Fiends of the Rising Sun

by David Bishop

  Guido stepped through the doorway into a cold concrete bunker, its grey cement walls and floor made brilliant by blazing white lights overhead. The dresser could see a hole, high up on one wall, an opening. Beyond that, he could make out the silhouette of somebody watching him, a lone figure with its arms folded.

  "Begin the demonstration." The words drifted down to Guido from above, the voice that of the Führer. The dresser wanted to reply, wanted to say there must be some mistake, but he couldn't speak. Words caught in his throat, trapped in vocal chords tightened by terror.

  He was aware of a presence in the room with him. A low, translucent mist floated above the floor. No, not floated, hovered. How was that possible? That question was forgotten as the mist coalesced, forming itself into a distinct shape. The mist became a pallid silhouette, the size of a man. A face formed within the fog, features emerging from the mist, dark eyes solidifying, their penetrating gaze rooting Guido to the spot, forbidding him to run. In another instant the mist was a man, the same man who'd lured Guido down into this forsaken chamber.

  The dresser watched in bewilderment as the figure changed again, hunching down on all fours, transforming from a man into a wolf. Just as quickly the wolf was a bat, flapping its wings in the still, cool air. Then it was a man once more, all these transfigurations taking place within a matter of moments. The man took three brisk strides closer, opening his mouth wide to reveal grossly enlarged canine teeth. Guido watched as they grew larger still, extending down from the upper jaws to form fangs. He whimpered as the apparition buried his fangs in the side of his throat, pain lancing through his body as the skin was broken. Then came the suckling: an unearthly feeling that his life's blood was being drawn out from the carotid artery, accompanied by the hungry, wet sounds of an animal feeding.

  Guido's eyelids fluttered and his limbs went limp, brutal terror undoing him. But the thing that was feasting at his throat would not let him go, not yet. Strong arms embraced him like a lover, and a searing warmth invaded the dresser's body, penetrating at the neck and spreading out through his bloodstream. He felt pleasure beyond anything he'd ever experienced, and a sense of excitement and wanting that he'd never known before. Yes, he thought, take my blood. Take it all. I give in to you willingly.

  The Italian gave a sob of dismay as the fangs came away from his neck. The man sucking Guido's blood leaned back to meet the Führer's gaze. "Having taken the victim's blood, he is now utterly in my thrall, a slave willing to say or do anything I command. If I drain them, they can become like me, one of the undead, a vampyr, if I choose. They will possess much of my strength and abilities. They will be able to change their shape and survive on blood alone. Alternatively, I can take enough blood for the victim to die and remain dead. If needs be, I am able to resurrect the dead as cannon fodder, lifeless warriors for the battlefield."

  Guido listened to all this with dispassionate annoyance. He wanted the suckling to continue, wanted to feel those twin fangs buried inside his body again. He knew he was dying, but he had never felt so alive.

  "What is your wish, Führer?"

  "Get rid of the victim, Lord Constanta; he's of no further use."

  The vampyr bowed his head to Hitler before turning back to Guido. Constanta licked his lips, removing the last morsel of blood from them. His cold, leathery hands took hold of Guido's face, cradling it like a lover would.

  "More," the dresser heard himself whisper. "Take more of me."

  Constanta ripped the head sideways, bones inside the neck snapping like brittle twigs. Guido was dead before his broken body slumped to the floor.

  Zenji Hitori wished he was anywhere but in Berlin. Until two weeks ago, he had been fighting for the Imperial Japanese Army in China, leading a crack squad of warriors into battle. His grandfather had been a samurai in the days when that meant something, and the day Hitori first strapped on the sword once worn by his father's father had been among the most important of his young life. He was wearing the sword, as he stood in the Chancellery building, dutifully keeping watch over General Tojo. Adjutant to the minister of war, it was Hitori's task to keep the general safe from harm. There was great honour in dying to protect a man so important for the future of the Japanese Empire. Alas, Hitori felt the only danger to the general's life at this dry diplomatic reception was dying of boredom. The likes of Mussolini could talk anyone to death.

