amos cautioned as he debrided the suppurating flesh before spreading ointment over Tatsu’s hands. He began wrapping fresh dressing over Tatsu’s weeping skin. “I cannot believe he is still alive. It is nothing less than amazing. On first examination, I was convinced he would die. But the internal bleeding stopped spontaneously, and the fractured bones are knitting at an incredible rate. As for the burns, I have never seen skin regenerate like this, no sign of scarring. His protective clothing saved most of his back.”

  “He must live.” Arisada fed another injection of morphine and antibiotics into the saline drip.

  The doctor noted fresh bloodstains on the back of Arisada’s kimono. No use offering aid. The vampire had refused all treatment, declaring he had no time for it until the boy was out of danger.

  The physician packed his bag before doing a final check of the readings on the heart monitor. “I’ve ordered more supplies on my private account. No one will know they are for. I shall bring them tomorrow.”

  “Domo arigatō gozaimasu, sensei. Once again my apologies for the blindfold, it is for your own safety.” Arisada offer a small but distracted bow, his eyes already travelling to the patient. Without another word, the doctor left the room.

  Fornax lingered at the doorway for a moment regarding his Seisakusha, the kyūketsuki he respected and loved.

  “It is time. Please inform your Major that Cobb is alive but don’t reveal his whereabouts.” Arisada sat on the bed, hands cupped before his face as if praying.

  “Arigatō, Saito-san. I didn’t like that you ordered me to say nothing to the Major or the Lepers for so long. They are hardened men but still they grieve.”