Fiends of the Rising Sun

by David Bishop

  Kimura spun around and slammed the base of his hand up into the sailor's face, snapping his attacker's head back. Blood spurted from the sailor's nostrils as he flew through the air to land atop the table he had just vacated. It shattered beneath his weight, collapsing to the floor and scattering the others around it. Total silence fell on the bar, as everyone stopped to see what had happened, even the Hawaiian band in one corner stopped playing.

  "Touch her again and you all need ambulance to get home," Kimura warned the sailors. "You want girls who love you long time, go down street to Madame Cho," he added.

  The sailor's friends carried their insensible colleague from the bar, and several more tables nearby emptied, the customers unhappy at seeing one of their own felled by a single blow from a Japanese barman. But the empty seats were soon taken by other customers, eager to take the weight off. "Thanks for the warning," Kimura said as he walked past Kissy on his way to the bar. His mouth was smiling but his eyes remained cold, devoid of life. They reminded Kissy of a shark's eyes, empty and chilling.

  Juzo Yoshihiro was running for his life. Dawn was still thirty minutes away, but the sky was softening from black to blue, like a bruise changing colour. As sunrise got nearer, so it became easier to see where he was going, to find his footing in the dense undergrowth. But the captain was all too aware that this also worked against him; if he could see better, so it was easier for the hunters to see him. His survival was all a matter of time: could he avoid the kyuuketsuki long enough to see another dawn, or would they find him first?

  Thus far he had been lucky, using his local knowledge of the dense jungle around the airstrip to his advantage. Yoshihiro was fond of getting away from the stresses of his job by taking extended walks beyond the base's boundaries. He found the exercise enervating, and the chance to stretch his legs also gave him the opportunity to get some perspective on whatever was troubling him. He'd never thought that those long, brisk hikes might one day save his life, had never imagined he'd be using those same tracks and byways to avoid the fangs and talons of blood-drinking monsters.

  Twice he'd been close to disaster, when the creatures had swooped low above him, scouring the jungle for his presence. To look upwards and see something that looked human flying overhead, a pair of massive wings of skin and bone beating the air, it beggared belief. Then there was the sound those wings made, a mighty thunderclap that chilled the soul. Yoshihiro had flung himself into the shadows, using whatever foliage was close at hand to hide.

  The second time one of the vampyrs came close, it spiralled down to the ground and landed nimbly on its feet, less than a stone's throw from where the captain was cowering beneath a fragrant jasmine vine. The creature sniffed at the air, inhaling its surroundings, filling its lungs time and again as it turned in a slow circle. Yoshihiro felt certain the stench of his fear would give him away. He gripped his pistol in both hands, hoping that might steady his aim, as the kyuuketsuki's gaze swept towards his hiding place.

  The captain could see the face of his hunter. It was the pilot called Otomo, whose chubby features usually gave his face a friendly, childlike aspect. There was nothing friendly or childlike about the creature standing in the midst of the jungle. The face was stretched and distended, the jaw line unnaturally elongated. The brow bulged and furrowed, while Otomo's eyes were black slits of malice. Two fangs jutted from the mouth like twin daggers. Everything about this creature was terrifying and brutal.

  Otomo's nostrils flared as he caught a whiff of something on the early morning breeze. He stopped and stared at the shadows where Yoshihiro was hiding. Convinced he had been discovered, the captain closed a finger around the trigger of his pistol. He didn't know if bullets could harm these monsters, but it was better to die fighting than to surrender himself and his honour. Yoshihiro offered a silent prayer to the heavens and willed himself to shoot. But his fear was too great, the malevolent gaze of those eyes too terrifying.

  Otomo dropped into a crouch, his muscles tensing. This is it, the captain thought. This is the moment when I die. Instead the vampyr leapt up into the sky and flew off, leaving a mystified Yoshihiro cowering in the shadows. When the sound of beating wings had died away, he stood up and jasmine brushed across his face. The pungent aroma filled his nostrils, blocking out any other scent. Of course, Yoshihiro realised, the fragrance of the flowers must have concealed my odour! He tore handfuls of jasmine down and strung them in a garland around his neck. If it had worked once, it might work again. Any defence was better than nothing against these fiends.