  Not for the first time since arriving in Berlin, Hitori wished he was not fluent in Italian, German or English. Had his father not insisted young Zenji learn the languages of other nations and other peoples, the adjutant would have been able to occupy his thoughts more usefully at such functions. Instead the general insisted Hitori maintain a constant watch on what was being said. Once they were back in their own quarters, Tojo would expect a blow by blow account of everything that had been uttered within earshot. It did not matter that the Japanese embassy had provided a perfectly adequate translator. The general did not trust diplomats and certainly did not trust translators. So Hitori was required to listen and file away everything he heard for later regurgitation, no matter how dull.

  He had noticed the Führer slip away from the champagne reception as soon as possible, and envied Hitler that freedom. As adjutant, Hitori was expected to stay alert and awake as long as his master did. He would have given anything for the chance to return to their quarters, rather than endure another hour or more of pitiless tedium at the hands of these sallow faced officials. I'm a soldier, Hitori thought. I should be on a battlefield, fighting for the good of the empire, not fighting to stay awake in some distant drinks reception!

  But his boredom vanished the moment Hitler returned to the room, striding straight towards Tojo. The Führer invited the general out into the corridor, and Hitori followed them, determined not to be left behind if something interesting was going to happen. He noticed Mussolini was not honoured with an invitation to join them, something that left the Italian dictator visibly angry. Good, Hitori decided. The man stinks of wet pork and has all the manners of swine too. Let him stay in here and stew in his own fetid juices.

  Once they were out in the corridor, Hitler waved away his own underlings, choosing to use Hitori as translator. The adjutant was surprised by the choice, but did his best not to let that show. The Führer focused his attention on Hitori, his eyes staring at the adjutant. "Tell the general there is someone he should meet, someone who might be useful to him in the future."

  Hitori passed this on to Tojo, who merely nodded. The adjutant looked around, expecting to see someone else in the corridor, but it was empty. "Excuse me for asking, Führer, but where is this person?"

  Hitler smiled. "Is that you asking, or the general?"

  Another exchange of translations took place before Hitori replied, "Both."

  "Allow me introduce you to Lord Constanta, from Rumania," Hitler said.

  "It's an honour," another voice interjected from behind Hitori. A tall, upright figure strode past the Japanese delegates and stood beside the Führer. He bowed low, keeping his eyes cast down to the floor before straightening up. "May I say how much I admire the activities of your Black Dragon Society? It sets an example other nations would do well to follow."

  Hitori was about to translate when he realised the newcomer was already speaking Japanese. Curious, since Hitler also seemed to understand everything that Constanta was saying to the general. Hitori risked a glance over his shoulder, trying to ascertain where the Rumanian had come from, but there were no doors close to them. It was almost as if Constanta had appeared from thin air - a ridiculous notion. The adjutant decided to focus his attention on what was happening here and now. The general was shaking hands with the new arrival, speaking with him as if they were old friends. No doubt it was praise for the Black Dragons that had smoothed the way. The society was a strident right-wing paramilitary group affiliated with the Japanese secret service. To get anywhere in the imperial government these days, you had to have connections with the Black Dragons. Fortunately for
Hitori's career prospects, his father had been an active member between the wars. Still, the adjutant was surprised this outsider had even heard of the Black Dragons. They were a secretive society and few acknowledged their existence within Japan. How had this thin-faced, austere figure from Rumania come to know about them?

  The general exchanged a few words with the Rumanian, asking him many of the same questions that had occurred to Hitori, but Constanta deftly avoided giving any direct or meaningful answers. "As yet my country is not part of the war that rages across much of Europe," the Rumanian said. "But I believe it will not be long before my people find themselves on the battlefield, fighting for what we believe in. Those of us who hail from the province of Transylvania have particular talents that will stand our allies in good stead. I have offered those talents to the Führer, once Rumania joins the Tripartite Pact. I make the same offer to you, general, as minister of war for Japan."

