Dracula vs. Hitler

by Patrick Sheane Duncan

  I had been pestering the Professor concerning our destination and our mission, but he was closemouthed on the subject, saying only that we were seeking assistance to mount a rescue. Where we would find confederates in these desolate mountains, I had no idea.

  Our camp for the night was a slight declivity in the side of a cliff face with a shale overhang. We made a small fire and lay out our blankets. Van Helsing amused us with a tale of his search for Attila’s tomb, the Hun and his treasure supposedly buried in these mountains, the gravediggers executed to conceal the burial place. The Hun was rumoured to have been entombed in three coffins, one of gold, one of silver, and the last of iron. A most tempting lure for treasure hunters and historians. They never found it and he seemed still intrigued about the possibility of its existence. He gave us a short biography on the man called the “Scourge of God,” who delighted in war.

  Lucy had been silent during the whole climb, strangely silent for such a usually forthright and voluble woman.

  We supped on the contents of the flour sacks the beldam had provided. The cake, a heavy lemon affair, was delicious, moist with just the right balance of tart and sweet.

  The old man ate and fell immediately into a dead sleep, snoring with a sonorous rattle that reminded one of a foraging animal. The worry that some other creature of the night might mistake it for a mating call was voiced by me, but Lucy did not bite at my conversational bait. So, I sidled over to her as she nibbled on a bit of dried fig that her father had foisted upon her. I knew what was weighing heavy on her mind.

  “You are worried about him,” I said.

  “I know my father,” she said. “By the morning he’ll be marching us into the ground again. He used to tell me that the reason he married my mother was because she was the first woman who could keep apace with him when he walked down the sidewalk.”

  “You know who I mean,” I persisted.

  “My concern is not your concern.”

  “Ah, but it is. Since the day I met you,” I said. “I would not worry too much. He is, after all, immortal.”

  “Not entirely. Just ask my father. And I think immortality is not necessarily an advantage under torture.”

  “Point well taken.” This led to thoughts of what the Jerry bastards must have done to Renfield in order to make him talk.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for. The fortunes of war and all that shit.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “I should have kept a better eye on poor Sergeant Renfield. His capture was under my auspices, the poor daft sod.”

  “On a mission to rescue my people.” She laid a hand on mine. “I learned a long time ago that in fighting a war, people will be lost. And one mustn’t let that loss stop the fight. You cannot save everyone, and if you try you will be feckless and a failure. We must fight on. The stakes are too high to quit.”

  “Of course.” I gripped her hand in my own and she looked me in the eye. “And we will rescue our friends. This I promise.”

  She nodded and went back to her meager meal. My words sounded hollow even to me.

  EXCERPTS FROM UNIDENTIFIED DIARY

  (translated from German)

  . . . not believe that the Nazi Medical Association has yet again failed to find a test for blood that can reveal any Jewish taint. Seven years and still no Progress! Scientists? Idiots! Note—Maybe put Baron von F on this research. So far he has found nothing significant in the samples taken from the Brasov train victims and the skin samples collected at the castle Bran.

  June 15

  Had baked potato and linseed oil for lunch with a nice tomato salad. It is the beginning of the season and the tomatoes are exceedingly Savory.

  Will order spaghetti for supper, Herr Wolf’s Favorite Dish. It reminds him of the days and nights at the Osteria Bavaria. The little courtyard painted Pompeian red, the little temple in the back corner where Herr Wolf and his humble cohorts discussed Saving Germany, Transforming the World. And now we are in the process of doing just That. Some think that Herr Wolf is just after Revenge for his lowly origins and the manner in which he was treated in those early years. Oh, how those miscreants must shudder now, how they must tremble, but there is no such mundane feeling in the heart of the Man. He is just fulfilling a Destiny written by the Gods.

  Herr Wolf had a bout of Meteorism. Sorry to say Dr. Koster’s Anti-gas pills did little to alleviate the discomfort. And such Discomfort!

  Blondi has accepted the attentions of Harras, the Shepherd! Herr Wolf has high Hopes for pups in the near future, if nothing else but to continue Blondi’s Magnificent Lineage.

