American Blood: A Vampire's Story

by Gregory Holden

  “What do you want to know?”

  “To start with, what is she?”

  “She’s a woman.”

  Sergeant Bob spit on the cave’s floor. “A woman doesn’t jump seventy feet from a helicopter onto rocks and run bare foot six thousand feet down a mountain.”

  Ryan gave a tired shrug. “She has special abilities.”

  “I’ll say . . . so why did she go pay a visit to that dead Pashtun?” Sergeant Bob took off his gloves and tossed them on the floor in front of his feet. “The one without any hands and a big chunk bitten out of his neck.”

  “Bitten?”

  “Mister,” Squalls began, “her footprints led in and out of that spot.”

  “Does it really matter what she is?”

  “Yeah, it fucking matters.”

  Ryan took a long pull from his Gatorade and put the plastic bottle down. He rolled onto his back still panting. “She’s not human, not like us, anyway.”

  “Figured that much, but keep going.”

  “What were you told about her?”

  “Just that she’s some kind of hopped up assassin.”

  “That doesn’t do her justice.” Ryan grimaced as he struggled to sit up. “She’s really more of a highly evolved assassin.”

  “You’re not making any sense, Mister.”

  “Okay, Corporal Squalls, here’s a little quiz for you . . . sunlight will kill her and her diet consists mainly of a certain red liquid coursing through your veins. So what is she?”

  “No fucking way.”

  “Yep, she’s a one hundred percent, real life, blood-sucking vampire. And the US government has hired her to cleanup some unfinished business over here.”

  “So what else is on her diet?” Sergeant Bob asked.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “And it’s safe to be around her?”

  “Not always. Did she harm you?”

  “Not at all,” Sergeant Bob said. “In fact she’s been real nice.”

  “Don’t be fooled. Her behavior is all about one thing. Did she touch you?”

  “If you and her have something going—”

  “Did she touch you?”

  The sergeant nodded and let out a nervous cough. “Uh, yeah, she did.”

  He touched me first.

  Ryan chuckled to himself for a moment. “Well then, Sergeant Bob, you’ve probably been infected by specialized molecules secreted from her skin that target areas of your brain.”

  “Do I really want to hear this?”

  “Sure, I’m infected too. It’s her way of keeping tabs on us walking bags of blood for when she gets hungry. Relax, she’s not going to try and eat you or anything, well at least not while she’s over here, but you never know.”

  You enjoy yourself too much.

  Ryan caught himself shrugging.

  “This is serious shit . . . I knew that makeup job was too good,” Squalls said. “And the way she acted during the briefing was because it was daylight outside the bunker, right?”

  “All true,” Ryan said. “Now the only thing you two have to ask yourselves is whether you can still help her knowing what she is.”

  Sergeant Bob got up on his knees. “What do you think, Corporal? Does it matter to you that she’s not a regular all American gal?”

  “She still seems like a real nice lady.”

  “If she can take out the Amir after we’ve tried and come up empty for seven years . . . I don’t care what she is.”

  Ryan made a loud cracking laugh. “She’s not here to kill the Amir.”

  Sergeant Bob looked directly at Ryan. “Then why is she here? And why are we here?”

  “I don’t know what bullshit you were told, but what she’s really here for is America’s number one enemy.” Ryan looked at each man’s face in turn. “That is the mission, to kill the man who started this whole mess back home and over here.”

  Sergeant Bob stared at Ryan and opened both eyes wide. “That’s just . . . God damn! It’s insane.”

  “Well, that’s why the three of us are sitting in this cave right now,” Ryan said.

  Sergeant Bob glanced at his watch. “Okay, Ryan, your four minutes are up. Get your tracker going and let’s get a position on her.” Sergeant Bob finished off his second Gatorade. “My respects to the Amir, but this mission just became a lot more interesting.”

