Brilliant strategic move. What a fucking joke. Ion wondered if Napoleon said the same thing just before his invasion of Russia. He saw firsthand how that turned out.
The masters chose as the site of their efforts a small village fifty kilometers east of Kiev. They swept down upon a kolkhoz one night in June 1932 and began their takeover. Surreptitiously at first, each night turning ten residents into vampires and keeping them hidden away so as not to arouse suspicion. In two weeks, when they had more than a hundred vampires at their command, they descended upon the kolkhoz in full force, completely taking it over. Those who refused to serve as familiars and keep watch over their masters by day were made part of their legion of the undead. The complete takeover of the kolkhoz took less than forty-eight hours. Within another week, five of the surrounding villages were also brought under the vampires’ control. Other masters were sired from among the more compliant locals, and these new masters set off to bring more of Ukraine under the vampires’ dominion. Within a month, conditions would be ideal to move against the primary target – the Ukrainian capital of Kiev. Victory seemed within their grasp. They had taken everything into account, except for the brutality of their human enemy.
Or more precisely, the brutality of one man. Joseph Stalin.
Ion and the others knew full well that, once the humans understood what was happening, they would encounter fierce resistance. By that time, they had hoped to have established a firm foothold in Ukraine from which they could not be dislodged. To root out the vampires would require destroying everything around them, a scorched earth policy no one thought the humans were capable of.
Ion and the others had grossly underestimated Stalin.
Stalin had refused to allow any threat to his authority, and the fact that the threat came from the undead made no difference. Once word of the vampires’ plans reached Moscow, he ordered the entire Ukraine immediately cut off from the rest of the world. As a Communist who denied the existence of God, and as such the dichotomy between good and evil, he could not publicly reveal the true nature of the threat. Instead, he concocted a story about having to stop the Ukrainian peasants from hoarding grain and ruining the push for nation-wide collectivization. Stalin’s plan was genius in its simplicity. Remove all the grain from Ukraine and starve the peasants, and ultimately deprive the vampires of food and starve them.
NKVD troops, the regime’s secret police, roamed from village to village searching for vampires. If found, they were immediately destroyed. The NKVD shipped off to gulags anyone even remotely suspected of serving as a familiar, where fates awaited them far worse than anything the masters could have dreamed up. They even slaughtered livestock to prevent the vampires from feeding off of them. Once a village was secure, the NKVD left troops behind to ensure the threat would not resurface, and then moved on to the next village. Within two months, the vampire nation crumbled. Most of the vampires and more than half the masters had been killed. The survivors fled east, reduced to scavenging for what little food they could find while trying to outrun the NKVD.
Being human, the Soviets could move by day, and used vehicles that could outpace the vampires. One by one, most of the masters were tracked down and eliminated until only Ion and Antoinette remained. He feared their turn had now come. For the past three days, they had kept ahead of one NKVD unit of three hundred soldiers equipped with a T-34 tank. Just before sunrise, the NKVD had entered the town he and Antoinette had been holed up in. The two barely escaped and made it as far as this warehouse before they were forced to take cover from the morning sun. A local peasant had spotted them and made his way back to the village. Ion knew it would not be long before the Soviets closed in for the kill.
As if on cue, a squad of NKVD troops appeared on the horizon in a line abreast, heading directly for the warehouse.
“Ion!” Antoinette called out from the opposite side of the warehouse. “The Russians are approaching. There’s about a hundred of them. And they have a tank.”
Ion abandoned his position and went to her. Poor Antoinette. She was to have been his queen. Now they would merely share a common grave. He knelt beside her and took her hand. She gestured out the window.
The troops were about fifty yards away. As he and Antoinette watched, a small squad of ten soldiers broke off and dashed toward the rear door of the warehouse. One of them carried a flamethrower. The remaining soldiers took up firing position.
“There’s another squad approaching from the back,” he said. “And I’ll bet they have troops on each side.”
