Fear the Light

by William Massa

  “It’s over Vincent!”

  Nice try, kid, Vincent thought, but it’s not going to be that easy. He wasn’t going to just roll over and die. They’d have to earn their prize. Vincent's gaze came to rest on the large, blacked-out windows before him. Outside, the sun had nearly vanished from view. Just minutes before sundown.

  Vincent could hear the sound of fresh clips being snapped into assault weapons just as two wooden stakes rippled through the air, burying themselves into the wall right next to his head. He might not fare so well against the next wave of silver bullets. He had to get out of here. Fast.

  Fueled by desperation, Vincent leaped through a nearby window. The blacked-out pane exploded in a furious hail of glass. The dying sunlight enveloped Vincent as he plummeted toward the stone patio below, ground rushing up to meet him. There was no clumsy exploration, no fumbling caresses - the light violently washed over him, engulfing him in its hungry embrace. The air around Vincent distorted and shimmered with heat and - WHOOOSH - his form burst into flames. Vincent didn't even scream, the anguish beyond words. For over a century, he had been lucky enough to avoid the sun’s fiery scorn and today he was making up for lost time. His smoldering body landed in the chateau’s gardens, thickets and heavy undergrowth around him catching fire.

  Vincent scrambled across the patio and flung himself over the wall that enclosed the property. His flaming form landed in a terrace of hedges beyond. He sought refuge from the sun below the thick strands of vegetation, trying to extinguish the coat of fire with clumps of dirt he threw over himself. Mercifully, the clock hit 6.32 p.m. and the sun vanished below the horizon as darkness fell across the chateau. The fire died down, cut off from the radiant source that fed the flames. Vincent collapsed in the dense underbrush, his body charred and smoking, but the fire was already losing its strength and ferocity. As lightning speared the darkness and thunder rumbled in the near distance, announcing the beginning of an electrical storm, Vincent’s world began to fade until he was swept away by a tidal wave of darkness.

  ***

  Paul stood framed by the shattered window as he surveyed the ground below. Vast vineyards extended as far as the eye could see, and the shadows were already lengthening. Damn it, Vincent had managed to escape. They’d missed their window and lost their advantage. Paul knew the person he served would be displeased. Facing a vampire during the day was dangerous and not to be taken lightly, but going up against a creature like Vincent when the elements worked in his favor and with his powers at their full peak was another story altogether. Paul took in the lightning as it scarred the black sky and the anxiety he felt seemed to spread though his whole body. A normal reaction, he thought, but a clear indicator they’d lost the advantage and would be in for a serious fight. A cakewalk had become an uncertain undertaking.

  A voice behind Paul drew him back to reality. It was one of the armed mercenaries who had arrived in the Humvee. Their employer had devoted considerable resources to finding and training these men, most of them veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan who had turned to the more lucrative mercenary game. Resources were allocated to prepare them for the enemy they faced but they had messed up. They should’ve arrived at least an hour earlier but had been held up by some French Gendarmes for speeding. Luckily the French police officers lived up to his stateside reputation for not doing any more work than was absolutely called for. They never checked the trunk, where a small arsenal was stashed.

  “What do we do now?” the leader of the group of mercenaries asked. Paul didn’t know the man’s name and didn’t care to know it.

  “Have your men search the vineyards. Tell them to keep their guard up. With the sun down, the vampire’s powers will be fully restored.” Paul's eyes bored into the hunter, doing his very best to project grave authority.

  “Let’s find this monster and wipe it from the face of the Earth.”

  ***

  The team of hunters emerged from the chateau, weapons ready, night-vision goggles masking their features. Insectile warriors hunting for undead prey, they deployed across the terraced gardens with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. Everyone in the group was ready to earn their paycheck. They had all been told what to expect, they had seen videos to convince them of the authenticity of the ancient predator they were about to face. It was showtime, the training wheels had come off and they were looking forward to some quality one-on-one face-time with one of the last remaining apex predators that could still give mankind a run for its money.

