by David Salkin
Forever
Hunger
D av i D M . S a l k i n
ISBN-13: 978-0984923113 ISBN-10: 098492311X Copyright © 2011 David M. Salkin All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
FroM tHe autHor As an author, your agent or publisher will tell you to “build your audience” and write stories in the same genre. This allows your readers to know what to expect when they see your name on the cover of a book. It makes sense, except for the fact that I like to write about a lot of different subjects—and aren’t I allowed to have fun, too?
This book was fun. It has evil in it. It has violence and gore and blood. It even has s-e-x in it. (Which is horrifying for a dad to think his children may one day read scenes like that, written by their father, and may be scarred for life.) It also has heart ache and love and a bit of my sense of humor.
I’ve never understood why the public loves to read the same storyline over and over. These “formula” type vampire romances have become soap operas, in my humble opinion, and yet are wildly popular. While I do think vampires and other creatures that go bump in the night are great characters for stories, I’d like to think that the stories can be more than the “same ol’ same ol’.”
This story begins long ago but quickly takes you to New York City and becomes a rather twisted crime thriller. It doesn’t fit into the typical vampire romance. It doesn’t fit into the typical crime thriller. It isn’t typical anything, really, from a publisher’s standpoint. (They don’t like that, either. They want a label for the genre!) We’ll just call this an urban fantasy vampire romance crime thriller. That should cover it.
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. DeDication Page As always, for Patty and my family.
There’s also a whole lot of other folks who I’d like to thank for any of the following—their friendship, their support, their inspiration, or the joy and fun they’ve brought into my life through their own talents. In no particular order…
The men and women who have served or are serving this great country all over the globe, especially the ones still recovering from their wounds. Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Hendrix, Boston, DMB, Hothouse Flowers, Rush, and brother Eric Salkin on sax. My friends in the Philip A. Reynolds Detachment of the Marine Corps League. The members of the Veteran’s Community Alliance. Warren Zevon, one of the coolest song writers and performers ever. The Sunrise Optimist Club and Camp Quality, bringing smiles to children. Penguin Books, Tom Colgan and Doug Whiteman for that very first break with Crescent Fire. The person who invented banana cream pie. My IJO friends. The other authors out there who are banging away on their keyboards, refusing to give up! Stacey, Missy, Jesse, Jake, Mike, Syd Suspicious and family. Did I already thank the inventor of banana cream pie? How about Natalie… she bakes a mean one.
Thank you to April at Graphicfantastic for the beautiful cover and assistance in this project.
One
VWX
The Beginning
Sometimes, when Adam would “sleep”, he would dream of the beginning—of life back in Prussia when his heart still beat with his own blood. His dreams always ended the same way
though, with the nightmare that was the Battle of Jena, on October 14th, 1806. Back in his human days, Adam Priest was still Olmer Bartha, a corporal in the Prussian Army that was fighting against Napoleon in what is today Germany. Olmer had fought in the army of Frederick Louis, a “General of Infantry” and the Prince of Hohenlohe-Ingelfingen. It was at the decisive Battle of Jena that Prince Hohenlohe led his force of 35,000 men against the Army of Napoleon, whose own troops numbered almost 100,000. Corporal Bartha, a lowly infantryman, had
• 7 • no way of knowing the forces they faced outnumbered them three to one, nor was he aware of the horrors that awaited him that day which would end his life, as he knew it, and begin the next.
By one in the afternoon of October 14th, the Prussian Army was shattered. While the French casualties numbered over 5,000, the Prussian Army death toll topped 25,000. As Corporal Bartha ran for his life with the remnants of his infantry regiment, the French Cavalry Commander Joachim-Napoléon Murat gave pursuit, slaughtering the fleeing Prussians by the thousands. The terrified young corporal had long ago dropped his musket and ran haphazardly with his panicked comrades as horses trampled through their defeated ranks, their merciless French riders swinging heavy sabers and lopping off heads and arms as they charged through the beaten infantrymen. Olmer took refuge in the woods, now buzzing with wounded and dying Prussians.
Olmer stumbled through the thick undergrowth, the long tails of his heavy green coat snagging vines and tree limbs as he fell and rose to run, over and over, crashing desperately through the thick forest. He was covered with cuts and scrapes from the branches and thorns. He ran until his lungs demanded that he walk, and then he walked for the remainder of the afternoon, until the pounding of cannons and long thunderous volleys of musketry faded away. As the sun disappeared from overhead, the air grew colder, and soon he could see his own breath. He was completely lost and without food—but he did have his canteen and was happy to still be alive.
The exhausted corporal sat against a huge tree and let his head fall back against the trunk of the ancient arbor. Pulling out his canteen, he gave it a little swish, remembering it was now only half full of water. He drank a few long sips and then carefully closed it. He took stock of what he had left on him: a heavy wool field blanket was still rolled and tied on his back. His long green coat was warm, with brown leather cartridge belts crisscrossed over his chest. His boots were knee high, under which he wore leggings and breeches which some weeks ago had been white. His knife was still in his belt, but that was his only weapon. He had lost his tall helmet, his musket and most of his ammunition, as well as his bayonet and his field pack. It had been a panicked retreat and was humiliating. With his head against the tree, completely exhausted, Olmer fell asleep.
