Strigoi

by John O'Brien

  “Falcon, Otter six.”

  “Go for Falcon,” Lynn responds.

  “What are the chances of arranging another interview with Vladmir?” I ask.

  “I’d say nil. Why do you ask?”

  “I just had a thought, that’s all. What effect do you think Ebola would have on the strigoi systems?”

  There’s a long pause, the others of the team looking in my direction. I focus them back on task lest the vampires come steal our cows without us noticing.

  “I…I don’t know. I suppose I could try to find out, but we don’t know a whole lot about their systems. If they can filter out biological agents, I’d imagine they’d be able to do it with Ebola as well,” Lynn finally answers.

  “Okay, say they can. But, if we injected Ebola into their blood, wouldn’t the vampires have to expel their entire supply of blood to get rid of it? And, they wouldn’t be able to replenish that unless they fed, assuming they could actually cleanse it from their cells. So, that seems like it could be problematic for them, providing they aren’t able to outright separate the virus and filter it,” I reply.

  “It’s something to look into, Jack.”

  “And, what are the chances of laying our hands on some to place in tranquilizer darts?”

  “I’m sure we could dig some up, but that will take time. I’ll find out, but I wouldn’t count on anything I find out being effective here and now.”

  “If we aren’t able to take them down and they vanish back into the jungle, it might be a way to deal with them in the future. This is what happens when I have too much time on my hands and easy access to painkillers.”

  “I’ll let you know what I find out. And, lay off that shit. I’m not going to nurse you through recovery. Falcon, out.”

  The hours pass with only the jungle sounds to keep us company. The Ebola idea has me a little excited and I almost hope that the vampires don’t show until we have word one way or the other that it will work. Their physiology is so different that I really have no idea whether it would or not, but what I know about the virus makes it a promising solution.

  The sudden quiet is so abrupt, it’s as if a conductor swept his or her wand. There’s no gradual diminishing of sound that fades into the background as various animals go quiet in turn. One second, the jungle is alive with cicadas, crickets, frogs, and whatever other band member happens to be residing in the trees, the next, sudden and absolute silence. The abruptness seems to make a noise of its own.

  Slowly rolling over, I raise my carbine from where it was resting on a waterproofed strip of canvas. Flipping the view to its 4× setting, I set my eye to the scope.

  “Movement in the trees, left hand side of zone two,” Henderson radios.

  I see shapes moving just inside the dense foliage along the edge of the field at the same time that Lynn calls with a report of movement from the same location. Limbs sway from something moving behind the screen of bushes. My heartrate increases with the knowledge that we’re about to face the terror I encountered some time ago, engaging them with methods that are guesses at best. The only consolation easing my worry is the knowledge that we have a pickup only minutes away. Of course, a whole hell of a lot can go wrong in a couple of minutes.

  The cows in the middle of the field become agitated and try moving away from where they’re staked. Low moos cut through the silence, and I feel a pang of guilt for the terror they must be feeling. Off to the side, Henderson and Denton are waiting behind the air rifles. There’s that moment of tense silence that always seems to precede an eruption of violence, as if nature exists a few moments in the future and is terrified of what’s about to happen.

  With the heavy rustling of a bush, the first creature breaks through and enters the field. The pale figure halts and stares at the cattle, whose desperate cries have become more pronounced. It’s joined by another, then more emerge until the edge of the field is lined with them. With surprise, I see that some of them are naked, but when I think about it, how could it really have been different. I didn’t notice that fact when I previously encountered them, but then again, I wasn’t exactly in a state of mind to notice their attire in the headlong flight for my life.

  Others have tattered clothing providing varying degrees of coverage. I note two or three just have rings of cloth around their necks, all that remains of whatever shirt they once wore. There’s another one with just a ring around its waist, held on by a belt. Although I can’t see their feet below the tops of the grass, I can only imagine their feet are mostly bare and must be tough as shit to run barefoot through the jungle. A few are completely clad, possibly villagers who were turned.

  What makes the determination to feed or turn? I wonder, watching to see what they’ll do next.

  That’s a question that seems important and I’m kicking myself that I never thought to ask it. I was too focused on how to kill them instead of their motivations. And if truth be known, I had been a touch overwhelmed by the fact that I was in a nest of vampires, talking with them.

  The cows are determinedly pulling on their ropes, their moos reverberating across the otherwise silent field. One of the creatures without clothing leans forward, its arms sweeping behind. Opening its mouth, a single shriek echoes through the night air. As if at the report of a starting gun, the line of twenty-nine vampires launches forward. Reaching the fence line, flashes of yellow orange are like a string of giant fireflies winking on and off. Streaks of blurred black clouds stream forward, the vampires vanishing and reappearing at the end of those blurs. Aside from that one scream, they are silent. When caught by the starlight, pairs of eyes turn a silvery gold. The field rumbles under the running footfalls as the strigoi race across the pasture, intent on their prey.