“Then this is the end, isn’t it?”
Ion nodded.
“What are we going to do?”
“Take as many of the humans down with us as we can. Come on.”
The two masters maneuvered to the edge of the loft overlooking the rear door and hid behind bales of hay. They did not have long to wait.
The squad of NKVD troops rushed into the warehouse and formed a semi-circle around the door to prevent anything from escaping. Their attention was drawn inside the building, scanning it for vampires. No one bothered to look up. Ion and Antoinette morphed into their vampiric forms and dove off the loft, landing directly among them. The humans spun around to face the threat. The closest four troops died in seconds, their throats ripped out. Blood spurted from their wounds, splattering their comrades. The quickness and severity of the attack produced the desired affect as panic spread through the remainder of the squad. They fired wildly, trying to kill the vampires, but only succeeded in gunning down two of their own number.
Ion lunged at the soldier at the far end of the line, the one carrying the flamethrower. He clasped a taloned hand over the soldier’s face and ripped it off, clutching the bloody skin in his hands. The soldier fell to the dirt, his terrified screams emanating from his gore-covered skull. His finger tightened around the dispenser’s trigger. Ion dove to the right and rolled to safety as flames shot out from the nozzle. Liquid fire engulfed the front wall and two escaping squad members. Their anguished howls could be heard over the melee. One soldier fell to the dirt, thrashing around for several seconds before his body went still, his corpse crackling and popping. The other ran outside, flames licking off him like he was a demon. He made it only a few meters before a comrade fired a burst from a submachinegun into his chest, mercifully putting the soldier out of his misery.
Antoinette attacked the final soldier. He flung aside his weapon and attempted to flee. Antoinette pounced on his back, dragging him to the dirt.
“Nyet! Nyet!” Tears poured down his cheeks.
Antoinette ignored his pleas and plunged her fangs into the back of his neck, savoring her last meal.
From outside, someone bellowed a command. A volley of gunfire erupted. Bullets tore through the warehouse. A second later, the T-34 fired. The round punched its way through the wood and rocketed out the other side of the warehouse. Humans must be using armor-piercing rounds, thought Ion. A small break for them, though it only delayed the inevitable.
“Get back upstairs,” ordered Ion.
Antoinette looked up from her feasting, her mouth covered in blood. Springing from the dying soldier, she ran over to the ladder and climbed out of harm’s way. Ion followed, but by now the hail of gunfire was steady and intense. Three rounds slammed into his chest as he crossed the warehouse. Each one knocked him off balance as they tore through flesh and punctured organs. Although the pain was unbearable, none of the wounds were fatal.
Once in the loft, he made his way back to the window. Antoinette already peered out, trying to gauge the humans’ next move. Flames crawled up the wall and licked at the corners of the loft. As Ion joined her, the T-34 lumbered forward, slowly heading toward the warehouse. Its commander dropped down into the turret, closing the hatch behind him.
“I have an idea,” he said.
“What is it?”
“No time. Just follow me and do what I tell you.”
Ion led Antoinette away from their position above the rear door to
a safer location off to the side just as the loft ignited behind them. Several seconds later, the tank’s engine revved. It crashed through the rear wall of the warehouse and pushed its way into the building. The section of loft where the two masters had stood a moment before collapsed, covering the tank in flaming wood. Its turret machinegun sprayed the ground floor, chewing up everything in its path. The tank backed up a few meters, allowing the section of loft to collapse completely. It then shifted into forward and pushed through into the warehouse.
Ion raced forward, dove off the loft, and landed on top of the tank’s turret. Antoinette joined him. From inside the tank, panicky voices yelled commands. The tank lurched to the right, its driver looking for an escape route. Ion did not have much time. He grabbed the handle to the turret hatch, but it was secured from the inside. He pulled on the handle with both hands. The muscles in his arms strained until he thought he would tear his arms out of their sockets. Finally, the metal screeched in protest and the hatch gave way. It popped open, knocking Ion backwards. Which was fortunate, because a hail of bullets from a revolver shot through the open hatch.