Olmer awoke to the sounds of whispering in the dark. The woods, which under normal conditions would be devoid of human activity, were now home to small groups of terrified and wounded Prussians. Olmer heard his Prussian language being whispered and let out a slow sigh of relief. He carefully crawled on his hands and knees through the dark towards the sounds of footsteps and soldiers speaking in hushed voices. He moved cautiously, not daring to allow a branch to snap under him. When he was close enough to be sure it was the voices of other surviving Prussian soldiers, he called out quietly into the darkness.
“Hey! You! Out there! Corporal Bartha, second infantry regiment, B Company! Who is out there?”
The woods went quiet. He suddenly felt afraid, and knelt deeper into the underbrush. He could hear twigs snapping as people moved around ahead of him, and then on both sides of him. He dared not breathe, and didn’t move a muscle.
“You there!” called out a hoarse whisper in Prussian. “Where are you?”
“In front of you. Who is there?” he whispered back. It was so dark he could barely see his own hand in front of his face.
A branch crunched behind him and he spun around to find two men upon him. The one in front moved forward towards him quickly and grabbed his coat, until their faces were close enough to see each other. They each quickly looked at the uniform of the other to make sure they were both truly Prussian soldiers.
“Corporal,” acknowledged the man in front of him. Olmer looked at his arm. He wore the insignia of a sergeant. “You have water?”
Olmer pulled his shoulder strap over his head and handed it to the sergeant who took a long drink and handed it to the men behind Olmer. Olmer watched helplessly as the men behind him drank his canteen empty without ever asking him if it was okay or saving him a sip of the water he had carefully rationed.
“You have food?” asked the sergeant.
“No. Just the water. That was all of it.”
The man behind him pulled at his blanket and demanded that Olmer give it to him. The sergeant ordered him to give it up, explaining they had a wounded man that needed it. Olmer had no choice but to unfasten his bedroll and have it ripped from his hands.
“It’s cold. I need your coat,” said one of the men behind him. That was too much.
“I can’t give you my coat. I won’t be out of uniform! I retreated into the woods, but I’m no deserter!” said Olmer forcefully.
The sergeant showed him a knife. “That was an
order corporal. Give him your coat!”
Olmer was outraged, but was also outranked and outnumbered. He began to unbuckle the leather straps over his chest when something moved past them in the woods. He froze, as did his assailants.
“What was that?” whispered one of the men to the sergeant.
Whatever it was, it was moving quickly around them. Every time they thought they knew where it was, it moved again so quickly they found themselves spinning in circles.
“Wolf?” answered the sergeant, not knowing exactly what it was. He held his large knife out in front of him. His comrades pulled out their own bayonets and faced out from the center, trying to track the movements of whatever was circling them. Whatever it was, it was too fast to be human.
The sergeant pushed at his men. “Go on,” he whispered, pushing them towards the noise in the darkness.
The two men moved slowly forward, weapons drawn in front of them. Whatever it was, it had stopped moving. As the men moved forward, the sergeant moved slowly in behind them, and Olmer slowly and quietly moved away backwards. He slipped away from them in the darkness and stayed low, now unable to see them. He did hear the sound of something move through the branches and the screaming that ensued.
Two
VWX
Olmer had backed away slowly in the darkness, feeling his way among the large tree trunks as he moved carefully over the large tree roots that caught his boots. He was at the fringe of knowing approximately where the trio of troublemakers were when the screaming began. The wolf, or whatever that was in the darkness, had attacked. He had heard the sound of the branches snapping and the thud of bodies colliding. The loud wail of one of the men was followed by shouting, and then screaming. Olmer’s hair stood up on his arms as he heard the sounds of the three men being murdered. It was unlike anything he had ever heard.
In all the battles in which Olmer had participated, there had been
• 12 • horrible casualties. He had seen cannonballs remove limbs in front of him. He had seen men run through with bayonet and saber. He had seen hand to hand combat and the violence that goes with it. None of that was close to what he was hearing in the woods. Perhaps the darkness amplified his fear—perhaps it was not knowing exactly what was happening that was making it so much more terrifying, but the screaming of three men being torn to pieces was otherworldly. Olmer was sure Hell must sound exactly the same. The men who had taken his water and blanket were being torn to pieces by something that wasn’t human, thatwas for certain. He could hear the men, who had moments ago been so rough and threatening, now begging for their lives and screaming in horrible agony. Whatever it was that was killing them remained silent. Olmer felt himself begin to cry in fear, something he had never done before even in the worst of battle. He wrapped his arms around his knees, seated against a tree, and rocked back and forth trying to calm himself so whatever was out there wouldn’t hear him.
