“Good point, my Irish friend,” Dramos said, pushing the stopper back into the bottle. He felt the hate filled stares from the other table when he slid his chair back to stand. Grabbing the bottle by the neck, Dramos walked toward the door.
Patrick kept pace beside the gunslinger, his banjo slung over his shoulder. “We’re leavin’?” he asked under his breath.
“For what we’re gonna do, outside under the cover of darkness is preferable to a well-lit Saloon.”
4
Once outside, Dramos headed to a darkened alley to the left of the Saloon’s entrance.
“What now?” Patrick asked when they were safely concealed in the shadows.
“We wait,” Dramos replied, as he removed his boots. “But not for long, I think.”
Sensing Patrick’s expression at his actions, he added, “I prefer to feel the earth.”
Before Patrick could say anything else, the night echoed with Whitford’s booming voice. “I know you are out here somewhere,” he called out. “I can smell you.”
“That true?” Dramos asked, stepping barefoot into the street. Whitford’s men were spread out two to each side and a step behind him as they advanced. “Way I heard it told, vampires can’t smell anything, what with their own vile stench surrounding them.”
“Is that what that stink is?”
Dramos turned to see Patrick enter the street, his banjo slung before him as if he were about to break into a song. “I thought someone had gutted a mule three days back and left his rotting carcass out in the street.”
“For that, you get to die!” the vampire nearest Patrick yelled and bolted toward the Irishman.
Dramos watched as the vampire’s eyes went white with hatred and his lips curled back, revealing his elongated fangs. Patrick seemed unconcerned, almost bored, as he watched the creature race toward him. As the vampire neared, it leapt, arms outstretched. Patrick worked a lever behind the neck of the banjo a moment before a wooden stake extended from the end of the musical instrument.
The vampire saw it coming a millisecond before it impaled itself on the sharpened wood. It screeched loudly and died standing on its feet. Patrick worked the lever again and the stake withdrew, dropping the vampire’s corpse to the ground. “I’ll die someday tis true,” Patrick said, “but not tonight, and not by yer ungodly hands.”
The vampire advancement in the street stopped for a moment, as they watched the body of one of their own begin to smoke and turn to dust on the ground. “You know, Chet, I would have picked the little one as the weak link,” one of the men said.
“Me too, Johnny,” Chet said, as they began to spread farther out to either side, keeping their eyes on Dramos.
“The little one is the weak link,” Dramos said, smiling at them.
“That so?” Chet asked. “Then both of us best take you down first.”
Stretching his arms wide as if offering an embrace, Dramos tipped his head to look at the moon overhead. “Well come on, boys,” he said, forcing the energy within to come forth. “What are you waiting for?”
Patrick watched as the vampires Chet and Johnny rushed towards the barefoot gunslinger, while Dramos simply stood, his muscles flexing and contorting beneath his clothing. The buttons on his shirt popped off as his bulging chest burst through. The seam of his trousers split as his legs grew in muscle mass, while his feet stretched out, long nails growing from his toes. His fingers elongated too, and their nails turned black and extended two inches in length. The Gunslinger’s head seemed to almost bubble beneath his skin as it twisted, his jaw pushing forward several inches, teeth becoming fangs. His hat fell from his head as his forehead sloped back and his ears extended to points. Any visible flesh was quickly covered in a thick pelt of black hair. In mere seconds Patrick, watched the man he had only recently broken bread with became a Werewolf before his eyes.
Chet was the first to reach the werewolf. For his reward his head was torn from his neck as the werewolf Dramos roared in anger. The vampire’s black blood spewed forth from his neck as the body plummeted to the ground. With a quick pivot to his left, Dramos drove his claws into the vampire Johnny’s chest. Breaking through the ribs, Dramos pulled the creature’s blackened heart out into the night air and held it before the vampire’s dimming eyes as he squeezed it between his fingers.
Whitford’s last remaining man rushed at Dramos, its fangs bared. The werewolf turned back and sunk his massive teeth into the vampire’s throat, ripping out a large section of flesh as his left hand tore the head from the body. The taste of the black salty blood only served to enrage the Werewolf. Dramos turned his attention to Whitford.
