Fiends of the Rising Sun

by David Bishop

  The marine cursed under his breath, not sure he wasn't still dreaming. This had to be a nightmare, didn't it? Creatures like Kimura and whatever Kissy had become weren't real, were they?

  "I'm real enough," she replied, "and I can read every thought in that puny, sick, sordid little mind of yours. Can you read my thoughts? Can you guess what I'm going to do to you, you disgusting worm?"

  "Stay back," Paxton warned, scrabbling away across the floor, until his back slammed into the rotten wooden banisters that enclosed the porch.

  Kissy was on her feet in the blink of an eye, stretching and flexing her lithe body, the joints and tendons popping as she sloughed off the onset of rigor mortis. "I think I'll start with your eyeballs," Kissy ventured, a playful grin playing about her lips. "They always were your best feature. Would you prefer I plucked them out with a fingernail, or should I suck them from their sockets?"

  The marine found himself praying, a long forgotten invocation for god's mercy and protection coming to mind when he most needed its reassurance.

  The vampyr laughed at him, mocking his sudden religious fervour. "If you're expecting some deity to rescue you, I fear you're going to be terribly disappointed. Vampyrs are the new gods and we walk the earth. Worship us!" Kissy flung herself at Paxton, the talon-like fingernails of her left hand clawing into his face, shoving it aside to allow better access to his neck. The marine tried to fight back, tried to resist her, but she whispered sweet words of seduction in his ear. Paxton felt his will giving in to her words, his resistance crumbling before the soft, soothing murmurs of her voice.

  Kissy licked her lips, ready to plunge her fangs deep into the soldier's throat, to suck the life from him as it had been sucked from her. But a massive explosion nearby threw a concussion wave outwards, rippling the air and blowing the bamboo blinds away from the porch. The rising sun slipped through the gap and set fire to Kissy's face and hair. The vampyr screamed in agony, slapping at her face and scalp, trying to put out the flames.

  With the spell broken, Paxton was able to fight back. He swung his legs up into the air, pitching Kissy over the top of the banisters and out into the garden. The moment her body was bathed in sunshine, she burst into flames, becoming an inhuman torch. The marine twisted around, getting ready to repel her next attack, but the vampyr had more pressing problems. She lurched across the garden, every inch of her burning with incandescent radiance while black, greasy fumes rose into the air. Kissy shrieked and screamed, wailing like some demented air raid siren, like a thousand sets of fingernails clawing at a blackboard. Paxton clamped his hands over his ears, but even that wasn't enough to block out her cries. She screamed inside his mind as well, attacking his thoughts with her pain.

  Kissy had just set foot on the steps leading up to the porch when her body exploded, one final shriek hanging in the air as a cloud of dust and ashes settled to the ground below. Paxton stayed where he was, gasping for breath, his mind racing at what he had witnessed. The sunlight had killed her, it had burned her alive. She had been killed by a monster and, after dying, had become like that monster. She had craved his blood and bent his will to her own. There was no denying it: Kissy Nagara had turned into a vampyr. The marine shook his head. He never would have believed it possible if he hadn't seen it. Hell, he had seen it and still wasn't sure he believed it. Of course, whether or not he believed didn't matter; there was no proof, nothing to corroborate what he had witnessed.

  Paxton dissolved into hysterics, tears streaming down his cheeks. He was laughing so hard he didn't think he'd ever be able to laugh again. One day earlier he'd been a bored grunt hoping to get lucky with an Oriental waitress. Now he knew that waitress had been a spy, he'd encountered two supernatural monsters, and a few miles away a war had broken out between America and Japan. The marine kept laughing, not wanting to imagine what could possibly happen next. That didn't bear thinking about.

  It needed both Maeda and Walton to get the heavy, awkward Browning machine gun up on to the roof of B Company's barracks. The two marines worked as fast as they could to get it ready for firing, Maeda locking the gun into place on its bipod while Walton checked that the firing mechanism was ready. The machine gun had been in storage for months and there was no real guarantee of when it had last been serviced. The corps had protocols for such things during wartime, but it had been peace until this morning.