  Yoshihiro knew his luck could not last forever. The vampyrs had chosen to hunt for him individually, their greed overcoming their common sense. Once they tired of that, the monsters would realise a co-ordinated search of the jungle would be far more effective. Working together, the six of them could drive him into the open and then his downfall would be assured. Yoshihiro decided to take matters into his own hands. Running and hiding would not save him; he needed to go on the offensive.

  The captain circled back towards the aircraft hangar, keeping under cover until he had the smallest possible distance of open ground to cover between it and the jungle. He waited and listened, watching the brightening sky for signs of the creatures hunting him. When he was satisfied it was safe to break cover, Yoshihiro tore across the open field, certain that he would be attacked at any moment. He was surprised to reach the aircraft hangar unscathed and flung himself through the door, gasping for breath. It was empty, except for the remains of the dead prisoners. Suzuki must have gone to check on the progress of his pilots, the captain thought. He'd made it, against all the odds he'd made it. But his relief was all too short-lived.

  "Clever," a mocking voice said. "You led my kyuuketsuki out into a fruitless search of the jungle before returning here, knowing it's the last place they would think of looking for you, very clever indeed."

  Yoshihiro twisted around, unable to understand from where the voice was coming. He watched in disbelief as a cloud of mist formed in the air close by, solidifying into the silhouette of a man. A face appeared in the mist, its snarling features a menacing mask of hunger and hatred.

  "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Suzuki said. "My men trained as pilots, not predators. They are used to having maps to find their targets. Their chosen battlefield is the air, not the jungle. It seems they still have much to learn about their new lives as kyuuketsuki. Thank you, captain; your cunning has given my vampyrs a valuable lesson." He arched an eyebrow at the garland around Yoshihiro's neck. "Why do you wear those flowers?"

  "The scent, it masks my own."

  Suzuki sniffed the air, inhaling deeply. "So it does, fascinating. You're even more resourceful than I'd realised. It seems a shame to kill you."

  "Please," Yoshihiro whimpered, ashamed to hear himself begging but unable to stop. "I don't want to die, not like this."

  "You don't have to die."

  "I don't?"

  Suzuki shook his head. "There is an alternative. You've shown skill and cunning in evading my kyuuketsuki, along with a talent for thinking on your feet. We have need of men like you. Become like us and you need never grow old and never die. You can become all but immortal, with powers and abilities far beyond those of ordinary soldiers."

  Yoshihiro glanced over at the remains of the prisoners, the scraps of flesh and skin where living people had once been, before turning back to face his tormentor. "You're offering me the chance to be like you, to survive by drinking the blood of other humans?"

  "Yes."

  The captain looked down and realised he was still holding the pistol. But his hands were not trembling anymore. His terror had been replaced by a cool, calm certainty. "Then my decision is simple," Yoshihiro said. He stuck the pistol inside his mouth and blew the top of his head off.

  PSYCHIATRIC REPORT: Wierzbowski, Russell.

  DATE OF ASSESSMENT: Unknown.

  The subject was brought for pre-sentencing assessment, having been found guilty of manslaughter after be
ating a man to death in an argument outsider a diner. The subject stayed mostly silent and uncooperative throughout the course of the interview, refusing to offer more than monosyllabic answers to questions. This appears to be a primitive defence mechanism, employed by the subject's subconscious mind to protect it from attack. When challenged to explain his violent behaviour, the subject offered this chilling explanation of his deadly tendencies: "I get angry sometimes, and I see red." The subject has twice been convicted of violent offences in the past, each one worse than the last. It is all too obvious to this observer that the subject is on an escalator of behaviour that will ultimately lead to murder.

  An investigation of the subject's familial background found few simple solutions for what might have created these dangerous tendencies. The father was a farmhand who died after falling from a horse twelve years ago, when the subject was eleven. The mother died of cancer five years later, but the subject did not begin to exhibit violent tendencies for another twenty-seven months after her demise. As the subject is an only child [and, indeed, now an orphan] there are no siblings to offer any further insight.

