by P W Hillard
Marcia sneered, letting out a laugh of her own. A slow chuckle at first, before growing into a full belly laugh. "Fucking really?" she said once she had gained her composure. "First, you tell me everything, a full fucking villain montage! Then your plan is some eighties hot new drug garbage. Where did you get this idea? Robocop two?"
Vlad growled, a throbbing low hum eking from his chest. "You know what?" he said in a deep rumble. "You're right. Let's skip all this shit." He grabbed the plastic bucket chair he had been sitting in previously and placed it only a foot away from Marcia. He sat down and stared at her, his eyes locking with hers. They sat there for a moment, monster and monster hunter gazing into each other souls. "You will tell me," Vlad began, "who you are."
"Martina Colditch also known as Marcia, thirty-eight, born in Sheffield on octob- "she began, her voice droning, as though being read by a machine.
"Yes, yes, that's more than enough, this isn't an episode of Pointless I don't need all that shit. Ok Martina why are you also known as Marcia?" asked Vlad. His voice was calm, almost soothing.
"Marcia is my codename in the Legion," she answered.
"And the legion is?"
"The legion is the legion. The silent legion set up during the Roman empire to protect humans from monsters." Marcia's head bobbed listlessly as she spoke.
"The silent legion huh? A group of Roman monster hunters. Well, I never," said Vlad rubbing his chin. Flakes cascaded to the floor as his hand rubbed. "How did you find us Martina, was it from the petrol station video?"
"No, we are directed by the oracle. They tell our Centurion, who then assigns a legionnaire to attend to the task." Marcia coughed, a tiny splatter of blood hitting the ground.
"And who is this oracle?"
"I don't know. Only the Centurion knows."
Vlad thought for a moment, tapping his fingers on his knees. "And who is the Centurion?"
"Maximus."
"What's his real name?"
"I don't know." A thin trickle of blood had started to form at the corner of her mouth.
"Interesting, real interesting. At least someone has the right idea about secrecy," Vlad said, shooting Carl a glare. "Ok Martina, do you know where the Centurion is?"
The three vampires sat in the blood preparation room, watching the still tied up woman rock slowly back and forth in her chair. She wasn't looking well and hadn't looked the best to begin with. Her face, hands and feet were swollen, taking on an angry red colour.
"This is all very interesting," said Steve pressing his nose against the glass. "A secret society of monster hunters staying hidden for thousands of years. It's a bit crazy when you think about it."
"Nah I don't think so," said Carl. Steve and Vlad both turned to look at him. "I mean vampires have stayed hidden for probably longer right? If we did it why can't they?"
"You know, for once, and I can't believe I'm going to say this, but shit for brains here is right. We know it can be done. Makes you wonder what else is out there we don't know about. Could be all sorts of secret society's or hidden forces operating in plain sight." Vlad gripped a piece of blackened skin and peeled it free. It came off in a large chunk, revealing the fresh pink skin beneath. To Vlad's disappointment, the face of an old wrinkled man still reflected at him in the glass of the window.
"So, she told us where they would be, we go get revenge right?" said Carl.
"Fuck yeah we do," Vlad replied, "look what these fuckers did to me!"
"They killed Chet as well…"
Vlad shrugged. "Yes, revenge for Chet as well."
"Uh," stuttered Steve, "She doesn't look too hot."
"Well, I'm not surprised, considering the-" Vlad was cut off mid-sentence as a shower of blood splattered across the glass window.
Marcia's swelling had gotten worse, rapidly. Every part of her had bulged, her skin stretching, tearing in places. Blood poured from her eyes, it trickled from her ears, from her mouth a constant violent red vomiting. The swelling got more intense, more quickly, an exponential burst of blood building up inside her. It had grown too much, causing Marcia to explode like a balloon. Blood and organs sprayed outwards, the blast radius of her burst easy to see from the trail of viscera. Several thralls working nearby were completely covered, and the window in front of her was thick with greasy red liquid.
The three vampires tiptoed out from the room, taking in the gory mess before them. Carl let out a long whistle.
"Guess we know what happens when the blood types don't match now," said Steve, taking care to step over a loose sliver of intestine.
"Yes," said Vlad, "and it's glorious!"
Chapter Fifteen
Dark sticky wet earth slopped onto Vincent's forehead as he held himself tight beneath the roots of the tree. Behind him, he could hear the low rumble of the Panzer as it creaked across the countryside. There was a yell in German, then the familiar whip-crack of a rifle round. He slunk back as far as he could, pressing his back into the earth. The tree had stretched its roots across as small trench, likely carved into the ground by some frozen patch of ice from winters past. He was grateful the decision had been made to invade in June, the first time he had ever agreed with his orders. Traipsing across the French countryside in the middle of winter would have been a nightmare.
Not that his current situation was any better. Vincent and his squad had been part of a convoy, bringing supplies to the frontlines, when they had been ambushed by a German platoon supported by two Panzer fours. Either remnants from a battlegroup defeated by the pushing allied forces, or a small team that had managed to sneak through the lines, it had hardly mattered. The two tanks had emerged from behind a large farmhouse, rapidly disabling the front and rear armoured cars. The German infantry had then emerged from their camouflaged hiding places, opening fire on the canvas-covered trucks. Vincent and the other soldiers tried to disembark as quickly as they could, bullets ripping through the fabric and into men who hadn't been fast enough. The British soldiers escorting the convoy broke for cover but became too scattered unable to support one another.