  The team combed the chateau’s forested gardens, each man taking a different path, hoping to cover as much ground as possible. Lightning split the night sky, illuminating the medieval chateau for a second, and was followed by booming thunder. Talk about the perfect weather for hunting a vampire.

  The mercenaries’ night-vision goggles bathed the world in a spectral green. They moved silently and with the skill of seasoned warriors but their approaching footfalls sounded like thunderclaps to the broken, blistered creature who had sought refuge under a mound of loose soil. Had they left it at that and turned away, Vincent might have remained burrowed in the wet ground, satisfied to retreat into an uneasy slumber while his wounds healed. Most likely he would not have come after them, too weak to prolong the conflict and take the fight to the enemy.

  Vincent would have let it go.

  But the mercenaries had been ordered to come after him. It hadn’t been enough to wound him. They were here to finish him off. Nothing is more desperate or dangerous than an injured, cornered animal, a lesson these men had either never been taught or didn’t care to recall on this stormy night in the French countryside. They were making a fatal mistake. The hired guns, seasoned veterans of death and destruction that they were, thought they knew what they were up against this evening. But their knowledge of this ancient enemy was purely academic and hadn’t been earned through direct combat experience. When theory came up against reality, the outcome could prove quite different. It was a lesson these men were about to learn the hard way.

  As the mercenaries closed in, Vincent’s shattered form stirred. His body was a mass of scar tissue but his eyes glimmered with a renewed fire. This wasn’t the open, almost friendly gaze of Vincent, the bartender, who chose to resolve conflict through diplomacy rather than violence. It wasn’t the Vincent who fed on gerbils and who had acted as a protector to two hapless humans just hours earlier. This gaze belonged to a different creature all together, a monster who had feasted on the living for over a century before one woman’s love made him reconsider his way of life.

  Sasha’s voice had been with Vincent since the first time they met, a steady companion to his thoughts, almost as if she was part of his conscience. But right now, as the hired gunmen approached, her voice grew silent. In its place, there was another sound that grew more insistent with each step the hunters took toward Vincent’s hiding place. This sound echoed through his mind in a different timbre and pitch, but in its own way it was as persuasive as Sasha’s words had once been. It was the roar of their blood, and it was now calling Vincent’s name.

  Once upon a time Vincent had been the deadliest vampire the world had ever known. Not since the master had such a lethal creature stalked the night.

  Angelique knew this.

  The clan knew this.

  Soon these hunters would know.

  Among them, Max Warren would be the first but definitely not the last. He was thirty-five years old and had done two stints in Afghanistan before a court martial got him kicked out of the service. He had raped the sister of a Taliban soldier and subsequently shot the woman at point blank range before playing Cupid by setting up her brother with seventy-two virgins, courtesy of his blazing Glock 45.

  Max had tried to cover up the murders - they were the fucking enemy, after all - but another man in his squad had suspected foul play and an investigation was opened into the killings. A somewhat sympathetic judge decided to look the other way and show leniency, and Max had gotten off with a slap on th
e wrist and a dishonorable discharge. This left a man with his particular skillset with two choices: he could apply for that sales position at Walmart and start enjoying the full range of McDonald’s one-dollar menu, or he could become a merc, cash a six-figure annual paycheck and continue to do what he did best. One road would have allowed him to eke out an unremarkable existence in his hometown of St. Petersburg, Florida, the other path led him to hunting a vampire on a stormy night in France. It had led him straight to Vincent. Had Max known then the ultimate consequence of his choice, he would have gladly embraced mediocrity.

  Max pressed down a stone path that cut through the thick groves of the estate’s garden. A rustling sound made him grow still in his tracks. Max turned in the direction of the commotion and peered down endless rows of vines shrouded in shadow. The fledgling vampire hunter edged closer and decided to step off the terraced path. Thick hedges reached out for him like dark hands while raindrops hit his night-vision goggles, conjuring a steady patter. A new flash of lightning pierced the night and...