  It seems clear the subject suffers from both violent and homicidal tendencies. Left unchecked, these inherent traits will worsen until an unknown number of deaths are caused as a consequence. The subject is a powder keg with a short fuse. The presiding judge's suggestion that the subject be entrusted to the army in lieu of imprisonment is, while novel, highly dangerous. The subject's murderous urges may prove useful in the services, but that does not make him a suitable soldier. It is the recommendation of this observer that the subject be held at a maximum security psychiatric facility indefinitely, pending further study.

  Failing that, if the court is determined to transfer this problem into the hands of the army, it is suggested the subject be posted as far away from large population areas as possible, ideally as far from the United States as possible. Be under no illusions: Russell Wierzbowski will kill and kill again. He may find his true metier in war, but the resultant slaughter could be unstoppable. Turning the subject loose with a loaded weapon is akin to letting a genie escape from its bottle. Once the monster is out, there's no guarantee it can ever be put away again.

  In summary, Russell Wierzbowski is a dangerous individual with a history of violence and mental instability. Turn him into a legitimate killer and the consequences could be truly terrifying. Imagine what would happen if he were to survive his time in the army? Is the presiding judge suggesting we create this monster and subsequently let it free to roam the countryside in peacetime? Wierzbowski is a killing machine, waiting to be unleashed. God help us all if we add training and skill to the murderous intent that burns inside this monster.

  FOUR

  Tokyo Joe's stayed open until sunrise on Saturday morning, business at the bar and grill was so good. Kissy felt grateful because it delayed the moment she would be alone with Kimura. She didn't trust him, and she didn't trust herself to be alone with him, knowing how easily she had succumbed to Kimura the previous evening. But as dawn approached and the last few drinkers were stumbling out of the door, Kissy realised Kimura had disappeared. One moment he had been behind the bar, staring at her with those forbidding eyes, and the next, he was gone, like the night vanishing before the first rays of morning sun. She searched the bar inside and out, but could find no trace of him.

  Perplexed but relieved, Kissy ejected the final customer and locked the doors before counting the cash. Japanese-run businesses were considered fair game in parts of Oahu, especially with tensions rising between the empire and the US government. Kissy counted the bills twice and separated them into bundles before carrying the night's takings into the storeroom. The safe was buried beneath the building, its sole access via a hidden panel in the floor, under an old icebox. But when she tried to shove the icebox to one side, it would not budge, as if there was a dead weight inside.

  Kissy had moved the metal casket often enough without help. Perhaps Kimura had stored something heavy inside it before he vanished? If so, she would have to remove it before being able to get into the safe. She tugged at the lid, but it remained stubbornly shut, as if something inside was keeping it closed. Impossible, Kissy thought, wiping a film of perspiration from her forehead. The rising sun was beating down on her through a skylight in the ceiling, and the storeroom was heating up rapidly. Kissy had another attempt and wrenched the lid open. What was within would haunt the rest of her days.

  Kimura was inside the icebox, arms folded across his chest. Resting beside his head was another, that of Tetsuzo. The dead man's neck had been ripped apart, flaps of bloodstained skin hanging from beneath the jaw line. His dead eyes stared at Kissy glassily, like a doll's eyes. Worse was his mouth, the lips pulled back from the teeth, as if caught in time somewhere between a smile and a scream. Dried blood flecked his features, dark and red.

  Kissy screamed, and Kimura's eyes snapped open. He reached a hand up from inside the icebox towards Kissy, his mouth hissing vile curses, but Kissy was standing beneath the skylight, bathed in the sun's warming rays. As Kimura's hand stretched for her Kissy backed away, and sunlight fell upon the icebox's interior. Kimura's screams sundered the air, and Kissy's nostrils were filled by the acrid stench of burning pork. She clamped her hands over both ears to block out the cacophony of Kimura's pain. His burning hand pulled the icebox lid shut, the slam of it choking the storeroom with more fumes.