The retreat order came, but at that point the men were distributed too far over the hillside, unable to find each other to even contemplate a fighting retreat. Vincent had found his hiding place beneath the tree but could hear the Germans hunting down his compatriots as he cowered in his hole. He clasped his rifle tightly to his chest, finding its presence oddly comforting, although he knew it would be a futile gesture if he was found. He was shaking, tears running down his cheeks. He had wet his trousers, though the thick layer of dark French earth covered any sign. He tried to calm himself, as the slow grinding treads of the tank came closer. The tree began to shake, the earth beneath falling like black snow. The light faded as the Panzer stormed over the ditch, the metal panel of its bottom blocking out the sun. There was a creaking noise, as the tree bent, the immense bulk of the Panzer pushing it out of the way. Vincent watched as the tank slowly crossed over him, it seemed to him like it was some great beast, a behemoth of steel and fire. Vincent slammed his eyes shut as the sunlight burst through the roots again, the tank having completed its crossing. There was a flurry of shadows as its escorting soldiers stepped across the gap. Vincent moved his rifle forward. One look down and he would be spotted. He gripped it, placing the stock into his shoulder. He placed his eye to the sight, ready to at least take a German with him, when the shadows stopped. He sat there, his hands white from gripping the rifle for what seemed like an eternity, desperately hoping that the squad had passed without seeing him.
Vincent went from one problem to the next. Whilst the Germans had passed over his hiding place, they had decided to set up camp in the field behind him. The sun was going down, casting its red haze across the French countryside. He could hear Germans talking amongst themselves, laughing at a joke that must have been uproariously funny, though Vincent had no idea what it was, speaking no German. Vincent placed his rifle down beside himself and placed his hands together deep in thought. He had o
nly been able to get a quick look around before diving into his hole. There was another field behind this one, and there was a tree line beyond. How far would he need to go though? Was it just the one field or was there another? Either way, he would have to somehow get past the Germans. Vincent tried to calculate if he should try a straight line towards the trees, or if he should head towards the thick line of hedgerow that outlined each field. It would mean heading perpendicular to the tree line, adding a considerable distance to his journey but giving him at least some cover. Vincent reached down, gripping great clumps of the black earth in his hands. He began to rub it all over himself, covering his face, hands and shirt.
Night fell, casting its shadowy hand across the French countryside. Carefully and slowly, Vincent pulled himself from his hiding place. He was coated in a thick layer of mud, impromptu camouflage against the dark night sky. He lay across the grass, planning his next move. Thankfully he was right, there was only one field until the tree line. The bad news was that the Germans had set up camp right in the centre of the field. Though they hadn't set any fires or lights, to do so was to invite enemy fire, the position meant that any sentries would have a clear view of Vincent in the pale moonlight. He would have to follow the perimeter of the field, using the thick hedge as a shield from prying eyes. It would nearly double the distance he would need to travel. He took a deep breath, and lying prone, began to crawl.
It felt like an excruciating eternity crossing to the thick green wall of leaves and twigs, crawling across the ground, wet mud squeezing up under Vincent's shirt as he moved. He was relieved to find that the hedgerow itself was high enough to hide him if he crouched, and Vincent had adopted a sort of awkward low waddle. It was proving significantly quicker than he had expected. From across the hedgerow, he could still hear the Germans talking, their words carried by the wind. Vincent was thankful that whilst they hadn't set any lights, they evidently weren't concerned enough to remain silent.
Vincent stared ahead, his break for freedom having hit a snag. The hedgerow stopped a few yards from the tree line, forming a conspicuous gap. He had a choice. If he crawled, he wouldn't be able to move quickly if spotted, but any other method would make it more likely to be seen in the first place. He weighed the options in his mind, closed his eyes, took one last deep breath, and sprinted. His legs pumped furiously, though they ached from his long crouch. Mud flew from beneath his feet, a thick wet exhaust. The trees were getting closer, he smiled, he was going to make it. Then he heard the shouts.
Hans ran, shouting for his men to follow. The British soldier had a head start, but the trees were thick and the ground uneven. He must be tiring by now. Hans swore to himself as he nearly tripped on a thick root. The small wood was incredibly dark, the close-growing trees only allowing thin columns of moonlight through.
"Split up, you two that way! You pair take the other. Gunter, come with me," said Hans. Gunter nodded. He was a thickly muscled giant, a brute of a man. The kind of man that you would do your best to avoid in a Berlin alleyway but were immensely grateful for as a comrade in arms. In his dense arms, he carried his squads MG42 like it was a child's toy. The belt feed for the machine gun caught the moonlight, a glittering strip of ominous brass. "Come on Gunter, we do not want him to escape. Our little ambush operations will only work if our presence is a secret after all."
Wet squelching rang out through the night as the two soldiers advanced into the wood, the mud announcing every step they took. There was a soft rustling in the canopy above.