  After washing away the dirt from the mountainside, Calida followed Iffat through a maze of hallways to another room where dozens of women were beginning their evening prayers. Four large, hand woven rugs with intricate red and yellow symbols of their tribe, the tabar, covered the floor. Candles of all sizes in varying states of consumption provided the room’s light. Iffat immediately found a place near the front of the gathering, removed her sandals, and knelt down. Calida continued to the back of the room and found a space where she also joined in with the ongoing prayers.

  Calida sensed great fear from many of the women and yet there was also relief from others. As she reached outward, her immediate concern was finding Amina before any confusion resulted. As the prayers neared their end, she couldn’t narrow down where Amina was in the room. There were just too many minds to search and not enough time.

  The final verse was repeated by the worshippers and after a respectful silence a woman at the front of the prayer gathering in an immaculate, dark blue burqa with white and silver embroidery, rose to her feet. Calida caught a glimpse of her hand and noticed that her fingernails were painted dark red, which was a sign of her most favored position as a woman within the tribe.

  “Faithful women of our beloved tabar,” the woman began in a calm, strong voice. “I have spoken to you about our most beloved Sardar’s gift to the Amir.” She used her hands in exaggerated movements showing off her painted nails. “I was given the honor of choice for those to be presented, which is my right as first wife to the Sardar.” She then bowed to the other women. “It is time for the chosen to come before me.”

  “But why have you not chosen any of your own daughters?” a woman on the front row asked.

  “Yes, Zamda, you chose only the prettiest from outside of your khel.”

  “And so it is my misfortune not to bear daughters as beautiful as others,” Zamda said. “Yet your khel is also part of this tabar.

  “And yet your misfortune allows you to keep your only daughter,” a third woman shouted out.

  Zamda raised both her hands in the air. “Perhaps you would like to go before the Sardar and speak of this grievance.”

  “We love our daughters also, Zamda,” the first woman said. “We do not wish them to be taken away.”

  “It is a great honor to be chosen . . . to be placed in the service of the Amir.” Zamda stepped closer to the three women in the first row that had spoken. “Why have you forgotten that the Talibi have banned the beating of women? These are silly concerns and I shall listen to them no more.” She stood there for several moments, but the three women didn’t speak and she turned away. “I shall now call for the six . . . Kashmala, Pamir, Roshina, Amina, Ghazala, and Nafisa.”

  Several women began to cry as the chosen with their heads bowed walked from their places to the front of the room.”

  “But Nafisa is too young,” one of three woman pleaded.

  “Pamir and Roshina are my only daughters,” another cried out and then fainted.

  Calida silently watched as the six women stopped before the Sardar’s first wife who went to each one and revealed their faces.

  “Yes, such pretty daughters, the Amir shall have a hard time making his choices, but only Allah knows which three it shall be.” Zamda turned toward the others. “After the jirga the three who remain shall return without dishonor or shame.”

  Calida looked upon the face of Amina. Tears were in her eyes, but she stood braver than the rest.

  “Now all may come and wish them well.”

  The gathering of women pressed forward and many were crying. Several more fainted and were helped up
by others then led from the room. Calida moved into the center of the women and eventually found herself close to Amina who was being fussed over by her mother. Calida recognized Iffat drawing near.

  “Amina, I pray you come back to us,” Iffat said.

  Calida moved in behind Iffat.

  “I have accepted my fear,” Amina said. “Yet I only want my life to be here with my family.”

  “May the gift of the sandals bear you well,” Iffat said.

  “What sandals? I do not—”

  “Amina is very wise.” Calida said.

  Zamda turned and looked at Calida and Iffat. “Amina accepts the will of Allah. It is time to see the Sardar. You two shall walk with us to his audience.”

  Calida bowed and waited for the mothers of the six daughters to finish hugging and praying for their safe return. Zamda allowed this for a few minutes, but then she motioned for the women to stand back and let them pass. Calida fell into the rear with Iffat and they followed the six daughters outside where they quickly walked down the main road toward the largest building within the compound.

