by Grey Durose
George began to study the ordering of the books, they became fresher to the left and further up the stack. George grabbed the top left book and opened it up. The organisation had spread its wings across the modern globe, he needed this information. George pulled out his dagger and cut each of the twelve pages from their bindings and lifted his robe to tuck them in under his shirt, he'd need to study them in more detail later.
He left the cavern and made his way back toward the exit. Up ahead was the other passage, where the chanting had been coming from, but now it had given way to a single voice, the same voice which had been talking to him in the ruined ziggurat. He couldn't resist, he needed to know more about this organisation and, if he had to deal with them, there was no time like the present.
This passage also spiralled downwards, to a depth of perhaps fifteen yards before he found himself at another curtained doorway. Beyond the curtain he could hear the voice, much clearer now and it was speaking in an antiquated form of Farsi. A man's voice, it ebbed and flowed allowing time for his audience to show their appreciation for what he had to say. From the lack of strong light escaping through the curtain, George deduced that the cavern beyond was only dimly lit. He readied his weapons, secreting them behind the long sleeves of the robe, then slowly moved to one side of the curtain, just enough so he could see who was there and what they were up to.
Beyond the curtain was another cavern, perhaps four times the size of the first and cut from the stone with more care and reverence. The roof of the cavern was supported by natural pillars of stone which had been preserved in the original excavation. The walls were draped in silks of red and purple and the room was lit by ornate braziers set on tall iron stands. In the middle of the room were eleven prostrate figures draped in robes identical to the one he wore. On a raised stone platform stood another figure in a purple, silken hooded-robe which was intricately decorated with writhing patterns of gold, silk thread depicting animal forms which all blended in to one elaborate mass. The figure on the platform was the one speaking and his voice boomed out across the cavern and was echoed back in agreement by the stone walls.
George listened for a while, picking out words and sentences he understood, the figure was clearly the leader of their cult and he was giving them instructions. Messages were to be carried to the other branches of the cult, something about a great reunion or joining, the meaning of some of the words was unclear. The leader proclaimed that they had nearly reached the day they'd been waiting for, despite a recent betrayal.
George noticed that the silk draperies came right up to the edge of the passageway and the overarching curvature of the walls, meant that he could slip behind the silks and make his way around the cavern without being observed. He shuffled sideways around the cavern, edging closer to the speaker, until he was only about twenty feet away and he could observe the scene through a slit.
The leader of the cult stopped talking and walked over to the back of the platform, where there was a rectangular object draped in dark cloth. He grabbed one corner and pulled away the coverings, sending them billowing across his stage; for a moment he reminded George of a magician he'd once seen in Vegas. The object below the cloth was a low, solid-looking cage of forged bronze bars. Inside the cage was a terrified man, cowering in one of the corners, curled up in a ball and clutching his naked shins. The leader opened the cage lid and fixed the man with his gaze, he commanded him to come out and - to George's surprise - the terrified man did as he was told without resistance. It seemed as if the man's fear had melted away in an instant. The man clambered out of the cage and stood before the leader, who led him to the front of the dais. The two of them stood before the cultists, who had now risen to a seated position to watch, their eyes fixed. The leader stepped closer to the man, grasped him by both shoulders and whispered something to him. The man fell limp in the leader's hands as he towered over him. He grabbed his hair and forcefully pulled back the man's head, exposing his throat. The leader raised up his own head and opened his mouth wide, his hood fell back a little exposing the lower half of his face; what momentarily appeared to be normal teeth were transformed into long, sharp fangs.
Before George could react, the leader lunged his fangs towards the waiting neck of his victim and bit deeply in to his flesh, sending a stream of crimson cascading down his chest as the leader drank.
'Vampire!' The word had left George's lips involuntarily. The sound of his own voice echoed back at him, mocking his lack of control.
The leader abandoned his meal and swung around to look in George's direction. George wasted no time, he brought up the hand holding the pistol and levelled it with the head of the leader. Not a word was spoken before he pulled the trigger, sending a bullet with deadly accuracy toward the leader's head. The bullet whistled through the air on its short journey and reached its target before he could react. It struck the leader squarely in the middle of his forehead, leaving a round entry wound, then exploded out of the back of his head, taking a flare of bloody spray with it. The leader was knocked back on his heels; for a moment his victim was freed from his influence and began screaming, muffled by the gurgling blood in his throat. The victim fell to the ground, bleeding heavily but the leader stood there, the shock of the impact melted from his face and was replaced by a look of smug disdain.
George looked on in horror as the entry wound on the vampire's forehead filled with blood and closed, as if he'd never been shot at all. The leader looked to the cultists gathered in front of him and swept his arm towards George. They broke free of their moment of stunned silence and leapt to their feet.
George decided that any shots at the leader would be a waste of ammunition and instead turned the gun on the followers, hoping they didn't share their leader’s powers. The next shot was aimed at the closest of the eleven cultists, George didn't have time to aim properly but the bullet hit its target in the left shoulder, below the collarbone, knocking the cultist off balance and sending him spinning to the floor. The rest of the cultists decided to rush him but they bunched up in a group in front of George, one in front of another.