  Maeda's eyes searched the horizon as he worked, trying to anticipate from where the next attack might come. It was only a matter of time before the fighters returned for another strafing run over the navy yards. When the Zeros came back, the two marines knew they would be easy, inviting targets for the enemy pilots. Walton struggled to load a 250-round ammunition belt into position, but his hands were shaking too much, fear getting the better of his training. He could smell burning oil on the air and tasted the tang of adrenaline at the back of his throat, bitter and metallic.

  In the distance a massive explosion rocked the harbour, closely followed by a second and then a third. The horizon was spotted with small black puffs of smoke where anti-aircraft fire was detonating in the sky, while huge, dark plumes of smoke billowed from the vessels moored in pairs along battleship row. Walton had always enjoyed walking around the docks, admiring the destroyers and aircraft carriers, wondering which of them might one day transport him to some distant land. Guess I'll found out soon, he thought, assuming any of them are seaworthy after today, and that I'm still alive.

  A fresh explosion, louder and closer than anything so far, rocked the navy yard. Maeda raised a hand to shield his eyes, peering through the pall of smoke that hung over the harbour like a shroud. A fireball was mushrooming into the sky from one of the vessels. "That's the Arizona," he said, his voice sounding thin and weak against the cacophony of noise. "I think it's sinking."

  Walton didn't bother to look. Instead he made the sign of the cross and whispered a brief prayer for all those who must still be trapped inside the vessel. "May God have mercy on their souls."

  "Amen," Maeda replied, priming the machine gun for firing before sweeping around in search of targets. "Now, let's see if we can even the odds!"

  Hitori watched the carnage enveloping Pearl Harbour and nearby military installations, with quiet satisfaction at his own involvement in events. He and Kimura may have played only a small part in the unfolding events, but the intelligence they had gathered over the previous days and Hitori's intervention at signal corps headquarters had contributed to ensuring the initial attack came as a surprise to the Americans. That had improved the safety of the second wave of dive-bombers and fighters. If the US forces had gotten their planes off the ground, the second attack could have been disastrous for the incoming Japanese. Instead many American aircraft had been destroyed while still on the ground, and the confusion engendered by wave after wave of Zeros making strafing runs at aircrews was keeping most of the other planes grounded. There was still a blizzard of anti-aircraft fire for incoming Japanese aircraft to cope with, but US aerial resistance was negligible.

  Hitori had arranged to meet Kimura at Hickam Field by nine that morning. The US Army air base was south of Pearl Harbour, along the coast from the city of Honolulu. It had been pounded repeatedly by Japanese dive bombers because Hickam Field was home to the 18th Bombardment Wing, a potential threat to the Imperial Japanese Navy's fleet. Hitori had assigned himself the task of guiding in the Vals, secreting transmitters in each hangar, all of them broadcasting a homing signal for the dive bombers on a specific frequency. Moving between buildings without attracting attention was not easy, as he had to keep his skin concealed from the sun at all times. Fortunately the field was quiet on a Sunday morning and few paid any attention to an officer going about his business.

  The first strike came just before 08.00 hours, eight Vals raining bombs down on Hangars 7 and 11. One American craft being prepared for take-off suffered a direct hit, exploding with devastating effect. When the smoke cleared Hitori could see the shredded corpses of more than a dozen
men, while others lay dying on the apron beside the landing strip. Next came the Zeros, sweeping back and forth above the airfield, strafing the hangars and ground crews with merciless ferocity. Planes parked outside were set ablaze by the Zeros, the fighters returning again and again, despite the increasing ferocity of anti-aircraft flak coming from the ground.

  Not long after 08.00 a dozen American planes tried to land at the field, but were attacked by their own side as well as the Zeros. Anything moving in the sky was a target for those on the ground, regardless of what markings it bore or whether the planes were making recognition manoeuvres. Eventually eight of the aircraft landed, but from his hiding place in the shadows Hitori could see that all of them had sustained damage to their fuselages. The other four flew off, no doubt trying to find safer landings elsewhere. The vampyr smiled. News of the friendly fire incidents would soon spread among anti-aircraft crews at the airfield. With luck, they would be less likely to shoot down any plane obviously trying to land. That could help when the time came for him and Kimura to be extracted.