  My hands tighten on my carbine, my thumb rubbing along the selector switch. Seeing so many speeding across the field brings memories of how easily my team was taken down by fewer. I keep both channels open—one for the team comms and the other to call the “get me the fuck out of here” bird. Within the running line, flashes of heat materialize for an instant as some blur forward.

  “Note the heat signatures just prior to rifting,” I whisper, the radio call going out to the other team members.

  We have our settings set to VOX, which means that the mic will engage upon speaking rather than having to be pressed.

  “Copy that,” I hear several nervous replies.

  That thermal signature must denote the output of energy the strigoi use in order to engage that blurring teleportation. There’s a faint vibration through the ground from twenty-nine pairs of legs madly pounding across the field. The cow’s calls become frantic, their nearly two thousand pounds of terror-filled bodies managing to finally pull up the deeply driven anchored stakes. Their freedom comes too late, as flashes erupt up and down the line. Darkened blurs streak by the cattle in quick succession, blood spraying into the night air.

  Some of the cows buck as they try to flee the sudden sting of their flesh being cut, blood spraying in thick streams from torn necks. The others remain motionless, their life blood pouring down their tough hide and to the ground in sacrifice. Unable to sustain themselves, the cows stumble to their knees as the strigoi surround them, sticking open-mouthed faces in the viscous streams of liquid. The cattle fall with heavy thumps as the vampires descend upon their bodies.

  Across the field comes the faint sound of labored breathing, the cows’ plaintive moos evincing their pain as their stomachs are torn open and the creatures dive in to drink. Strigoi settle on all fours or squat to feast. Even though we’re some distance away, I see a wash of liquid pour from the backside of the vampires, staining pants or running down legs. In a sickening display, I realize that the expulsion of liquid is old blood being expelled as waste. A sickly smell of disemboweled bodies, blood, and rot drifts on the night air.

  “Okay, now that’s just fucking gross,” Gonzalez quietly comments.

  No one else replies. I’d at least search for a response, but I’m too busy
trying to keep my MRE from adding to the stench.

  “Henderson, Denton, start doing your thing,” I radio.

  In complete silence, two darts streak over the top of the grass and into the massacre. Two vampires recoil from the impact of the trackers entering their bodies. Rising from their meal with startled looks, I hear low growls above the sick wet sounds of slurping. They feel around their wounds and turn their gaze to the surrounding area, their eyes turning that silvery gold when they look in our direction. This is another one of the waaay too many variables. How will they react? Will they identify where the shots came from? Will something we haven’t planned for give away our position?

  After a moment, they return to their feeding. Two more look up and growl as they’re hit. Among the carcasses, strigoi faces rise and lower like a slow game of whack-a-mole.

  I listen to the slow count of Henderson and Denton calling off the number of tags…nine, ten…eleven, twelve…Suddenly, all of the vampires stand.

  “Falcon, looks like the feast is about to be concluded,” I radio.

  “Thirty seconds out,” Lynn replies. “Call the shot.”

  “Do you have visual on the tangos?”

  “Roger.”

  “And us, right?”

  “Yes, Otter six, I have you on visual as well.”

  “Okay, just making sure.”

  A faint deep droning intrudes into the silence that has settled, seeming to come from every quadrant and making it difficult to determine the direction of the source. The strigoi in the middle of the field all look upward, their gazes turning in all directions. The rumble of the arriving gunship intensifies.

  “You’re cleared in hot with 25 and 40mm,” I call. “Everyone down.”

  I keep my position, looking barely over the lip of the embankment. The vampires blur forward with flashes of light. At the same time, the sound of a buzz saw rips though the area. There isn’t the usual light show of tracers streaking earthward in a solid stream, but the ground erupts from the multiple impacts of heavy caliber shells. Chunks of meat splatter outward from the cow carcasses, and clumps of earth are tossed into the air. The knee-high grass is flattened in a wide line marching forward as if by a monstrous lawn mower.

  More of the chainsaw sound sends the earth flying from around the vampires as they materialize, the airborne clods momentarily concealing the figures fleeing across the field. Heavy chunks sound from above and 40mm cannon fire begins exploding with flowers of flame in the midst of those still upright. Similar flashes occur from strigoi attempting to rift their way clear of the area.

  The fire of both Gatling gun and cannon follow the progress of the fleeing vampires, their numbers diminished. Tremors vibrate the soil loose from the embankments, grassy clumps tumbling down to the slow-moving stream. I hold my carbine to prevent it from following the earth slipping from the decaying lip. The close sight of a gunship in action never ceases to impress me with the ferociousness of the firepower. In the aircraft, it’s like playing a video game, but down on the ground, the devastation is all too real.