  She stumbled out into the main bar area, gagging on the aroma of burning flesh. Struggling with her keys, Kissy unlocked the door leading to the beach. She flung herself out on to the sand, retching and retching until her stomach had nothing left to expel. The image of that monster, resting inside the icebox as if it were a bed or a coffin was bad enough. The smell of it burning, she didn't know if she would ever get that stench out of her lungs, her hair, her clothes. But it was the sight of her husband's decapitated head that was burned deepest into her brain, imprinting itself on her imagination, the grisly revelation repeating itself over and over in her mind's eye.

  Wierzbowski was not feeling good. Like all the men from his barracks, he'd been doing artillery drills from dawn till dusk ever since Aimes had caught Martinez and Nurse Baker in bed. Normally that wouldn't be a problem for Wierzbowski. He had the biggest and strongest physique of any man in the barracks and he welcomed physical exertion. The sinewy recruit always felt at his best being pushed to the physical limit, where every ounce of his mind and spirit had to be focused on the task in hand. It stopped him thinking about the carnal urges he got, the murderous rage that gripped his very soul.

  Wierzbowski hadn't felt right for days. Recurrent waves of nausea and dizziness kept surging over him, and he'd been running a temperature for a week. At first he'd put it down to the ever-present humidity of the Philippines, a sweltering blanket of oppressive heat. But none of the other recruits in his barracks seemed to be suffering as badly, and Wierzbowski had always been among the strongest. Now he felt as weak as a kitten, hardly able to stand up, let along keep going. He kept pushing himself, nevertheless, determined to finish what he'd started. The collective punishment ended when Martinez and Baker got married, in less than an hour. One more set of drills and they could all relax.

  Wierzbowski had the exacting, exhausting task of raising and lowering the barrel of a three-inch anti-aircraft gun. The battery worked in tandem with two nearby devices, the height finder and the director. The director was a large metal box atop a wheeled tripod. Those manning it used tracking scopes to identify a target, calculating the elevation and azimuth of the enemy. That data was passed to the height finder, a long metal tube atop another tripod stand. This determined the range to the target and converted it to an altitude. From that the director could accurately predict the target's location, so those aiming the gun could fire at the right spot in the sky.

  It sounded complex but after weeks of drilling, the battery crew had become slick and assured, confident they could shoot seabirds out of the air. Of course, an
y enemy fighters or bombers would be moving a lot faster than any wildlife. More worrying was the fact that all the ammunition had powder train fuses effective up to only 20,000 feet. Anything flying at a higher altitude would be able to attack the base and neighbouring airfield with impunity.

  Aimes came out to observe the final drill before the wedding, making sure they did everything by the book and didn't cut any corners. Martinez ran the drill with ruthless efficiency, not letting any of the men slacken off for a moment. Wierzbowski had another reason not to let the others know about his illness. His presence was the only reason the others hadn't sought revenge against Martinez for all these extra drills. Everyone knew the two men were friends, and everybody in the barracks was afraid of Wierzbowski. He'd never lost a fight since joining the army, either in the boxing ring or elsewhere. Hell, even at the bar brawl back in Honolulu, he'd beaten half a dozen MPs to a standstill before letting himself be arrested.

  When the drill was finally completed, Martinez had the recruits stand at attention so the sergeant could offer his assessment of their latest efforts. "You're tired," Aimes began. "I know you're tired. You've been drilling on this gun from sunrise to sunset since yesterday morning. That explains your physical exhaustion and your lack of speed. It doesn't explain the sloppy way you finished that last exercise. I've seen more precision in the mess hall! I've a good mind to keep all of you out here drilling until tomorrow night."

  A collective groan escaped from the recruits, their uniforms soaked with perspiration, their hands made red by blisters. Wierzbowski felt another wave of dizziness sweeping over him. His legs had the strength of melting rubber, and Aimes seemed to swim and sway before Wierzbowski's gaze, the sergeant's figure shimmering in the midday heat haze. The recruit blinked repeatedly, trying to focus on Aimes, but a bout of shivering overtook him. Wierzbowski hugged himself, desperate for warmth in the searing heat.