  "You would do well to listen," the Führer added, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "I have seen what Constanta's kind can do. They offer the Axis a weapon against which our enemies can have little defence. If you form an alliance with the Rumanians, they can offer you that same weapon."

  The general raised an eyebrow, intrigued by Hitler's words. "And what is this weapon?" he asked via Hitori. The adjutant sensed Constanta's gaze upon him and felt an uncanny fight or flight urge surging through his veins. The hairs on the back of Hitori's neck stood up and his hand shifted to the hilt of his grandfather's samurai sword, tensed and ready to fend off an attack. Thinking back on the meeting afterwards, Hitori couldn't explain, even to himself, why he had suddenly felt so endangered. There was just something behind Constanta's gaze, a hunger that verged on the inhuman, like the stare of a hungry predator.

  The Rumanian laughed out loud, amused by the young soldier's reaction. "Perhaps it would be better if you spoke of this without the company of your adjutant. He seems perturbed by my presence, general." Constanta's steely gaze shifted to Tojo, who took a step back under its power. Overcoming his fear, Hitori stepped between the two men and hissed at the Rumanian in English.

  "I go where the general goes, unless he tells me otherwise."

  Constanta smiled before replying, also in English, "You show remarkable strength of will for one so young. Most are too terrified to challenge me directly, let alone intervene on behalf of others. You intrigue me. What is your name?"

  "Zenji Hitori."

  "Very good, Zenji Hitori, I admire a man who can control his fears and even confront their source. I will remember your name for the future. Now, let your master and I speak; you need not worry on his account, he's quite safe."

  The adjutant stared hard into Constanta's eyes before stepping aside. The Führer, Tojo and the Rumanian strolled away from Hitori along the corridor, Constanta acting as interpreter between the two allies. Twice, the unlikely trio stopped to look back at the adjutant, but he couldn't hear what they were saying. Whatever it was, Constanta seemed most interested in him. Hitori was not used to being looked at like that, as if he was an object, not a person. It left him feeling disquieted and filled with an unaccountable dread. The sooner he got the general back on the plane to Tokyo, the happier Hitori would be.

  PART ONE: September 1941

  FROM: Private Juan Martinez, somewhere in the Pacific.

  DATE: September 15, 1941

  Dear Selma,

  We're well on our way to the Philippines. I have to admit, I never thought I'd be writing that when we were growing up on the farm, but life can take you to funny places sometimes. Hard to believe it's only five months since I got drafted. Hard to believe it's only a few years since I was playing ball at Field High, dreaming about being a big league hitter and seeing the world. Now I am seeing the world, thanks to the Army!

  Sorry I haven't written before now, but it's been a mad scramble since we shipped out of El Paso and I wasn't sure where we were headed. Once we completed basic training, the Army could send us anywhere. Me and the other guys in our unit got put on a train headed west. After what felt like forever we ended up in San Francisco. Sis, you've never seen a place like it! Everywhere we went there were hills, and so many people! We saw the Golden Gate Bridge and these things they call trams and all kinds of crazy stuff. You wouldn't believe your eyes, honestly.

  Anyways, they put us on barges and we went across the bay to a place called Angel Island. We had a week stationed at the Army camp there before a liner called the President Coolidge arrived to take us into the Pacific. I was kind of worried about being seasick and making a fool of myself, but I guess I must be a natural sailor or something because I haven't thrown up once. Some of the other guys haven't been so lucky. Poor Father Kelly, our priest, he's been looking green around the gills from the moment we got on board ship.

  According to Buntz we'll probably stop in Hawaii on our way to the Philippines. He says we might get a day or two there before heading on. I don't know how long it'll take us to get where we're going, or what'll happen once we do. Some of the guys who work on the ship have been saying there's a war coming but I don't believe it. Sure, they're fighting over there in Europe, but that's got nothing to do with us, right?