When the gunfire stopped, Ion reached in and grabbed the commander by the head. Digging his taloned fingers into the human’s eyes, Ion pulled him out of the tank. The commander clutched Ion’s arm, kicking and screaming. Once out of the tank, Ion flung the commander onto the dirt below. He rolled onto his knees, howling and cupping his face, blood streaming between his fingers. A section of the flaming loft broke free from the wall and toppled over, crushing him.
Antoinette slid through the open hatch into the tank. The gunner and loader were both reaching for their sidearms, but in the strict confines of the turret could not get to them in time. She grabbed the loader on both sides of his head and twisted. A loud crunch filled the interior as his head was turned around one hundred and eighty degrees. With her foot, Antoinette kicked out at the gunner, driving his head into the side of the turret with such force that it burst against the metal, showering the interior with blood and brain matter.
Ion jumped in and closed the hatch. The tank crashed into the loft and lurched to a halt. The driver attempted to escape. Antoinette dropped down into the gunner’s position, grabbed him by the back of the head, and yanked it back so he was forced to look up into her face. The smell of shit wafted up from his position. She leaned closer to him, her face inches from his, and bared her gore-covered fangs.
“Drive us to safety, or I promise you’ll live just long enough to regret it. Understand?”
The driver nodded furiously. Sliding back into his seat, he shifted into gear, revved the engine, and continued plowing through the warehouse until the tank burst through the side wall. A cheer went up from amongst the NKVD troops. Ion looked out of the commander’s view ports. A line of soldiers stood directly in front of the tank, waving for it to stop. When the tank continued across the open field, the troops suddenly realized what must have happened. They all dropped to their knees and raised their weapons. Dozens of weapons fired at the tank, pinging harmlessly against the hull.
The driver looked up at Antoinette. “They’re blocking my path.”
“I don’t care.”
“B-but, they’re my comrades.”
“DRIVE!” she howled.
The driver accelerated. The tank lurched forward, heading directly for the soldiers. Ion grabbed the turret machinegun controls and fired, sending a stream of bullets across the line of men. Most broke and ran. Several took rounds to their guts, dropping to the ground and rolling around in agony. Unable to get out of the way, they were crushed underneath the tank’s treads as it rolled over them. Ion could hear their screams even over the roar of the engine and the cascade of bullets against the hull.
Ion looked around for the turret control. When he found it, he rotated the turret to the right and looked through the view scope. The NKVD squad was chasing them, firing their weapons or throwing hand grenades that fell short. Fortunately, none of them carried rocket launchers. Even more fortuitous, Ion did not see any vehicles in the area, the troops apparently having walked here from the village. That tactical mistake gave him and Antoinette a chance.
When the turret completed a full traverse, Ion stopped it. A copse of trees sat on the horizon, probably twenty or so kilometers distance. They looked thick enough so that the sunlight could not penetrate to the ground. It would be far from an ideal place to hide, but it would give them a head start on the NKVD and a chance to get away. Which was a lot more than they had ten minutes ago.
“We’ve lost them.” Ion leaned down to talk to the driver. “Head for that forest straight ahead.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
Antoinette turned to look up at Ion. “Shouldn’t we head for the road and try to put some distance between us?”
“They’ll have aircraft and motorized vehicles looking for us within the hour. If we get caught in the open, we’re goners. Our best chance is to make it to the forest and try to escape from there.”
Antoinette nodded her understanding. She gazed down at the driver, back up at Ion, and mouthed the words, “What about him?”
Ion placed his forefinger against one side of his throat and slowly drew it across to the other side. Antoinette licked her lips in anticipation. When she turned her attention back to the driver, Ion peered again out the rear view port. By now the NKVD troops had fallen so far behind they had given up the chase.
He and Antoinette might just make it out of this after all.
3.
