by Joseph Rubas
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The hall was harshly lit, the brash light stinging Van Helsing’s eyes. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was, for he had been taking so many lefts and rights at so many different crossways, but he was certain that he was no longer in third class proper; the horrible droning of heavy machinery gave testament to that. But you never knew. The way that steerage passengers were treated by the major shipping lines was truly shocking; the White Star Line surely wouldn’t mind if such lowly peons were kept awake all night by the sounds of the ship’s guts; J. Bruce Ismay was not the kind of man who would lose a night’ sleep over that kind of thing.
With sore feet and an aching back, Van Helsing forced himself onward, growing more and more disoriented with every step he took. He stopped once and looked behind him, for he had thought that his best course of action was to retrace his steps, but did no good; the last two or three (or ten) corridors that he had traversed had all looked the same; steel walkways, steel walls with a steel handrail running the length, and harsh lighting.
Van Helsing rubbed the back of his neck and looked about himself again. There were no painted arrows on the wall which could point him back on his way, there were no signs, nor any writing whatsoever. The last person that he had seen was a young Arabian girl of roughly fifteen, and that had been…what felt like miles ago. He deeply hoped that he would meet with a burly stoker or even another Moslum; somebody, for he felt isolated, and the repetition of the landscape was maddening, almost frightening.
“Scared, you old bastard?” came a low, spiteful voice from behind Van Helsing.
With a small womanish squeak, possibly the sound his heart had made when it leapt into his throat, Van Helsing swung around, already bringing the cross up.
Not Dracula, Van Helsing thought. The shapeless figure was clad in something that may have belonged to the Moslum girl: a flowing black dress with a vale. The voice, though, had been that of a man, of an Englishman, and not of Dracula. His hands were black gloved, and in one of them was a…
Before Van Helsing could react, before his mind had fully grasped the situation, and before his tired brain could send the message that the cross at the end of his extended arm was not needed, something made of steel and exceptionally hard struck him square in the forehead. An explosion of white light flashed across his field of vision. He felt himself toppling back into oblivion, and reached out to grip the handrail.
No, no, don’t go down! Van Helsing wailed at himself, knowing that he would be killed if he did. But old Abraham Van Helsing’s selfish wants had no sway over Newton or God the King, and Van Helsing fell back onto the floor, the breath knocked from his lungs.
“You bastard!” the man in the dress howled, and then was atop Van Helsing, swinging what may have been a pipe in such anger that, thankfully, he missed his mark every time and hit the floor.
Acting fast, mindlessly, Van Helsing balled his fist and bashed it into what he thought to be the face of the man. He opened his eyes, saw (and heard) that he had been successful in striking his opponent’s ear, and immediately had to close his eyes again, for they were stung terrible by the onslaught of blood rushing down his scalp.
The attacker was still groaning when Van Helsing balled his fist again and bashed it forward with all his might. This time it hit the man in the nose, or close. Yelping in agony, the man fell tumbled off of Van Helsing and landed on the floor in a screaming heap.
“Bastard, bastard, bastardbastardbastard!” the man howled and stumbled to his feet. Van Helsing opened his eyes, and saw the man in black looming over him, his booted foot reared back for a deadly kick.
“Want to play, do you? Want to play a game? Well, have I got a game for you, you old bastard!”
Van Helsing closed his eyes and steeled himself. This kick took him in the breast bone, but was not as sharp as it could have been, for, in the heat of battle, unbeknownst to Van Helsing and his foe, a stoker had happened upon the scene. As the attacker’s foot sliced through the air, on a collision course with Van Helsing’s heart, he was wrenched back by two hundred pound of Irish brawn.
“Let me go, you bastard!” the man in black wailed. Van Helsing opened his eyes, and saw that the stoker had the attacker in a head lock. His bald head reflected the hard light, and his yellow teeth were bared in determination as he held the man in black between his torso and his bulging arm.
“You like to ‘it old people, do you? ‘Ow ‘bout I ‘it you, show you what it ‘eels like to get kicked?”
The man in black thrashed harder than a wildcat, and Van Helsing vaguely wondered if Dracula had somehow imparted some of his power on this man, who was obviously just a man.
“Now, calm down, maggot, it ain’t gonna ‘urt that bad, just take you…”
In a desperate move, the man in black reached into a hitherto unknown pocket, fished something out, and struck it repeatedly into the stoker’s side. Van Helsing watched horrified as red spilled from the stoker’s side, and his faced paled noticeably, but he held fast, his teeth gritted even harder.
“That all you ‘ave, me little lady? A little knife?”
The man in black was still stabbing away, and now the stoker was swaying on his feet as if he were a large oak in danger of crashing to the forest floor. His rocky face was completely bloodless now; his eyes seemed dazed and faraway.
“I got me worse in Clancy’s pub, you little shit.” He was weakened nevertheless; the man in black squirmed out of the stoker’s grasp and grabbed him around the neck from behind.
“Fucker!” he roared. The stoker grabbed the man in black’s small arm with two hammock hands, but they were powerless.
By this time, Van Helsing had managed to get to his feet, picking up the fallen pipe in the process. When the man in black spotted Van Helsing on the move, he let the stoker go; the poor soul crashed to the floor and lay still on his face, dark red blood pooling around him.
“C’mere,” panted the man in black, his chest heaving. “I got somethin’ fer you.”
Van Helsing advanced a step and then, with all the might that he could muster, eyes stinging as blood flowed into them, swung the pipe.
It connected with the man in black’s head, jarring Van Helsing’s arms. The man fell against the wall, and sank to his knees. Van Helsing stepped forward and swung the pipe again, this time hitting only his shoulder. He cried out in agony. Van Helsing rose the pipe again, but before he could swing, the man punched him hard in the knee.
Losing his balance, Van Helsing gripped onto the handrail and managed to keep from falling. The man in black was on his feet once more; only this time, he was hobbling away.
Despite the pain, Van Helsing briefly entertained the idea of going after the man in black, but when he tried to move his legs, hot pain flared in his chest. He slowly got down to his knees beside the stoker with a cry; he could feel the still warm blood seeping through the knees of his trousers.
After a long moment of inhaling over clenched teeth, the pain somewhat subsided, and he regained his mind. He pressed his fingers against the stoker’s muscular neck, which had already cooled substantially; there was no pulse.
“You were a good, strong man,” Van Helsing whispered to the stoker whose name he did not even know. A crushing sadness filled his chest. Who was this man? Did he have a loving family waiting for him to return to Ireland?
Finally, Van Helsing rose to his feet, found his cane and cross, and limped mournfully away to find a wash basin.