  "Identify yourself! Who are you and what are you doing in there?" a gruff voice demanded from behind Hitori. He swivelled around to find an American sentry aiming a sub-machine gun at him. The soldier's eyes widened when he realised Hitori was Japanese. "You're one of them!" His gaze darted around, searching for any sign that Hitori was not alone. "Where are the rest of your buddies, Tojo, or don't you understand English?"

  "I understand English perfectly well," Hitori replied. He reached inside the sentry's thoughts and pushed. You needn't be afraid of me.

  The soldier's face twitched, as if someone was stabbing him with a needle. "I needn't be afraid of you," he said, parroting Hitori's commands.

  You're perfectly safe, so you can lower your weapon.

  Again the sentry flinched before repeating what he was told. "I'm perfectly safe. I can lower my weapon." But his hands did not move.

  Lower your weapon, Hitori urged, pushing with everything he had.

  The soldier's face was a mass of spasms, tics and twitches, his will battling against the powerful suggestive impulse implanted in his mind by the vampyr's orders. A drop of blood fell from the American's nose, followed by another and another, until blood was pouring freely from both nostrils. Still the sentry would not give in, would not lower his weapon.

  Locked in a battle of wills with the soldier, Hitori did not dare attempt to change to another form. Instead he walked towards the sentry, all his power bent against the stubborn American. You will give in to me or I shall crush your mind, Hitori snarled. You will surrender or you will die!

  "Never," the sentry gasped, his finger closing around the sub-machine gun's trigger. Hitori flung himself at the soldier, swatting the barrel aside with ease before closing a fist around the obstinate American's neck, lifting his foe's body clear off the ground. The sentry's feet kicked at thin air.

  "You've remarkable willpower," the vampyr hissed, "but it won't save you!" Hitori ripped open the sentry's collar with his spare hand, exposing the throat. But doing this also freed the twin chains hidden inside the soldier's tunic. His dog tags hung from one chain, while the other supported a silver cross. It pressed against Hitori's skin, burning its way into the vampyr's flesh. He cried out, hurt and enraged, before tossing the sentry to one side. The American collided awkwardly with the side of a concrete barracks block, his neck snapping with a dull crack, before the lifeless body slid to the ground.

  Hitori was busy staring at the cross burned into the back of his left hand, the skin bubbling and smoking as if acid had been poured over it. The acrid smell of burning flesh rose from the crucifix-shaped wound, insinuating its way into the vampyr's nostrils, making him gag at the stench. He hadn't felt pain or exhaustion once since becoming a vampyr. Yes, he often rested during the hours of daylight, but that was as much about avoiding the sun as anything else. He had forgotten what pain felt like, had begun to believe himself invulnerable like Constanta. Now the simple happenstance of a silver cross falling against his skin had reminded Hitori of his weaknesses. The pain was both exquisite and excruciating.

  "Hey, Ronnie, you okay?" a voice called out, just ahead of the sound of hurried footsteps approaching. Hitori realised he had lingered for too long in one place, absorbed in his own thoughts when he should have kept watch for more sentries. Before he could escape half a dozen guards armed with sub-machine guns had surrounded him, while another of them was examining the corpse of their fallen comrade. "Ronnie's dead! His neck's broken!" The blond soldier picked up the metal helmet his dead colleague had been wearing. It had crumpled at the point of impact where Hitori had thrown Ronnie against the concrete wall. "Did you do this to him?"

  "In a manner of speaking," the vampyr replied. He studied the faces of those surrounding him. There were too many for him to control all their minds at once, and he could not escape by transforming his shape. Trying to flee as mist, wolf or bat would mean exposing himself to direct sunlight and he would be dead within moments of leaving the shadows.

  "You murdered Ronnie!"

  "Killing an enemy soldier is not murder in wartime."

  The soldier who had been studying the corpse stormed over to the vampyr and dragged him out of the shadows, into the morning air. Fortunately for Hitori he was wearing a peaked cap, gloves and a heavy overcoat with the collar turned up, protecting him from the sunlight, for now. The furious soldier drew a .45 pistol and pressed the barrel against Hitori's forehead. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you, right here, right now. You said it yourself; our two countries are at war, so killing you wouldn't be murder."