  Herr Wolf has another reason to be exhilarated. Sitting in the dark of his private screening room with HH and watching the footage from Rumania, he was in such Thrall that his hot chocolate grew cold and the whipped cream became but a white slime and he, for a moment, forgot about his Stomach Colic. Physicians are Idiots, too!

  The tests regarding garlic and the holy relics were informative, but not of interest to Herr Wolf, folktales and religious rubbish. But the healing properties displayed in response to the stabbings and gunshots—the implication is World-shattering.

  IMMORTALITY!

  At first Herr Wolf’s thoughts were of forming an Immortal Army. Herr Wolf, like Wotan, God of War, riding before an Army of the Dead. Soldiers with the strength of ten men as proven by the first film, soldiers immune to bullets, bayonets, disease. (Ah, Pestilence! The most debilitating upon our forces.) Even gas attacks! The latter Herr Wolf himself suffered under during his own military career. The Ordeal and its memory have never left him.

  But after further consideration, this idea of an Army of Supermen soon lost its luster.

  Immortality was not a dispensation to be handed out to the common man, the regular soldier, as if it were a canteen or haversack. Not even to the elite troops.

  Immortality is Power. Power beyond the Realm and Compass of the middling man.

  Who should receive such a Godlike gift?

  The answer is clear.

  But first—is the attribute transferable? That question must be answered.

  Then the possibilities will be explored.

  DATED: 16 JUNE 1941

  TO: CSS REINHARD HEYDRICH, RSHA, REICHSFUHRER-SS

  FROM: SS MAJOR WALTRAUD REIKEL

  CC: HEINRICH HIMMLER, REICHSFUHRER-SS

  (BY SPECIAL COURIER)

  MOST SECRET

  THIRD INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT

  INTERVIEW CONDUCTED BY MAJOR W. REIKEL, INTERVIEW SPECIALIST CORPORAL SCHRECK. Also present is Company Scribe. A military cinematographer with 35mm camera records the proceedings.

  The Subject appears more haggard than previously, is barely able to raise his head as we enter.

  Major R. speaks to Corporal S., who now wears a black swath where his eye is missing. Major R. brandishes a communiqué.

  MAJOR R.: From the Fuhrer himself, Corporal! Your Fuhrer!

  Corporal S. snaps to attention.

  MAJOR R.: Corporal, how would you like to perform a personal service to your Fuhrer?

  CORPORAL S.: I would die for him. For Germany.

  MAJOR R.: You may have to do just that.

  Corporal S.’s surprise is evident on his face.

  CORPORAL S.: Die . . . Sir?

  MAJOR R.: And return to life as an immortal. Think of it, Corporal. Immune to bullets! Stronger than you already are! You have witnessed such abilities yourself.

  CORPORAL S.: How, Sir?

  MAJOR R.: Make the vampire bite you.

  CORPORAL S.: Bite me, Sir?

  MAJOR R.: It is the way the transference works. Could you do this for your country? For your Fuhrer? Are you brave enough a man?

  CORPORAL S.: I am, Sir.

  MAJOR R.: To even ask is an affront to your courage. Of course you are. That is what I told Himmler.

  CORPORAL S.: Himmler, Sir?

  MAJOR R.: Yes, Schreck, your name is known in the very halls of the Reich Chancelle
ry. Soon you will be honored there as a hero of the Fatherland, Corporal. Or should I say, Sergeant?

  Corporal or Sergeant S. absorbs this information with a tremulous lip as Major R. approaches the Subject.

  MAJOR R.: Hungry, my friend? How long has it been since you have fed? Maybe we can give you something to whet your appetite.

  At the Major’s direction, the Scribe and the Cinematographer leave the room. The Major joins us and locks the door behind us, leaving the Sergeant alone in the cell. We are told to observe through the bars of the door.

  The Subject directs his attention toward Sergeant S., who lifts a steel crowbar he has brought with him. He raises it over the Subject, who braces for the expected blow.

  But instead, the Sergeant uses the tool to pry at the spikes securing the subject. The chain across the Subject’s chest is removed. Then the chains and spikes binding his hands to the wall.

