Undead Island

by Hideyuki Kikuchi

  In a manner of speaking, the servants of the Nobility who were found from time to time could be more trouble to deal with than victims who’d been bitten. Their appearance didn’t differ at all from that of regular people, nor did their daily routine. They could walk around in the light of day or cross running water without any difficulty. When they ate, they washed their meals down with water. After a year or two of this, even those who had suspicions about them would grow complacent. And the next thing anyone knew, they were using the magic powers their masters had granted them to lead people’s wives and daughters off to their employers.

  While there were almost no recorded accounts of these magic powers, from the compiled eyewitness accounts they seemed to be a sort of powerful gaze—hypnotism, which was probably the easiest power for the Nobility to grant. In the southern Frontier, when one of these “servants” was found, there were cases of them having both eyes burned out without a moment’s discussion, though in many cases it was said the accused was killed before they could say a word in their own defense.

  In this case, Dorleac’s safety was guaranteed by the fact that the security patrol that captured him happened to be accompanied by a roving reporter from a regional news outlet. His report was delivered at Mach speed by a mutant pigeon, and it took less than two days for the regional news outlet to make the situation clear to the Capital. The Noble Research Committee in the Capital received no more information about the servants than common rumors and the details of their deaths, but another group—in other words, the government—ordered the Autonomous Frontier Government to ensure Dorleac was kept safe and in custody, and requested that he be escorted to the Capital posthaste.

  However, there was one factor the Capital didn’t comprehend. The Nobility were quite attached to their servants. A renowned poet who traveled the southern Frontier several millennia earlier had declared, “It can be nothing save love.” This was juxtaposed with the deluded desires humans who wished to be ageless and indestructible felt toward the Nobility, which were taken up in regional folk songs, ballads, and poems.

  The Nobility felt what could only be termed a partiality toward a certain kind of human (though at present the criteria for that had yet to be established). And when Nobles lost such an individual or had one snatched away, their feelings changed to a crazed desire to get them back. Needless to say, their madness included a wish for vengeance on those who’d snatched their favorite.

  When the Nobility’s power was at its gleaming zenith, it was perfectly normal for the entire hometown of an abductee to be banished to another dimension or targeted for a meteorite strike. Now, even with their hegemony far in decline, it didn’t stand to reason that a human stagecoach would be able to pass unharmed through Noble territory immediately after an incident such as this. Especially when the servant that’d been taken from them was riding in that coach. Nevertheless, while there had been an urgent request from the Capital, it was said the stagecoach had set out mainly due to fears that the Noble—Duke Sinister—might strike against the town of Happy Gringo.

  Before noon on the third day, they would reach the relay station and inn in Gasburg, where an escort brigade dispatched by the Capital would join up with them. The brigade was armed with the very latest weapons based on the Nobility’s own technology, and they would guide the coach to the town of Canalda, where the airfield was located. Their lives would be on the line for only two days of the journey. That thought was all the stagecoach and its passengers had to cling to as if it were the very hands of God.

  “I’m going to go up with Lantz for a while. I’m counting on you guys down here,” the sheriff told her deputies about an hour after they’d left town.

  Once Louise had mounted the forward staircase and disappeared outside through the hatch, the air in the vehicle seemed much more tranquil.

  “Hey, Al, from here on out we’ll be in the Nobility’s domain. If you don’t pull your head outta your ass, you’ll be the first one killed!” Belbo teased, as if he’d been waiting for this moment.

  When Al ignored him, he just redoubled his efforts, as if that were what anyone would do, saying, “I hear tell you took this gig on account of your wife and kid wanting to buy one of them automatic cleaning machines from the Capital. It’s a nice thought, but it ain’t gonna do you much good if you lose your life in the bargain. Hell, if something happens, we’ve gotta be more concerned with protecting this piece of shit than saving our own skins!”

  Belbo rapped his heavy bow against the iron bars of the cage. A shrill sound reverberated, and the young man—who’d been looking down at the floor—suddenly raised his head in surprise.