"I don't like it," whispered Gunter. "Something is up there."
"A squirrel maybe. I would not have expected you to be afraid Gunter? Scared of the dark maybe?" Hans let out a chuckle, the sight of the hulking Gunter cowering was oddly amusing.
"When I was a child, my sister and I would play in the forest. I lived most of my childhood in Sankt Blaisen you see. My grandmother, she would warn us to come home before dark. She always said something lurked in the Black Forest. One day I didn't listen, I was out there alone when the sunset." Gunter adjusted his shoulders, the massive machine gun suddenly feeling heavy in his hands. "There was something in the woods then, some presence, I could feel its eyes on me. So, I ran home. All the way I could hear the trees rustling, something following behind me. I never stayed out at night after that."
Hans stopped, lifting his head to look Gunter in the eyes. "And your point? You're not telling me some scary story for children has you spooked now?"
"Something about these woods, it feels similar. I can feel eyes on us."
"I think maybe because we are in enemy territory your mind is look- "a burst of gunfire from deeper in the forest cut Hans off mid-sentence. "See," he said, "sounds like we've found him." Hans took a deep breath, "Got him?" he shouted. There was no reply, save a deafening silence, followed by a scream interspersed by loud German swearing.
"What the hell?" said Gunter. He lifted the machine gun, holding it at waist height. "What happened?"
"How am I supposed to know? Maybe someone tripped and hurt themselves?" reasoned Hans. There was another scream, this time from the other side of the wood.
"I told you, something is watching us."
"I still think your imagination is getting the best of…you…" Hans trailed off, his eyes transfixed on the figure in front of him. It was hunched over, its features covered in shadow. Its eyes, however, caught the light, great black glossy saucers like a cat. It leapt upwards, disappearing into the canopy above.
"I saw it too!" shouted Gunter before Hans could speak again. Not waiting for an order Gunter aimed his weapon and squeezed the trigger. Allied soldiers called the MG42 "Hitler's Buzzsaw" and the gun proved its name, unleashing bullets into the trees at a tremendous rate, the noise of each round blurring together into one horrific sawing tone. Wood and bark rained onto the floor, showering the men. Gunter stopped firing for a moment, the tree the shadow had leapt into was shredded, but there was no sign of its occupant. "Do you see him?" said Gunter, just before he died.
The shadowy creature dashed out from behind a tree over Gunter's left shoulder. It grabbed the man, lifting him off the ground like a rag doll with one arm. With the other it tore the machine gun from his hands, tossing it several yards until it struck a tree clattering to the ground. Moving quickly, it seemed to run directly up the nearest tree trunk carrying the struggling Gunter with it. There was a strange gurgling sound, and then a thick stream of blood running down the side of the tree. Hans did not wait to see Gunter's lifeless body hit the moist earth with a slap, its throat torn out in a great semi-circular chunk. He was already running, covering his mouth with one hand to stifle a scream.
Vincent stumbled. His legs were screaming in pain, his constant sprint across the rough terrain taking its toll. He caught himself on moss-laden stone. He righted himself, struggling to catch his breath as he did. He had seen the shape before him casting its shadow in the woods and had run towards it, hoping it was a building of some kind. He was correct, though he had expected to find maybe a cottage or farmhouse, rather than a church. Its stain-glassed windows were shattered, its door long since removed from its hinges, leaving a gaping maw as its entrance.
"Fuck," Vincent grumbled. He couldn't hide here; the Germans would be sure to search it. He had to keep running. The Germans behind him had screamed and shouted releasing bursts of gunfire. He didn't fancy being caught by the enemy at the best of times, crazed trigger-happy ones was a definite no go. He arched his back, prepared to run, and stopped when he heard a rustling. Quickly he took up a covered position in the church's great archway, his rifle gripped close. The rustling grew louder, and he quickly checked the chamber to make sure he had a round ready.
With a crash a German soldier slipped over some unseen impediment, tumbling from the wood into the clearing where the church sat. He frantically tried to stand, clearly terrified of something. Slipping in the mud, he instead rolled onto his back, holding out his submachine gun ready. Another figure stepped out o
f the trees. It was roughly human in shape, but its mouth was full of sharp jagged teeth. It reminded Vincent of the shark teeth he had seen in a museum once. The German fired, and the creature seemed to almost slide out of the way, simply turning on its heel to avoid the hail of bullets. It reached down, and with contempt grabbed the submachine gun. It threw it to one side. It placed its hand atop the Germans head and simply twisted. There was a loud crack of bone. Vincent shook at the sight, this horrible toothy thing killing a man so trivially. Its eyes seemed to shine in the darkness.
"Do not worry Englishman," it said in a thick French accent, "we are, what you could call, the resistance."
Vincent watched as his rescuer and three other men laughed, one of them having told a particularly racy joke in French. The fact that four men stood there at all still raced through Vincent's mind. Each of them had arrived like the first, all teeth and blood, their proportions odd, their gait wide and predatory. Now they appeared to be your average Frenchman, the teeth had rescinded, leaving bare gums on two. The others, including Vincent's saviour, had inserted dentures to give their mouths the appearance of normality.