DRAKE ENJOYED HIS MID-MORNING commute to work. With an insulated mug of iced coffee in one hand and a Macanudo cigar in the other, he strolled down Pennsylvania Avenue, a slight limp in his step. He turned right onto 13th Street, basking in the bustle of downtown Washington. Unlike most Washingtonians, he delighted in the throngs of pedestrians and traffic-clogged streets. Even the noises that became sources of aggravation for others were a symphony to Drake’s ears. The grinding and growling of large vehicles as they downshifted through the congestion. The blaring of car horns. The clackity-clack of skateboards and rollerblades. The crying of babies and the whining of tired children. The chatter of a thousand conversations. The yelling of cell phone users trying to be heard. Drake thrived on it because it signified life.
In a few hours, when the traffic cleared out and the throngs had returned to their homes or hotels, a quiet would descend over Washington.
Then the city belonged to the vampires.
Drake finally arrived at his office in a three-story Victorian-house-turned-office-building near Franklin Park. A nondescript building, its exterior architecture blended with the surrounding structures. Even the black stenciling on the glass panel on the front door that read DRAKE MATTHEWS, CONSULTANT vastly downplayed its significance. From the outside, no one would know that the Bastion, as they called it, contained some of the most up-to-date and unique security features outside of the federal government, ranging from the heat and motion detectors to a sprinkler system fed by holy water.
Drake climbed the stairs to the second-floor entrance and stepped inside the small foyer. Placing the cigar between his teeth, he punched the entry code into the keypad by the door and, upon hearing the electronic buzz signifying that the door had been unlocked, pushed it open and stepped inside.
Alison sat at her desk in the reception room. He immediately noticed that she wore a sheer white silk blouse, tan skirt, and matching high heels, a far cry from the black leather outfit she wore while hunting. The colors accented her brown eyes and hair. She chatted with a young man seated on the sofa opposite her desk, her disarming kindness and gentle smile putting the kid at ease. If only Drake was not ten years Alison’s senior as well as her boss.
Alison’s conversation partner seemed out of his element, looking as if he would be more comfortable at a science fiction convention. Barely out of high school, the kid still had a lean, lanky figure and an unblemished face accented by short blonde hair gelled into tiny spikes. He wore a teenager�
�s version of proper business attire—red sports shirt, clean blue jeans, and black sneakers. Yet Drake immediately noticed the strength of character in the kid’s blue eyes and demeanor. Despite the uncertainty of the situation, the kid did not seem to be intimidated.
Upon seeing Drake, Alison’s grin broadened. “Good morning, Boss.”
“Morning. What’s up?”
“Not much. We had a message from the repair shop. The Ram will be ready in three days. And the owner sends his thanks.”
“Why?”
“He said that at this rate he’ll be able to put his daughter through college by the spring.”
“Everyone’s a comedian.”
As Drake crossed the reception room, Alison noticed his limp. Her light-hearted manner suddenly grew serious. “What’s wrong with your leg?”
“Nothing. Just sore from being banged around the other night.”
“Maybe you should go to the hospital and get it looked at.”
Drake shook his head. “No way. You know how I feel about hospitals. They’re death’s waiting room. Nothing will get me in one.”
Drake took a drag on his cigar.
Alison sighed in exasperation. “You know, those things will kill you.”
Drake blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “There are some things worse than death.”
“Speaking of which, Smith is waiting for you,” said Alison in a lowered voice.
Smith was the name, assumedly a pseudonym, for the front man of their anonymous benefactor. His presence usually boded ill.
Drake stepped into his office, a large spartanly-furnished room in the back of the house. An oak desk with a leather executive chair dominated the room, with two leather armchairs facing it. A dark brown cloth sofa with an accompanying floor lamp sat in the far corner. Above the sofa hung a painting of Max Schreck as Nosferatu, the only accoutrement that even hinted at their true profession.
The Vampire Hunters: Book I of The Vampire Hunters Trilogy Page 5