  “Oh, did I wake the Noble’s precious little page? Okay, you take a good look at my face and my buddy’s. Until they cut you up and study you in the Capital, we get to play nursemaid to you. So tell me, did the Nobility feed on you, fucker?”

  The air congealed. This was a reasonable enough question on the Frontier—but because of the effect it might have, asking it in front of other people was taboo. A horrible insult, it often escalated into an infringement of human rights that led to blood being spilled—it was said that such cases were on the order of a hundred thousand at the very least.

  “No, I . . . I never . . .” the young man babbled after a while. Though he sounded exhausted, his voice was just as lovely as his face.

  “You’re trying to tell me you lived with the Nobility for more than a decade, and they didn’t do nothing to you? Who’d buy that? Well, you are a looker. Bet there’s a pretty good chance that instead of blood, they were sucking something else.”

  “Please, just stop,” the young man said, shaking his head violently. “I don’t want to think about it anymore. I escaped from the duke. I couldn’t stand it any longer.”

  “Sure, that’s what all you ‘servants’ say,” Belbo replied with a mocking grin. He’d finally found someone on whom he could take out all his fear, tension, and irritation. “But then, after a couple of years playing it safe, you spring out them fangs you’ve been hiding once everybody around you lets their guard down. I know what you’re plotting, you little bastard!”

  Belbo raised his bow. He was going to bang the cage again.

  “Don’t, Belbo,” Al said, getting to his feet. At six foot two, he was pretty much on par with Belbo in the height department, but he looked to weigh about three times as much. His naturally big bones had been sheathed in an armor of muscles through strenuous physical labor.

  Belbo found a sole means of escape in his seniority, saying, “What the hell, shit-kicker? You presuming to tell an ol’ hand how to do his job?”

  “That wasn’t my aim. It’s just, you’re probably gonna rattle the passengers.”

  “You’ve got a smart mouth for a goddamn rookie,” Belbo said, and he also got to his feet.

  There was no turning back now.

  But another voice came between them.

  III

  “Stop screwing around, Deputy. That badge give you the right to bully anyone weaker than you? The other deputy’s setting a lot better example than you,” Claire said, giving Belbo a sharp look.

  “What’s that, slut?” Belbo snapped, twice as set on looking tough now that he had a new foe—actually, just an ally for Al. “Who the hell you think’s gonna defend the lot of you on this trip when—”

  “Earlier, the sheriff said you wouldn’t be defending us, remember? That sure is a lot of tough talk from a guy who takes orders from a woman.”

  Belbo fell silent. He was just about to explode. But it was Al who stopped him.

  “Belbo, remember this,” the farmer said, tapping a finger against the tin star that gleamed on his own chest.

  For a while, Belbo was frozen in place. He knew that no matter what he did, he couldn’t win. It felt as if an eternity passed before he let out a sharp little breath, then went back to his original location and sat back down.

  “Oh, don’t have anything to say now?” Claire said to him, needling him
with laughter.

  “Knock it off already,” Harman the blacksmith told her. “What are we supposed to do when we’re not out of town for more than an hour, and already everybody’s at each other’s throat? We’ve got two days through Noble territory ahead of us. If we don’t cooperate, then everybody who needs saving might not get saved if anything happens. I wanna get where I’m going safe and sound. So do the rest of you, right? If so, let’s show a little more consideration for the other folks.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re right about that,” Claire said, backing down easily. Perhaps it was just her nature to be surprisingly quick to take advantage of a situation.

  Al grinned and said, “Thanks, Mr., er—”

  “Harman. I’m a blacksmith.”

  “I’m Al. This is Belbo. Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise. Let’s hope we both live to a ripe old age.”

  The plain-faced blacksmith gave the deputies a little nod, then faced forward again. Pulling a pint bottle of whiskey out of his bag, Harman asked the taciturn passenger across the aisle, “Care for a drink, bud?”

  “No, thanks,” the man replied, his low voice trembling with absolute refusal.

  “Pardon me. So, you a Hunter?” Harman continued, his voice also dropping to a murmur. It wasn’t that he was trying to match the other man’s tone, but rather that this was another question it was practically forbidden to ask in front of others.