  "I am attached to the Japanese consulate here on Oahu. I possess full diplomatic immunity," Hitori replied, staring into his captor's eye. "Shoot me and you will suffer the consequences. Now, take me to your leader."

  Maeda pulled on the Browning's trigger, firing swift, deadly bursts at the next wave of Zeros as they scudded low over the navy yard. Walton crouched on the left side of the machine gun, making sure the ammunition belt fed straight into the weapon, keeping it from jamming or misfiring. Try as Maeda might, he couldn't get a bead on the Japanese fighters. They were appearing out of the black fog created by burning ships and buildings, coming in low and fast, moving far quicker than he could react. "Dammit!" he snapped as half a dozen enemy planes shot past his position atop B Company's barracks. His training told him to aim ahead of the target, let them fly into his line of fire, but that was easier said than done with an enemy passing over your head at three hundred miles an hour.

  "We're nearly out of ammo," Walton shouted, struggling to be heard above the sound of exploding bombs and anti-aircraft barrages. He glanced around, but Maeda had exhausted all they had brought up in their rush to reach the roof. "I'll have to go back down and find some more."

  "Not yet," Maeda replied. "I still need you to feed the ammo belt."

  "Here they come again," Walton said, pointing to the east.

  Maeda swung the Browning around to face the approaching Zeros. So far they had been concentrating on other parts of Pearl, strafing the navy yards and approach roads. Now they were heading for the barracks blocks, and B Company's home was directly in their path. Walton scrambled to stay alongside the machine gun, his eyes fixed on the incoming fighters. There were three of them, all swooping at the two marines on the roof, guns blazing. "Pat, they're after us!"

  "I know," Maeda snarled. "Let's change their minds." He got his eyes down level with the Browning's sights and took aim just ahead of the Zeros. He sensed rather than saw the line of bullets stabbing into the far end of the barracks roof, each round throwing up dust and chunks of cement. Maeda closed his finger around the trigger, let out a breath and opened fire. The Browning spat high velocity death at the Japanese fighters, shooting round after round into their path.

  Everything around Maeda seemed to slow down, as if time was coming to a standstill on top of the barracks. Before the Zeros had passed in the blink of an eye, but n
ow it felt as if they were in slow motion. Maeda watched as the line of enemy bullets traced straight lines across the roof towards him and Walton. He saw the propeller on the enemy fighters turning in the air and the muzzle flashes of their machine guns. He felt every tiny movement of the Browning as it fired back at the Zeros, the jerk of the ammunition belt as it fed through the weapon and spilled out on to the cement opposite Walton. A dull pain stabbed into his right shoulder, as if someone had jabbed him with a stick, and he heard Walton cry out.

  Then the Zeros were ripping through the air overhead and spluttering away, their engines choking on the fumes clogging the sky. Maeda twisted around and saw black smoke billowing from the lead fighter, accompanied by orange tongues of flame and white sparks. "We got one!" Maeda shouted, his left fist clenched in triumph. "We got one of them!" He turned to Walton, eager to share the moment with his comrade. The young marine's face was ashen, and a stream of blood was pouring from his mouth. "Walton? You okay?"

  Walton fell forwards, pitching face-first into the cement. Maeda saw a handful of gaping holes in his comrade's back, tracing a line up Walton's spine. He pressed two fingers to the youth's throat in search of a pulse, but found nothing. Only then did Maeda realise how heavy his own right arm felt. He looked at it and was shocked to see gleaming white bone exposed where an enemy bullet had ripped through his uniform and buried itself in his body.

  Pain lanced through his arm and chest, and he was finding it hard to breathe. There was a trickle of blood on the front of his uniform, escaping a small hole over the right breast. Maeda stuck a finger in the hole and found a much bigger hole underneath the fabric, soft and wet and terrifying. He was gasping for air, unable to get enough into his lungs. It felt like when he was a boy and his father had taught him to swim. The first day Maeda had swallowed a mouthful of the sea and had to be pulled from the water, choking and coughing. He had learned his lesson, but now that drowning sensation was back.