  Vincent stood revealed.

  The vampire made for a pitiful sight. Crouched against a tree, eyes hooded and blank, body folded in on itself like a boneless scarecrow. The hunter relaxed, confident he had the upper hand here. His thin lips bent into a cruel smile, anticipating the sport ahead.

  Max turned on his ear mic: “I found him. Situation is under control-”

  The words died on his lips as Vincent, tapping into his last reserves, finding a strength borne from hatred and hunger, scythed into Max and dug his razor-sharp fangs into the soft tissue of the man’s cheek. Body armor was protecting Max’s throat but his face remained exposed and Vincent took advantage of this chink in the merc’s armor. He savagely drove his teeth into the soldier and re-sculpted his features into a crimson mask. It was the first human blood Vincent had tasted in over twenty years.

  It would not be his last.

  The mercenary dropped his weapon and clawed his shredded features, given a strengthened Vincent the chance to tear off his protective neck armor with inhuman strength. Seconds later, the vampire sank his fangs into the man’s now exposed and vulnerable throat. The mercenary screamed into the night and Vincent’s newfound humanity was washed away in a torrent of blood.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  RAIN PELTED THE blacked-out windows of the armory and lightning lit up the room, soaking Maria’s haunted features in its sickly halo. With an excruciating effort that was more psychological than physical in nature, Maria scrambled back to her feet, her gait unsteady as she took her first hesitant steps. With growing trepidation, Maria turned toward the man who just a few months ago had proposed to her at their favorite restaurant, curious onlookers pointing and giggling, girlfriends smiling approvingly while sending not-so—subtle hints and double entendres to their own suitors. The man who had told her so many times how much he loved her. A man who had become a stranger to her.

  How could Paul be part of this nightmare?

  Maria couldn’t fully contemplate the implications, each question only generating more questions. She had to look Paul in the eyes, those same eyes that had once been so loving and familiar and had made her feel safe. Now they seemed filled with mystery and deceit.

  “Where are you going, darling?”

  There was no warmth in Paul’s voice. It almost sounded like he was mocking her. But how could that be? How could the man who loved her address her in such a flippant, casual manner? The answer was as simple as it was painful, shaking her to the core – Paul didn’t love her anymore. Or maybe he never had. And this realization almost broke Maria. She grew still. Tears welling up, she searched Paul's face. “Why?”

  “Someone made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Who doesn’t want to live forever?”

  Maria stared at him with incomprehension. What was he going on about? Maria’s mind suddenly went blank and her eyes widened with terror at the sight of a dark silhouette that had materialized behind Paul. Without turning, Paul sensed the new arrival too, a sudden chill rippling down his spine. They weren’t alone any longer.

  Paul pivoted in slow motion, eyes finding the dark figure that had joined them in the armory. His face filled with recognition and relaxed. But soon his expression changed, realizing that the apparition had no intention of slowing its approach as it advanced with lethal purpose. Maria let out an audible gasp and Paul’s features dissolved into an expression of abject terror.

  “Wait a minute, we had a deal. You promised-”

  Paul’s voice was brutally cut off as the shadowy figure slashed into him. Blood sprayed the armory’s archaic weapons, creating the momentary illusion that they had been recently used in battle. A voice that seemed only to flirt with being human uttered, “I’ve been known to break my promises.” The sounds of tearing flesh did not manage to drown out Maria's screams.

  ***

  Lightning carved the night sky, painting the rough-hewn features of one of the mercs in its electric glow. The soldier spoke into his mic, struggling to be heard over the booming thunder.

  “Max, this is Steve, can you read me?”

  Only the wind seemed willing to answer. And the mercenary didn’t like what the furious gusts of air were whispering in his ear.

  Something was terribly wrong...