George aimed up at the closest cultist, a big man with wild black hair and a pockmarked face, he shot him through the throat, the soft tissue was not enough to stop the progress of a large calibre bullet at this range and it tumbled onwards, its path deflected in to the chest of the slender, blue eyed man behind. Both stumbled forwards on to the cavern floor and the others piled in to their backs as they fell, tripping and bumping in to one another. Only one of them had the balance to stay on his feet, a stocky looking man with olive skin and dirty blond hair framing his square face. A bullet to his heart stopped him dead in his tracks and he fell back with a howl which ended the moment his head hit the ground.
There were seven men left, aside from the leader, and George's revolver had seven chambers, but only three were now full. Before the men could recover to their feet George picked out the three biggest and finished them off with carefully picked shots to the head. He threw the revolver at a fourth man, striking him in the face, there was a crack as the butt of the handle struck him on the nose, a gush of red spread out from his nostrils covering his mouth and chin.
George revealed his dagger and moved forward to avoid becoming entangled with the silks. He met the first cultist as he was rising to his feet; he was a small man with shiny black curls and a thin beard. He swung the blade at him, the cultist pulled back his upper body and arched his back but the dagger drew George's arm forward, following its victim's motion and pulling George’s hand upward and across the throat, sending him to the floor in a scarlet spray.
George kicked out at another cultist as he rose from the floor and sent him tumbling again; then set his gaze on the next target. This cultist was more cautious, he stood feet spread to preserve balance and kept a respectable distance. The other cultist was on his feet too and tracking round to George's left. George lunged at the fat man in front; he took evasive action, trying to get out of the way of the b
lade swiftly heading toward his abdomen. The knife followed him and in his panic he grasped the dagger by the blade. Two of his fingers dropped to the ground and he let out a scream as the blood began to pour from his left hand. He released the blade and it drove on and in to his bulging stomach, through the flimsy silks of his robe. George kicked him away as he withdrew the dagger and flicked away the excess of blood from his hand.
The cultist to the left had been shocked by what he'd just seen the blade do, but quickly realised he'd have to take advantage of being on George's off side before he could turn. He leapt at George, tackling him around the arms, entangling him and knocking him off balance. They both fell sprawling to the floor, with George underneath the cultist. The impact on the ground broke George free of the cultist's grasp and his opponent fell away behind him. He rolled back towards him, swinging his arm around in a stabbing motion, his blade sinking between the cultists ribs, the volcanic glass of the blade grinding as it sheared through the bone and muscle and in to his chest cavity. George tugged on the handle of the blade but this time it came slowly from its resting place, held up by the friction with the bones.
While George was doing this, the cultist he'd kicked to the floor got back to his feet for the second time. George just managed to pull the dagger out as a sandaled foot struck him on the jaw, forcing a row of teeth in to the inside of his cheek. As if that wasn't painful enough, the lock pick in that side of his mouth came clean through his cheek to the left of his mouth. George winced as he rolled back across the floor, a roar of fury came from behind him as the cultist bore down on his position, with murderous intent. George had his back to his assailant and used this to gain some surprise, he whipped around to face him and plunged his blade into the last cultist's groin, releasing a torrent of blood which went racing down his legs and spilling on to the floor as the blade sliced through an artery. He withdrew the dagger and left his victim to bleed out in peace.
George lay for a moment, his heart and lungs were working at near full capacity but his face had been numbed by the adrenaline of the moment. He heard the sound of clapping hands, it was the leader of the cult, he'd been standing on the platform watching the fight unfold and had a somewhat gleeful look in his eyes at the sight of all the carnage. His hood was fully down now, revealing a heavy black brow and green eyes that caught the light from the braziers. Locks of silky black hair dropped over his wide shoulders and his mouth formed a flat-lipped smile. 'Impressive! It seems I underestimated you.' he laughed, as he stepped down from the dais and made his way toward George. 'You may have killed my followers but, I can assure you, I won't be so easy to overcome!' he boasted.
'You're my first vampire. I thought you were just folk tales or the product of over-active imaginations.' George remarked. He both loathed and loved a new kind of opponent in equal measure.
'Ha! You think I'm a vampire? I'm far more than that, I am a piece of the greatest puzzle and soon that puzzle will start to fall in to place again.' It revelled in the sound of its own voice, it didn't even seem to notice its fallen followers or the naked man on the dais who now lay face down and still.
The vampire circled George and George followed him, until he had his back to the platform and his feet were clear of the pile of fallen cultists.
'So, are we going to keep circling around each other until I die of old age or are you going to show me how powerful you are?' George hated listening to villainous monologues and seldom allowed his enemies the opportunity to speak.
'The impatience of mortality. I've never experienced that myself but quite understandable, I suppose.' The vampire struck suddenly, leaping through the air towards George, his arms spread wide as if in flight, the sleeves of his robe trailing behind his arms like wings. It landed heavily with both hands grasping George's shoulders and pressing down. The vampire was incredibly heavy for its size and George had no option but to fall backwards, bringing up his dagger as he did. The blade slashed the front of the vampire's ornate robes but George felt no pull toward any part of his foe. The blade didn't know how to kill it; like him, it had no knowledge this creature. He was on his own this time.