  The Subject falls to the floor. His ankles are still bound, but the Subject appears too weak to loose them.

  Sergeant S. stands above the Subject, stands firm.

  SERGEANT S.: Bite me. Make me what you are.

  SUBJECT: Impossible. You have no merit.

  Sergeant S. kicks the Subject.

  SERGEANT S.: Bite me.

  SUBJECT: I am most particular about what I put in my mouth, unlike a pederast like you.

  SERGEANT S. rips off his shirt, baring his formidable torso. (It is worth noting at this point that the Sergeant is a former professional boxer of the heavyweight class, stands head and shoulders above most men, weighing at least 120 kilograms.) The Sergeant continues to kick the Subject.

  SERGEANT S.: Bite me!

  The Subject appears to feel the pain of each kick, but remains defiant.

  MAJOR R.: Show it blood. Tempt it.

  The Sergeant takes a moment to form an idea. He wears a necklace, a silver emblem of the SS runes, about his neck. Ripping the same free, Sergeant S. uses the edge of the symbol to slice his forearm. Blood seeps from the cut. Bending down to the Subject, Sergeant S. pushes the bloodied flesh toward the Subject’s face.

  The Subject’s reaction is immediate. His fangs protrude, eyes redden. The Subject regards the Sergeant’s arm with what could only be described as hunger--but restrains himself.

  SERGEANT S.: Drink! DRINK, DAMN YOU!

  The Sergeant grips the Subject by his hair, tries to force the Subject’s face into the bloody arm.

  Faster than can be seen, the Subject’s hand snaps out and finds purchase in the Sergeant’s neck, wrapping his fingers around the Sergeant’s throat.

  The Subject begins to stand. The Sergeant fights the Subject, pressing it down. Though the Sergeant outweighs the Subject at least two to one, maybe more, the Subject is able to slowly gain his feet.

  Sergeant S. struggles, tries to free himself from the Subject’s grip. He fails to do so, even though he uses both hands against just the one. The veins in the Sergeant’s arms stand out in bold relief, the muscles bulge.

  MAJOR R.: Fight it! Fight it, you dunderhead!

  It is an impressive struggle, two beings of enormous strength in a physical battle of life and death.

  Sergeant S. gives up that contest and wraps his large hands around the Subject’s neck, attempting to strangle the Subject in turn.

  NOTE: During this, the silver runes, still in the Sergeant’s hand, make contact with the Subject’s skin and appear to scorch the Subject’s epidermis. The Subject reacts to the burning with a grunt of pain, rears away from the contact.

  The Subject breaks free of the Sergeant’s grasp, sinks his fangs into Sergeant S.’s neck near the jugular vein, which has gained prominence during the exertions.

  MAJOR R.: You have done it, Sergeant! Success is ours! Now you must get away!

  Sergeant S.’s battle to free himself becomes frantic. But his labours weaken as the Subject sucks his lifeblood.

  MAJOR R.: Get away from him! That is an order! Escape, you fool!

  The Subject finally pulls away. Blood drips from his fangs, drenches his chin. The Subject smiles at Major R.

  SUBJECT: Thank you. I needed that.

  The Subject has been transformed. No longer gaunt or haggard. Erect. Brimming with power.

  MAJOR R.: Quickly now, Sergeant! Quickly!

  Sergeant S., substantially weakened by the encounter, crawls toward the door. Major R. unlocks the door.

  The Subject lunges for the exit. But he is held back by his ankle chains.

  Major R. reaches for Sergeant S.’s hand.

  The Subject pulls at his chains. They rip as if made of paper. The Subject leaps for the opened door.

  Major R. drops the Sergeant’s hand and slams the door shut. Just in time, as the Subject collides with the steel.

  MAJOR R.: Sergeant! Come to the door!

  The Subject stands between the door and the Sergeant, who is on his hands and knees.

  SUBJECT: Do you think I do not know what you attempt?

  With but one hand, the Subject lifts the Sergeant by the neck, completely off the floor.

  SUBJECT: There is one issue you have not thought through.

  The Subject throws the Sergeant against the wall. Sergeant S. falls to the floor, limp, moaning. The Subject plants a foot on Sergeant S.’s throat, applies pressure until a cracking is heard. It is apparent that the Sergeant is dead.