  “What makes you think that?” the man replied with unexpected speed.

  “Well, in more than fifty years of living, I’ve run into all types. I can tell from the atmosphere. Just by being there, you make your surroundings sort of quiet—I don’t know, like this.”

  “You mean I give you the creeps?”

  Deep in Harman’s chest, his ticker thumped hard.

  “Ha ha!” the blacksmith said, trying to laugh it off, but apparently the other man wasn’t buying it.

  “Do I give you the creeps?”

  The blacksmith felt as if a tremendous weight were driving him back against the wall. “No, not at all. Just forget I mentioned it.”

  Turning forward, Harman focused his attention on the woman two rows ahead of him, saying, “How about a drink, missy? You’re young, but I bet you can hold your liquor, eh?”

  Mindful of those behind him, he took the red bandanna from around his neck and wiped the mouth of the bottle, then leaned forward over one row of seats and reached his arm over a second to offer it to the woman.

  “Thanks. Don’t mind if I do,” Claire replied, turning around and reaching back to take the liquor bottle. She clutched her own bottle close to herself.

  Taking a swig, she remarked, “This is good stuff. You blacksmiths make pretty good money, do you?”

  “Spare me. God might just get so disgusted by that question he’ll shut the gates of Heaven on me. I barely squeak by, but I figure the least I can do is spring for decent booze for myself.”

  “You don’t say.”

  On seeing the woman down about three mouthfuls with the next swig, Harman bugged his eyes.

  “Really can handle your liquor, can’t you? Missy, you wouldn’t happen to be—”

  “I work in watering holes. Only I went a little too far and got run out of Happy Gringo. They had the nerve to tell me they’d put me on trial if I wasn’t out of town by the end of today. What’s a dinky little burg like that doing with a public morals committee anyway?” she grumbled, taking another belt from the bottle.

  “You said it. I was just thinking the same—”

  “You look like a nice, respectable blacksmith, so what are you doing riding this dangerous coach?”

  “Just because I’m a blacksmith, that doesn’t mean I’ve got a set residence. See, I’m a traveling smith. It was just time to move on from that town.”

  “Really? You know, now that you mention traveling smiths, I hear you guys do more than just make horseshoes and fix farm equipment. I’ve heard talk about iron dolls that can move on their own and wagons that run without engines, but is that stuff really true?” the woman inquired, then took another swig.

  “Hey—I mean, yeah, I’ve heard those stories, too, but that stuff’s beyond me. That’s the kind of stuff the Nobility’s gotta teach you.”

  “Oh, now that’s disappointing.”

  “Sorry. By the way, could I have my—”

  “Oh, this? Gee, I’m sorry—I seem to have drank the whole thing, haven’t I?”

  “‘Seem to’ my ass! You went and drank the whole thing,” Harman said, but he managed to rein in his anger. After all, he was the one who’d said they had to work together. Taking the bottle without another word, he held it upside down and sighed sadly.

  “This is good booze, but it’s pretty strong,” he said. “You could light your breath on fire about now. Downing half a bottle of that—you sure your stomach and liver can take it?”

  “From the time I was seven, I’ve been going from bar to bar, so that’s twenty years’ experience at this. If I couldn’t handle it, I’d have checked out of this life a long time ago. God must have a pretty good sense of humor.”

  Claire’s cheeks were flushed, but then they’d been that way when she climbed onboard. And she’d been drinking ever since—more to the point, there hadn’t been a single day in the last two decades that she hadn’t had a drink. God, have pity on her.

  As soon as the sun went down, foot traffic died out in the town of Happy Gringo. Due to being just outside Duke Sinister’s domain, the town hadn’t suffered any significant damage since its inception, yet fear of the beings who’d ruled over them for ten millennia remained indelibly imprinted not only on the townspeople but on the subconscious of every human being.