As he fell, he broke free of the hold on his shoulders but the vampire fell with George, landing on top of him. The two of them lay there for a moment with the vampire trying to lock George with its gaze. He thought quickly, plunging the dagger deep in to the side of the vampire's torso and pulling the blade up, creating a huge gash that would have gutted a human, but not this creature. The sensation of the cut was enough to distract the vampire and George seized the opportunity to roll out from under it and create some fighting space between them. Jumping back on to his feet, he faced up to his opponent again. George looked at the side of the vampire's body to see what kind of damage he'd done but there was no sign of the wound he'd inflicted seconds before, only a long slash to the silk. This is going to be a little trickier, George thought to himself.
'You've ruined my robes but nothing else, little man. I tire of playing with you, my servants will be avenged.' the creature sneered.
'The impatience of immortality?' George mocked.
The vampire's face changed, this was no longer a game, a cat toying with a mouse, more like a lion angered by an obstinate wildebeest. The vampire roared and began to change, his face became more bestial and the ends of his fingers grew out in to vicious talons. George braced himself and a moment later the vampire lurched forward, slashing at him with its right hand. George ducked back but the talons ripped through his robes and the shirt beneath, carving deep in to the flesh of his left arm. He let out an anguished cry as the points of the talons ripped back out through his skin. The vampire swiftly brought his other hand in at George's throat, George thrust his blade upwards to protect himself and, to his amazement, the dagger passed clean through the vampire's wrist, severing its hand cleanly but without the bony resistance he would have expected. The vampire screeched as its hand flew away from its arm and landed on the floor. The hand held its form momentarily then slowly began to melt in to a puddle of thick, dark blood that spread and oozed.
George could see the wound at the end of its wrist was already starting to heal over. Wasting no time, he brought the blade back down, hacking deeply in to the thigh of the vampire's left leg, forcing the blade onwards with his weight until the leg was completely separated from the rest of the body. It collapsed to the ground and melted like the hand. The vampire was in trouble now, it lost its balance and fell gracelessly to its rear, a look of horror on its face. George closed down the gap between them and with one smooth sweep lopped off the vampire's head, sending it rolling across the floor.
The remaining body of the vampire dissolved in to a bloody mess which covered the ends of George's trousers and filled his shoes, he hopped back in disgust then looked around for the head. The vampire's head was still holding its solid form and the neck was beginning to lengthen forming some sort of tentacle. George rushed over and grasped it by the hair, its face swung round in to view and its mouth opened releasing a foul-smelling hiss. George covered his mouth and nose with the inside of his elbow and rushed over to one of the large braziers.
'Let's see what fire does to you.' he remarked.
He plunged the head in to the middle of the flames, there was a loud hissing and bubbling, the air filled with smoke and steam. For a moment the steam seemed to swirl in to a twisted face but as quickly as it formed it disappeared, as the cloud collapsed in on itself. The cavern fell still. George stepped back and stared in to the flames as they flicked and sputtered around the black blood which oozed between glowing coals. He needed to be sure the creature was dead.
After a few minutes he felt secure that the fire had done its work but now he began to think about the bigger picture in the room. A lot of possible vampire blood had been spilled and some of the men he'd downed were still alive, what if the blood could infect them? He decided he couldn't take the risk, he piled together the bodies of the dead and dealt with the dying swiftly. He picked
up one of the braziers by its stand and carried it over to the bodies, tipping its contents over them. The hot coals from the brazier immediately started to smoulder on the robes of the cultists and in a few seconds flames were starting to leap from the pyre. George wasn't satisfied; he went back to the corridor he had entered from and collected a couple of the oil lamps which were lighting it. He took them back to the bodies and emptied their oil across the pile. The heap of dead men burst in to flames and as he left the cavern, George could hear the horrifying crackle and spit of the bodies being consumed by fire.
George took off the robes and flung them to the ground, eager to get away from the stench of the smoke. The motion reminded him that he'd received a serious wound to his left arm and if he didn't tend to it he was in danger of dying himself. He picked up the robe again and went back to the car where he'd stowed his bag. He used his knife to cut strips from the robe and applied plenty of antimicrobial gel to the area, as well as his cheek. Who knew what a vampire might have under its nails.
George drove over to a nearby hut, there was smoke coming from a chimney in the roof and he figured it was probably a stove. Inside was a canteen; on a large hob there was some food slow cooking in a pot with a heavy conical lid, and there was a fridge in the corner. George grabbed some flat-breads and stuffed them with whatever he could find and wrapped them in cloth, he took as much water as he could find and stowed it on the back seat of the car. He was ready to go and north seemed like a good place to start.
George drove through the dust and rocks for an hour, not recognising anything and yet at the same time everything seemed familiar. He stopped for a while to eat and drink, his watch was telling him it was well past noon and he hadn't eaten since the previous evening, he'd had few opportunities to drink in that time. He climbed on the roof of the car and scanned the horizon for signs of life and was about to give up when he noticed a dust cloud growing from a point to the East.