  They were never meant to go up against this creature after sundown. They were supposed to contain it within the chateau. The moment their target had decided to go through the window in a hail of glass, the mission parameters had radically shifted. And Steve knew from experience such an unexpected turn could doom a mission.

  The mercenary cursed, the uneasy feeling he’d felt in the pit of his stomach now creeping up into his throat. He’d had a funny feeling about this job from the very start. But the greenbacks had been too tempting and he’d thrown his sense of caution - steeled in the theater of war - to the wind. Not listening to one’s gut could lead to guts being spilled, and the radio silence seemed like an ominous reminder of this truism of his profession.

  Through his night-vision goggles, the hired gun scoped out a world awash in green shadow. His forehead furrowed into a frown when he spotted a shape rolling toward his feet. Confusion made way for terror as he identified the object in question – it was Max’s head, still wearing his night-vision gear, his neck a shredded, gory stump. The mercenary stumbled back and reflexively raised his weapon but it was already too late. He barely made out the blur of motion, but he did feel the weight slam into him. He was sent flying and hit the slippery mud, entangled by vines. The hunter scrambled to regain his feet, boots slipping in the wet mud, eyes darting back and forth, seeking his assailant. His breath caught in his throat and his fear metastasized when he realized the spectral green landscape had been replaced by darkness - his night-vision goggles had slipped off his face. “Fuck!”

  Fighting off a growing panic, the mercenary searched the mud for his goggles. There was a glimmer of relief as he spotted the night-vision gear just two feet away from him. The merc snatched the goggles and slipped them on, looking up...

  And saw a nightmare glaring down on him. Mouth rimmed with blood, eyes feral slits. Beyond reason and pity, driven by a singular purpose – an insatiable thirst for blood. Vincent tore into the hapless hunter. A sharp roar of thunder drowned out the mercs death screams.

  ***

  The ground surrounding the castle had transformed into a world of rain and lightning. The downpour was blinding as the third vampire hunter stumbled toward the chateau’s entrance. He hadn’t signed up for this shit. No one was answering their mics and it felt like he was on his own in the dark, fully exposed to the fury of the elements.

  As the merc dipped through the main doorway that led to the entrance hall, he paused for a second. Water seeped into his soaked boots and pooled on the marble floor. His combat fatigues were drenched, the wet material clinging to his skin. He couldn’t believe it but this weather was making him miss the harsh desert terrain of Iraq.

  The mercenar
y clicked on his mic. “Paul, we have a situation...”

  His words were greeted by an eerie silence.

  “Goddamnit Paul, I can't reach any of my men. Paul, what the fuck should I do?”

  A drop of blood hit the vampire hunter's face.

  He stiffened, eyes turning...

  Upward.

  His mouth stretched into a silent scream as he spotted the shadowy figure clinging to the ceiling, fangs bared, murder in his eyes. Vincent flung himself from the ceiling at the shocked merc. The mercenary’s scream echoed long after his heart stopped beating.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A DOOR CREAKED open and a shadow grew across the dining room floor. Vincent had arrived. His face was healed, the blood having worked its regenerative magic. He cut a fearsome presence as his eyes combed the room. This wasn’t the Vincent who sustained himself on gerbils, this was a formidable super-predator who had feasted on the blood of men. His appetite satiated, he now hungered for answers. It was time to meet the mastermind who had put together this sick little game.

  Vincent entered the room and spotted Paul’s body, the man’s head resting in a pool of blood, still sporting a look of terrified surprise on his lifeless features.

  A voice shattered the silence of the room: “Vincent...”

  The voice was the raspy, inhuman gurgle of the creature that had taken Paul’s life. The sex was hard to determine from the voice alone, the speaker’s vocal chords having sustained terrible damage. Nevertheless there was a familiar quality here…

  And that’s when it hit Vincent, all the pieces clicking into place, and his face turned to stone. Vincent knew who the killer was and this grim realization filled him with dread. Vincent turned toward the individual who had managed to beat Dracula at his own game.