  SUBJECT: One cannot go around leaving inferior copies of oneself behind.

  Major R. dismisses the Scribe and the Cinematographer. As they exit the hallway, the Subject is heard pounding the steel door with his fists. The door has been reinforced specifically for this prisoner. The noise is most disturbing.

  The Subject yells after them. “You can lead a horse to water! You can make it drink! But whether you survive the encounter is another matter entirely!”

  EXCERPTED FROM THE UNPUBLISHED NOVEL THE DRAGON PRINCE AND I

  by Lenore Van Muller

  After three days of trekking up and down the Carpathians, Lucille’s father finally revealed the purpose of their wanderings. Their goal was to find the gypsies. The tigani, as some referred to the gypsies, had taken refuge in these mountains to escape the Rumanian Army’s attempt to purge the entire country of their kind.

  Historically they were among the original settlers of this land. The country of Rumania was named after them—the Roma, as they called themselves. But they were a minority, to be persecuted throughout the centuries. It was such hostility that had made them a secretive people—and a fierce fighting force.

  Lucille found new hope in her father’s announcement. If only these elusive people could be found, and found in time. But the expedition continued, up and down the narrow trails, enduring the cold winds, hot sun, and the thin air. Lucille’s optimism began to fade, as they had yet to see another human outside their party, much less a gypsy.

  The trio stopped at a small spring that splashed down the mountain’s sheer side, a thin waterfall that trickled pleasantly over the rocks and down a cleft, then disappeared into the mountain once again. They filled their canteens and sat on the trunk of a stubborn, twisted pine that clung to the bluff, and they took the respite as a chance to sup on their diminishing rations.

  “Our food won’t last much longer,” said Harker, the Patron Saint of the Obvious Observation.

  “The area before us is vast, I know,” Lucille’s father remarked. “If we do not find them in the next day or so we will not find them at all. They might have fled so deep into these mountains they will not come out until the war is over.”

  He gazed at the peaks surrounding them. Lucille could not help but notice the dark circles under her father’s eyes, his sunken cheeks, the slump of his shoulders. He was tired; his age and the strenuous march were straining what meager reserves he had left.

  After their light meal, Harker excused himself for some privacy, tearing out a few blank pages from his journal. He scribbled in the damned thing at every opportunity.

  Lucille turned to he
r father. “One more day for you, then we take you someplace safe,” she told him. “Then Harker and I will continue the search.”

  “We will find them,” her father stated. “Well, more likely they will find us.”

  “If we do connect with the gypsies, will they even help us?”

  “We can only ask.”

  “They must help!” Lucille cried, desperation in her voice. “They must.” She knew she sounded hysterical and muted the last phrase. She, too, was close to exhaustion.

  “He is that important to you?”

  “The Resistance is important to me,” she said. “And he is important to the Resistance. The world is at stake, Father.”

  “I know what is at stake as well as you do,” he chided her. “What I wonder is where your concerns lie. Freedom from oppression. Or something else? Something more personal?”

  “Maybe all of those things,” she said. “And more.”

  After a moment of silence he spoke again. “I fear for you.”

  “My safety?” she asked. “I think I have proved that I can take care of myself.”

  “You mistake the threat,” he said. “The Prince appears to be cultured, civilised. But this is only a veneer. Underneath, he is like a wild beast, a lion that attacks at the first mistake of the one who arrogantly assumes to have tamed him. Even he admits to having slight control over his bestial tendencies. You are in danger every second you are with him. I know. I have seen the ruin he has left behind him, the depredation of innocent women. That you are named after one of his victims is only a cruel irony.”

  “The irony for me is that our search to free him only takes me farther from the Prince.”

  She felt sudden shame at her response. When she saw the fatherly concern in his eyes she was touched.

  “I fear for your soul,” he gravely concluded, then immediately apologised. “I am sorry, dear one. The old, like me, know so many sorrows and the cause of them.”

  They were quiet until Harker returned, and they once more set out on another goat path that wound around another mountain.

  DATED: 17 JUNE 1941