The werewolf curled its lips back in blood-lust and growled at the elder vampire. Whitford, realizing he was suddenly without help, began to back away. Dramos squatted and pulled his body to center, preparing to lunge at the vampire Whitford.
“Wait!” Patrick yelled as he swung his banjo into place. The night air was instantly filled with a banjo opening to Amazing Grace. Patrick’s Irish brogue rang out pure and sweet with the lyrics glorifying the Lord above. Whitford stopped moving, his eyes widening in fear, moments before he crumbled to the ground.
The werewolf stood over the fallen body of Whitford, confused, its head tilted to one side. Dramos had questions. Knowing he couldn’t speak in his current condition, he pulled the energy back to his center. Patrick continued to sing as Dramos returned to his human form, his shredded clothing hanging in tatters from his body. Although Whitford seemed immobilized, his eyes burned with hatred. What had paralyzed the creature? The banjo? The song itself?
“Never seen that before,” Dramos said.
The music stopped. “I could say the same thing about ye,” Patrick said.
With the music gone, Dramos watched the vampire closely. “Is it going to move now?”
“Don’t be worryin’,” Patrick said. “The bastard can’t move for a good ten minutes yet. And before you ask: I don’t know why. I discovered this bit of magic quite by accident when I was outnumbered by demons four to one about a month after I’d began this journey. I was pretty sure the Lord ‘twas callin’ me home, so hedged me bet for heaven by singin’ to God’s Glory. Damned if all four of tha bastards didn’t go down just like him,” he said, pointing to Whitford. “I killed three of them and waited on the forth to begin to move again. That’s how I learned it to be about ten minutes. Even then, they come back slowly, like a drunken sailor waking up.”
Interested, Dramos asked, “So now what?”
“You wanted answers. I’m going to show you how to get them.” Patrick pointed toward the darkened Livery. “I got me cart and horse tied up behind the livery,” he said. “Why don’t you go get ‘em while I keep our friend here company? I say ten minutes, but it’s not an exact count.” He picked up his banjo and began again.
5
When Dramos returned with the cart, he loaded the immobilized carcass of the vampire Whitford onto the back. “I’ll ride alongside you,” he said, going to fetch the mare.
As they traveled west, Dramos asked, “Where are we headed?”
“A couple miles out of town,” Patrick said. “Someplace we won’t be heard or seen. In the meantime, how about telling me a little about yourself, about werewolves.”
“My entire family are lycanthropes.”
“Never heard the word.”
“Fancy word for werewolves.”
“Ye were born a werewolf?”
“Yes. There are other natural born families as well.”
“What about children?”
“If I coupled with a mortal female, the chances of the baby being lycanthropic is about fifty-fifty. If I had a sister and she mated with a mortal man, the baby would be lycanthropic without a doubt.”
“Do ye have to be born a werewolf?”
“No. You can be turned.”
“Have ya ever turned someone?”
“No. It is not a life I would wish on someone.”
“Do ya
also eat…”
“Human flesh? No. But changing does take more energy; it requires more sustenance.”
“What do you do, then?”
“Kill an animal and eat it,” Dramos said, flatly.
In the cart behind Patrick the vampire groaned and moved. Patrick grabbed his banjo and belted out a few verses of Onward Christian Soldiers and the creature went silent again.
About two miles out of town they stopped and unloaded the vampire. It was about as desolate a surrounding as Dramos had ever seen. Perfect for destroying a vampire. Following Patrick’s instructions, the gunslinger stripped the vampire naked, then staked him out spread- eagled on the ground. “Cover him completely with the blanket from the cart,” Patrick said in between verses of Amazing Grace.
When it was done and Whitford was completely under the blanket’s cover, Dramos looked at the Irishman. “Now what?”
“We wait for sunrise,” Patrick said. “Shouldn’t be long now. In the meantime, ye might be gettin’ yerself a change of clothing. Ifin’ ye have any in yer saddlebags.”