He was sure he heard a bone snap. It wasn’t a branch—he had been hearing that all night. This was much louder and sharper, and there was a dull grunt after the noise. He sat, frozen in fear, and listened as something began to slurp and munch on the three Prussian soldiers in the dark. He prayed that whatever it was, it would be full before it decided to eat number four. As Olmer rocked back and forth in tears, gripping his knees tightly, he could hear the sounds of teeth scraping across bone, a skull perhaps.
· · ·
Olmer had rocked himself to sleep eventually, his back still against that same mammoth tree. The sun breaking over the treetops sent rays of light filtering through the bare branches. As the forest came to life with the sound of birds, Olmer lifted his head off of his forearms and looked around. He was filthy, stiff, and very cold. He tried to remember where the attack had come from last night, playing back the event in his head as he scanned the forest. He listened for a long time before he dared move. There was no sound other than the birds. And he slowly stood and stretched his arms and legs. He traced his way back towards the location of the attack last night, moving quietly and slowly, lest that animal was still around. He came to the spot and froze.
Had the three men been standing together for a direct hit from a sixteen pounder, it might have explained what he was looking at. He stood, feeling numb, as he scanned the scene before him. What was left of the three men was torn to pieces and scattered all over the ground or strewn in the low tree branches. There were small pieces of flesh, hands, limbs, organs—they were everywhere. Olmer wretched, but had not eaten in almost two days, and nothing came up. He stood with his hands on his knees, dry heaving for a moment before starting to run away from the unbelievable carnage. He hadn’t gone far when he came upon another Prussian soldier lying on the ground nearby.
Olmer stopped and looked down at the body. The soldier’s uniform was filthy and covered in blood, but he was “whole” at least. The young man was lying in the fetal position, like he was serenely napping, and Olmer knelt beside him. Perhaps he had died peacefully? His tunic was slick with blood. Olmer reached for the man’s neck to check for a pulse, but the man’s eye’s opened quickly and his hand shot out and grabbed Olmer by the wrist. Olmer jumped and let out a quick shout, but then smiled down at the man.
“My God! I thought you were dead!”
The young soldier smiled slowly, even his face had blood all over it. “Yes, so did I,” he said softly, a strange smile on his face.
“Were you here all night? Did you hear that attack?” asked Olmer, so
relieved to find another living soul that he wanted to hug the stranger. “I’m not sure. I fled to the woods when the French cavalry attacked.
Most of my company was killed before making it here. After dark, I
wandered for a bit and got lost, so I just stopped where I was and fell
asleep. And you?” He sat up and faced Olmer, who was staring at the
man’s uniform.
Olmer was still looking at the man’s tunic when he said quietly, “It
was awful. I think the French butchers killed almost all of us. There
were so many of them. Our lines broke. Their cavalry charged through
us and never stopped. My friend…” he stopped speaking and his eyes
welled up.
The man tried to stand, but settled back to the ground, wounded.
“Yes,” he said. “There was so much blood.” He had a strange expression.
Not a true smile—but certainly not Olmer’s look of dread and shock. “You are wounded?” asked Olmer, again looking at the blood soaked
uniform.
The man raised his eyebrows and looked at his own torso, which
was leaking blood into his clothing. “I think I am?” he said, in almost
a question. “Impossible…” he said, his voice trailing off.
Olmer smiled. “Not so impossible. Be glad you are alive. Let me
have a look,” he said
as he reached for the man’s uniform. The man again grabbed his wrist. “Impossible.” He said again, this
time his face showing anger.
Olmer slowly withdrew his hand and sat back, slightly unnerved.
“You might be injured. You should let me have a look. We need to stop
the bleeding.”
The man looked at Olmer and began laughing—a long howling laugh that turned into an earsplitting noise that sounded like the death throes of the men last night. Olmer’s hair stood up and his eyes opened
wide.
“I don’t bleed! I don’t die! I am dead!” howled the man, this time
grabbing Olmer’s wrists and pulling him closer. The man’s face was
glowing red as if with fever. His eyes looked wild, their blue color
almost silver against the whites. “I can’t die!” he said again, this time
almost speaking to himself, but not letting go of Olmer, who winced
in pain. The man’s grip was so strong…
“You’re hurting me,” he grimaced. “You are with fever—relax and
let me look at your wound…”
The man squeezed harder and bent one of Olmer’s wrists, causing
him to fall over on his side, and the man moved quickly on top of him,
straddling his stomach with his strong legs. The wild-eyed Prussian
looked around them. They were alone, except for the remnants of the
three men in the trees.
He leaned closer to Olmer’s face.
“You can’t kill what is dead!” he hissed. He ripped open his blood
soaked tunic and looked down at his own chest and abdomen. He had
several very large holes in his body, made by many French musket balls.
Mortal wounds to be sure—they appeared to go directly through his
heart. They bled only slightly. “What is happening to me?” he asked