  Many armed men were outside the Sardar’s house and as they walked, even Zamda stayed close, respectfully bowing to any man who looked their way. They came to a large entrance in the brick fortified building and were allowed to pass inside by two men with heavy caliber rifles.

  The six daughters were taken to a large room with the strong scents of spice and cinnamon. Several brass fixtures hanging from the ceiling brightly illuminated the room. Unlike the women and children’s quarters, the Sardar’s residence had electricity powered by a large diesel generator at the rear of the building. The room had several low tables to one side with drinking cups and plates of dried fruits. A single hand-knotted wool rug of the finest artisanship dominated the space. Sitting with his legs folded before him on the large rug with three other men was the Sardar, the tabar chief, wearing a resplendent turban of black and silver. The nine women knelt down to show their submission before him with Zamda alone in front.

  Calida gently mind-locked with Husaam who sat at his father’s right. The reading of his thoughts was no longer needed. The joining of their minds was now about suggestion and control.

  “What has my first wife brought before me?” the Sardar asked. He was older than the other men; his beard longer and his voice commanded respect.

  “These are your six daughters to be presented before the Amir, my husband.”

  The Sardar placed his hands on his knees. “They are the prettiest of my daughters?”

  “Yes, my husband.”

  “Zamda,” and the Sardar coldly laughed, “if the Amir is not pleased, I shall not be pleased.”

  “The Amir shall be pleased, my beloved husband.”

  Husaam leaned close to the Sardar. “As I feared father. My sisters are soiled and dirty . . . why has my mother brought them before you in these shameful rags?” He then looked at his mother with obvious disgust. “They must be given new ones if we are not to insult the Amir.”

  “Yes, Husaam, they are not fit to be seen.” The Sardar smiled at the other two elderly men sitting to his right and picked up a thin wooden stick that lay next to him. He slowly stood up and looked directly at Zamda. “Why have you allowed my daughters to come before me like this?”

  Zamda cowered. “No, please, I asked them to wear their very best.”

  “They look of filth . . . they would dishonor even the cows in the field.” The Sardar calmly stepped over to Zamda and started beating her. The stick gave off a whipping sound with each stroke. “Perhaps you should take a place before the Amir?” And now each vicious swing was tied to a word. “You are fortunate that you are too old and ugly.”

  Zamda collapsed on her side and reached out with her hand to ward off the blows as the brutal beating continued.

  “Please . . . my husband . . . forgive me . . . I—I shall give them my very finest . . . forgive . . . .” Zamda’s voice was shrill with pain.

  “Then hurry to your quarters,” the Sardar said, and he ended the beating. “If we are not timely with the Amir, or if he is ill pleased for any reason, I shall beat you again when I return . . . now go.”

  Zamda struggled to her feet, her ragged breaths easily heard by everyone. She pulled in her arms to hide the painful cuts from the stick. “Yes, Sardar.”

  “And make sure you do not stain the fresh burqas with the blood on your hands,” the Sardar said. He gave Zamda a hard kick as she turned to flee.

  Calida stayed huddled down like the other women. To draw the Sardar’s attention for the slightest reason would be rewarded with a beating just as severe as that given to his wife. Calida knew all too well how these tribal men could treat their women. They hid behind the ancient code of Pashtunwali, which demanded the respect of a woman’s honor, but would ignore the code when a husband or other male family member physically abused a wife or sister. The Pashtun term for a man who does not publicly beat his wife is “a man with no penis.” Calida had witnessed long ago that for traditional Pashtuns the public beating of women by their husbands was a form of village entertainment. Zamda might be the Sardar’s first wife, but that didn’t exclude her from regular beatings at the hands of her husband.

  Husaam stood up. “My sisters must be taken to remove these rags,” he said and pointed at Calida. “You, take them behind the silken screens and await our mother’s return. There are men not of our tabar with us so do not allow their faces to be seen—they must not break purdah—or you shall also be punished.”