After changing out of his torn clothing Dramos scrounged up enough firewood to build a campfire. “Coffee?” he asked, removing his canteen and coffee from his saddle.
“If you still got that whiskey bottle, drop a wee bit in it as well,” Patrick said with a grin. “All this singing, I believe I be needin’ to wet me whistle.”
“A wonderful idea,” Dramos said. “I do believe I’ll join you.”
As they waited, Dramos removed his fixings and rolled a cigarette. “Do you not fear what I am?” he asked when he had fired his smoke.
“Don’t see why. Ya not be a soulless creature like him,” Patrick said, pointing to the figure under the blanket. “If ya were ya’d be paralyzed, too.”
“By the gospel songs?” Dramos asked. “How can you be so sure?”
“It’s the way the good Lord made you,” he explained. “Like some folks are white or black or Indian. Your folks were werewolves. Not that you couldn’t use your condition for evil, but ya don’t.”
“Lots have,” Dramos said, sadly.
“What happens to them?”
“If the pack learns of this behavior, it takes care of the problem.”
“You mean—”
“Coffee’s ready,” Dramos said, getting up.
Together they sat silently sipping their Whiskey laced coffee as the sun began to crack the horizon.
“What I’m going to show you,” Patrick began, “I’ve never shown anyone before. If I hadn’t seen what you are capable of earlier, I’d warn you this can get pretty gruesome.”
“I reckon I can handle it,” Dramos said with a grin.
Behind them, the vampire groaned as the effects of the gospel songs began to wear off.
“Wakin’ up now, are ye?” Patrick called out. “Don’t worry Yer head will be clear as day soon. And speakin’ of day, when was the last time you saw the sun? Tis a thing of beauty you creatures can’t appreciate.”
Turning his gaze back to Dramos, Patrick asked, “What is it you want to know?”
“I want to know where to find Durie.”
“You reckon he’ll know?”
“He’ll know. Durie is a changeling, a vampire king as old as eternity. There is no way he could not know.” Dramos splashed another shot of whiskey into their cups. “And you think you can make him tell us?”
Behind them the vampire groaned again.
“Whitford,” Patrick began, “hear me good now, demon. The sun is near up. You feel that warmth on the blanket covering ye? That’d be the sun. I wouldn’t move about too much, else the blanket might slip off, exposing ya to the sunlight. Wouldn’t want that would ye, vampire?”
Patrick finished off the whiskey laced coffee in his cup and looked at Dramos. “Ready?”
“I am.” The gunslinger tossed down the remainder in his cup and walked over to the blanket covered vampire.
“Now, demon, do ye hear me?” Patrick called out as he neared the blanket.
“I hear you, Irishman,” Whitford said. “Say your piece because these will be the last words you ever speak.”
“I’d be doubtin’ that, vampire,” Patrick said, squatting down on the ground. “I’d be wondering if you ever heard of a…” He looked at Dramos.
“Durie,” the gunslinger said. “Monsieur Pierre Durie.”
“You heard the man,” Patrick said. “Ever heard of him?”
“Never,” the vampire said under the blanket, but there was a trace of uneasiness in his voice. “And if I had, why should I tell you?”
“Ah, tis a pity. Ya are going to be difficult.” Patrick reached the corner of the blanket by the vampire’s left hand, felt about it a bit, and then peeled back the material, exposing the vampire’s pinky finger. When the sunlight hit the undead flesh, it exploded in a puff of smoke. The vampire screamed in pain.
“I’ll tear your throat out, Irishman!” Whitford yelled.
“No, I’m afraid that’s not gonna happen,” Patrick replied. “Ye’ll be telling me about Durie.”
“Never!”
Dramos watched as Patrick pushed the blanket up to the vampire’s wrist. The creature’s hand flashed bright white as smoke floated upward. Whitford screamed again, louder this time, as he thrashed about under the blanket.
“You see,” Patrick said to Dramos. “The sun burns ‘em up quick, but only the part exposed. His arm is intact under the blanket.” He pushed the blanket up to Whitford’s elbow, causing the lower arm to explode, and again up to the shoulder. Whitford’s screams intensified.