  Please write and tell me how Mom is doing, and give my best to Mack and everyone at the store. I hope you're all proud of me. I'll try and send you a photo of me in my uniform, once I get a uniform that fits properly! I'd better sign off now. I can hear the sergeant shouting and that usually means somebody's in trouble, one way or another. Please send me some news from home. It might take a while for your letter to find me, so don't worry if it takes a while for me to reply. Besides, you know I'm not big on writing and stuff, but I'll do my best.

  Your brother,

  Juan.

  ONE

  Father Kelly stepped off the gangplank onto dry land and made the sign of the cross, offering a silent prayer to heaven. Thank you, oh Lord, for delivering us safely to our destination. Look after these young men as they run wild here in Hawaii. Keep them from harm and from harming others. Amen. He pulled at his clerical collar, conscious of how closely it clung to his neck. Studying at the seminary in Chicago, where it seemed to be winter so many months of the year, the collar helped keep out the cold. Here in the stifling humidity of Hawaii, it felt like a vice around his throat.

  The priest lifted a hand to shade his eyes from the dazzling sun and looked around, trying to get his bearings. Beyond the dock buildings were several multi-storey structures, but few stretched towards the sky. No, the dominant features on the horizon were the lush, green hills and mountains, to which clumps of white cloud clung like scarves of mist. The contrast between the jutting emerald behemoths and the brilliant azure sky overhead was startling. Father Kelly wondered if the weather would be so oppressive, so overwhelming when they reach the Philippines. He hoped not, but it was too late to change his mind.

  All around him members of the 200th Coast Artillery were whooping and hollering at each other as they spilled on to the quayside, overjoyed at being off the ship that had brought them from San Francisco to this island in the middle of the Pacific. The priest couldn't help smiling at their joy. It was infectious, much like the social diseases several of them were likely to contract over the next twenty-four hours. Such was the reality of life in the armed forces. Young men full of hormones were on their way to some distant island where female company could well be at a premium, the sowing of wild oats en route was all but inevitable. Father Kelly sighed. He had the same urges himself, of course, but his vow of chastity forbade such indulgences. Besides, he had more pressing problems.

  "Father, are you going anywhere near a mailbox?" an eager voice asked. The priest turned to see Private Martinez running towards him in a neatly pressed uniform, an envelope clutched in one hand. "It's just I promised my sister I'd write and I did, but I know that if I don't get this in the mail today-"

  "Don't worry," the priest cut in, smiling at the young soldier. "I'd be happy to post it for you. This
is your first shore leave, isn't it?"

  "Yes, father," Martinez grinned. He ran a hand across his close-cropped black curls. "I even got my hair cut."

  "It suits you."

  "What about the moustache?"

  "Moustache?" The priest looked closer and noticed a few wisps of downy hair gathered on the soldier's upper lip. "Ah, yes, I see, very impressive."

  Martinez shrugged. "I only started growing it a few days ago, but I think it makes me look older, don't you?"

  "Definitely. You could be twenty."

  Martinez's shoulders slumped a little. "Father, I am twenty."

  "Ah! Well, I've never been very good at guessing anyone's age," the priest bluffed, adjusting his silver rimmed spectacles. "My eyesight leaves something to be desired, as well, if I'm being honest."

  "Ah, who am I trying to kid?" the young soldier asked. "I'm still a baby face kid, like I've always been. My pop was the same. The Hawaiian women are gonna know I've never-" Martinez stopped, remembering who he was talking to. "Sorry, father, I didn't mean to... sorry."

  "Don't worry, Juan. I may not be wise but I know a little of the world." The priest smiled. "I'm sure you'll be a hit with the ladies, but be careful, okay?"

  Martinez grinned, his boyish enthusiasm resurfacing. "I've got two guides to show me around Honolulu, what could possibly go wrong?"