  Funeral services for the late Fredrick Nahathela had been concluded that day without incident, but his wife Verik’s anger only continued to swell. Yes, it certainly could be said that her husband was wrong to get involved with that woman. But if that tramp hadn’t been around to begin with, Verik knew her husband wouldn’t have had those strange urges and wouldn’t have ended up meeting the fate he did.

  What a horrible way to die.

  Verik had intended to cut the woman in two with a razor-sharp sword from the Nobility that’d been handed down in the family for centuries. She’d been stopped by the woman’s employer—the saloon keeper.

  When the saloon keeper delivered her husband’s lifeless remains, Verik lost her mind and was about to leave the house with the keen blade in one hand, but he told the woman her husband Fredrick had tried to have his way with one of the saloon’s employees. He conceded that it was, indeed, terrible the way she’d done it, but his girl had acted in self-defense. Therefore, the widow was asked to let bygones be bygones if the girl left town that very day. What’s more, he informed her that her Fredrick had been in the habit of sharing the details of some very unsavory dealings with the girl at his saloon. Were those facts to become public knowledge, Verik and the rest of her family would be the next ones forced to leave town. He mentioned how people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. And after the saloon keeper gave her a small sampling of the contents of her husband’s stories, Verik accepted his deal without further debate.

  However, as much as Verik’s head could accept it, her heart only burned hotter with malice with each passing minute.

  I’ll go out to Duke Sinister’s castle and offer him my blood in exchange for ripping that girl limb from limb, she thought. No, I’ll have him do it the same way she did my husband, so it takes a good, long time—

  The woman’s hate-addled brain clearly made out the sound of footsteps.

  Someone’s coming down the street in the residential district. A traveler, perhaps? No, the gates would already be closed by now, so they’d have no choice but to wait outside the walls until dawn. And none of the townspeople would be prowling around outside all alone at this hour. Who, then?

  Mixed with the footfalls, she could hear voices. Exactly the kind of voices you didn’
t want to hear at night. Screams. Though her hearing was by no means exceptional, Verik could tell that the cries were coming from the same direction the footsteps had come. So many voices. And such weird screams. They came from behind the footsteps—and were spreading across the town. Anyone and everyone was letting out screams.

  What happened?

  Clearly it was the work of whoever the footfalls belonged to. But where were those footsteps taking them? If they went clear across town, there was nothing beyond that but Joseph Gashuk’s ranch and Stefan Hubuff’s fields. No, not them too? Destroying the town and killing everyone—and for what?

  A feeling of desperation won out over her fear. Verik ran to the window.

  Where were those footsteps?

  The door opened. Darkness choked the doorway.

  The footsteps were directly in front of her house.

  The darkness came inside.

  To be continued in

  Vampire Hunter D

  Volume 26

  Bedeviled Stagecoach

  Coming Fall 2017

  About the Author

  Hideyuki Kikuchi was born in Chiba, Japan in 1949. He attended the prestigious Aoyama University and wrote his first novel, Demon City (Shinjuku), in 1982. Over the past two decades, Kikuchi has written numerous horror novels, and is one of Japan’s leading horror masters, working in the tradition of occidental horror writers like Fritz Leiber, Robert Bloch, H. P. Lovecraft, and Stephen King. As of 2004, there are seventeen novels in his hugely popular ongoing Vampire Hunter D series. Many live-action and anime movies of the 1980s and 1990s have been based on Kikuchi’s novels.

  About the Illustrator

  Yoshitaka Amano was born in Shizuoka, Japan. He is well known as a manga and anime artist, and is the famed designer for the Final Fantasy game series. Amano took part in designing characters for many of Tatsunoko Productions’ greatest cartoons, including Gatchaman (released in the U.S. as G-Force and Battle of the Planets). Amano became a freelancer at the age of thirty and has collaborated with numerous writers, creating nearly twenty illustrated books that have sold millions of copies. Since the late 1990s Amano has worked with several American comics publishers, including DC Comics on the illustrated Sandman novel Sandman: The Dream Hunters with Neil Gaiman, and for Marvel Comics on Elektra and Wolverine: The Redeemer with best-selling author Greg Rucka.