  “Yes, my brother,” Calida said, and she led the women to the back section of the room where silver and red silk panels hung from the ceiling all the way to the floor. Calida pushed a panel aside and allowed the women to pass within. When it came Iffat’s turn to pass behind the screen, Calida reached out and stopped her. “Go see that Zamda is not delayed or I fear we shall all be beaten.”

  Iffat hesitated for a moment, then backed away and deeply bowed to the men who watched her leave.

  Calida carefully closed the panel so there wasn’t a gap through which a man might peer in and see them. She turned to the six women. “Now off with your dirt . . . Pamir, you shall change first, then Ghazala and Nafisa. When you are ready you will go before the Sardar and take your place.” Calida nodded her head with great exaggeration. “If the Sardar is pleased, then Kashmala and Roshina must quickly follow. Amina, you shall go last and help me with the unclean burqas. We do not want to be beaten for leaving a mess in the Sardar’s chamber.”

  “But who are you?” Amina asked. “I do not know your voice.”

  “I am a woman of this tabar.”

  “Then you are nothing.”

  The small LCD screen of the tracker gave a directional heading and distance to the programmed sensor that had been surgically implanted in Calida’s right shoulder two days before they left for Afghanistan. The two original sensors had been removed as their power supplies were nearly spent.

  Ryan studied the screen for a moment. “She’s stationary right now . . . forty eight hundred meters south-southeast.”

  Sergeant Bob frowned. “Is she still alive?”

  “So now you’re worried?”

  “And so are you . . . you’d make a lousy poker player.”

  “And I’d bet you’d go all in on the first hand.”

  “For a civy you’re not too dumb, Ryan.”

  “What do we do?” Ryan asked. “Sit here and watch to see if and when she moves?”

  Sergeant Bob checked his watch. “Hmm, 2230 . . . let’s get back inside the cave. We’ll take another position check in fifteen minutes.”

  The two men went back through the narrow opening. Ryan sat down in the same place as before and put the tracker in standby to conserve power.

  “How do you communicate with her exactly?” Sergeant Bob asked, matter-of-factly.

  Ryan straightened his legs out and leaned back on an elbow. “I’m not supposed to tell you any of this but to Hell with it . . . you
’re out here risking your lives, too.” Ryan picked up his half-eaten ration and began to pick at it with the provided plastic spoon. “Our friendly neighborhood super vamp is telepathic . . . when she wants me to know something she tells me.”

  Sergeant Bob’s mouth opened. “Has she told you anything since she jumped?”

  Ryan cleared his throat. “She has.”

  Sergeant Bob shook his head and grunted. “Do you think you might let us in on these . . . uh, mission updates?”

  “If she says anything related to the mission I’ll let you know.”

  “Please do that.”

  “Hasn’t she been inside your head?”

  “How would I know?”

  “If she wants you to it will sound clear as day. If she’s just listening you wouldn’t know if she doesn’t want you to.”

  “Then I better be careful what I think about.”

  “Yeah? Good luck with that.” Ryan looked over at Squalls who appeared to be taking a nap. “Hey, Corporal, toss me another Gatorade.”

  Without opening his eyes Squalls reached into a crate he was lying against and came up with a blue Gatorade that he tossed to Ryan.

  “Don’t overexert yourself,” Ryan said, and twisted open the plastic bottle.

  A few peaceful moments passed and Sergeant Bob rolled forward on his knees and stood up. “Let’s get an update on her position,” he said, and went through the opening.

  Ryan took a final mouthful of the sweet liquid, followed him outside where he came up alongside Sergeant Bob, and pushed a switch on the tracking device. “Just needs a second to power out of standby.” A small green light came on and Ryan pointed the tracker’s small directional antenna to the south. “Hey, look here.” He tapped a finger on the screen. “She’s now sixty-six hundred meters distant almost due south.”

  “She’s on the move along the western side of the valley,” Sergeant Bob said. “Toward the south end it curves slightly to the east.” He glanced up at the night sky and its attendant starry companions. “There’s a MILSAT due over head in twenty minutes. Stay out here why I get the satellite phone. It’s time to send an update on our situation.”