Dramos looked on in amazement. He knew the creatures exploded in sunlight but he’d never considered killing them one tiny piece at a time.
When the sounds under the blanket had softened to a whimper, Patrick began again. “Still no recollection on Durie?”
“You are going to regret this,” Whitford said.
“Let’s be gettin’ our facts straight here,” Patrick said. “Tis only the top of the mornin’. I’ve got all day to burn you up a wee bit at a time. You will cease to exist here today, but only after you’ve told us what we want to know.”
“If you are going to kill me anyway, why should I tell you anything?”
“Tis a good question. Here be yer answer: I can spend the next ten or eleven hours burning yer body one small bit at a time. Tis quite painful from what I gather. Or ye could spare yerself the pain, answer me question and I’ll show ya mercy and yank tha blanket off all at once, and end your sufferin’. Tis up to you.” Patrick reached down below and exposed one set of the vampire’s toes to the sun, burning them in an instant.
When Whitford had stopped screaming, he drew a breath and said, “So either way, I die. Even if I don’t answer you, you are going to kill me.”
“Oh no,” Patrick said. “You misunderstood me. I never said I was going to kill you. I said you would cease to exist.”
“There is a difference?”
“Oh without a doubt. Ya see there was this one of your kind, named Castor I believe. Strong willed vampire, he was.” Patrick paused, as if remembering. “He wouldn’t tell me what I wanted to know. I spent an entire day burnin’ him bit by bit. By the time dusk was approachin’, I knew it was pointless, so I dug a big hole in the ground, must have been five or six feet deep But it wasn’t all that long, because by that time I’d burnt Castor down to just his torso, no arms or legs, and no man-parts either. Twas maybe a wee bit over three feet, I’d guess. Now mind you, I’d only been burnin’ a few inches at a time, but like I said it took all day to get there.”
“So you killed him?”
“Are ye not listenin’? I dug a hole and tossed his torso in. Not much more than a three-and-a-half-foot worm he was by then. From what I understand, your kind can live for centuries without blood, but the hunger will drive you crazy after the first hundred or so. So before the sun went completely down, I carefully burnt his eyelids off. When it twas dark I rolled him in. Makin’ su
re he was face up, so I could see him as the sand fell into his eyes. Time I’d covered him over you couldn’t even hear his screams anymore. I camped beside that grave for two days, just to see if somehow he could wiggle his way out, ya see. But with nothing but a torso, head and neck, he didn’t have much to work with. I dug him up on the second night. He was willing to talk by then. Guess it was pretty bad, sand cuttin’ into his eyeballs and all.”
“Then you killed him?” Dramos asked.
“Oh no. He’d made me work so hard, I just kicked him back into the hole and buried him again. Reckon it will be a long time ‘fore someone finds him, being that we was in a desert, much like this one. No one has reason to dig in a place like that. I imagine he’d be there still, though I doubt I could ever find the exact location again.”
“Go to hell,” Whitford said under the blanket, but his voice was unsteady.
Dramos shot a glance at Patrick. He couldn’t tell if the man was bluffing or telling a true story, as horrific as it was. In spite of his hatred for vampires, he’d never considered something as extreme as immobilizing one and burying it alive to live for centuries in hunger and horror. If the story was true, the creature must be mad by now.
As if sensing his thoughts, Patrick said “From everything I’ve heard tell, the mind is the last thing to go with your kind. Guess Castor will live with his full knowledge a long time before his spark runs out.”
Either way, true or false, Dramos knew he’d never play poker with the Irishman.
Patrick moved to the vampire’s other side and sat down in the dirt next to his blanket covered foot. After a moment of fumbling through the material, he located the creature’s remaining foot and grabbed his big toe. Slowly peeling the material back, he sang, “This little piggy went to market…” Whitford’s toe exploded in white heat as his screams filled the air. Undaunted, Patrick continued singing and exposing the appropriate toe to the sunlight. “This little piggy stayed at home, this little piggy had roast beef, this little piggy had none.”
Morbid Metamorphosis Page 15