  The sound of 40mm cannon fire ceases as the remaining vampires close in on the fence line, but the Gatling gun continues to rake the field. We have a line of claymores placed along the edges and we can’t risk cannon fire taking them out. On a single pass, a gunship can place a round in every square inch of a football field, and the thuds of heavy caliber rounds form one continuous barrage. Several quick flashes of yellowish-orange fire flare from within the torrent.

  “Falcon, cease fire with the 40,” I radio.

  “We did some time ago,” Lynn replies.

  “Oh, uh…okay.”

  Another flash occurs, dissipating almost immediately. The last bursts of thermal heat are different than the ones emitted when the vampires go into their rift. I’m about to call bullshit on Lynn’s response when I realize that there isn’t an accompanying explosion. Behind the line of Gatling gun fire chasing the strigoi, figures rise from the churned pasture and take off for the boundaries of the field, most following those still racing across, almost to the cover of the jungle.

  “Falcon, some are rising from the field,” I call above the heavy thuds of 25mm rounds.

  Four seconds later, flashes from exploding 40mm shells erupt, concealing the view.

  “Strigoi approaching the divide of zones three and four,” Denton calls.

  Somehow, he has a visual across the field and is notifying us that the vampires are at the edge of it, approaching the zones where we set up the claymores.

  “Cease fire at the edge of the field. Concentrate on those rising,” I radio.

  “Copy.”

  The barrage of 25mm Gatling rounds abruptly stops, the 40mm still sporadically impacting toward the middle of the field.

  “Denton, call the claymore,” I add.

  “If we’re going to do it, now’s the time. Zones three and four,” he responds.

  I find the clackers and rapidly squeeze. A thunderous explosion of fire and smoke rockets into the field from the jungle’s edge. Orange flame boils within dark clouds of smoke for brief instances, the aura of heat still registering in our vision. Hidden deep within the roiling smoke, there are a couple of smaller reddish-orange flashes.

  “Three trackers still active in the trees, moving west, but without a visual confirmation,” Lynn radios, as all sounds of fire vanish from the circling gunship.

  Four pale figures emerge from within the smoke covering the field, all heading in our direction. I have no idea how in the fuck they could possibly survive what we’ve thrown at them, but their blood supply has to be low. The sheer amount of firepower we’ve hit them with would have leveled a village, but here they are coming right at us. It’s a small relief to see that they aren’t blossoming in flashes of orange and rifting toward us, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t capable of it. They may just be conserving energy for healing purposes.

  “Spin up our ride,” I tell Lynn. “We’re pulling back.”

  There’s no way I’m going to stand and fight even four of them, especially after seeing what they’ve survived. They’d be weak and we might be able to take them, but as long as we have the flying battleship over us, why risk it?

  “They’re on the way. We’ll do what we can to keep your six clear,” Lynn responds.

  The others have slid down the embankment and are working through the muddy bottom of the thigh deep stream. Gonzalez turns around and looks at me still at the ledge. She begins turning around.

  “Keep going,” I yell and wave my arm. “I’ll be along shortly.”

  With hesitation, she turns and resumes wading, looking once more over her shoulder as she scales the far side.

  The four vampires are too close for the gunship to engage. Once they see the team scaling the far side, I hear one shriek above the continuing barrage of 25mm rounds striking the ground behind them.

  “Enjoy this,” I say, ducking below the edge and squeezing the clacker connected to the line of claymores to our front.

  The ground shakes as a wave of smoke rolls over the top of the embankment. Dirt clods fall on my back and hit the stream with plops. Ripples disturb the water’s surface, spreading outward and hitting each other to create a kaleidoscope of patterns. Without waiting to judge the effects, I grab my carbine and slide down the dirt, entering the disturbed water. Wading through the muck at the bottom, the smoke of the explosions hanging in the air, I struggle for the far shore, water pushing outward in waves from my progress.

  Near the shoreline, I hear a scream, followed immediately by another. Quickly glancing back, I see three pale-skinned figures standing atop the embankment, faint coils of remaining smoke drifting around their faces. A flash of heat and one blurs. I try and dive to the side, but my heart goes into my throat as the mud gluing my boots to the bottom prevents any rapid movement.

  Still watching, I let my carbine dangle by its tether while going for one of the knives at my side, knowing that I won’t be in time. Faint lin
es of heat streak overhead; the thunk of impacts sound at the same moment. I keep my eyes on the black cloud streaking toward me as I struggle to lift my boot. The vampire materializes in mid-stream, sinking knee deep into the water. With a scream, it leaps forward with extended arms reaching for my neck.

  The two on the embankment shiver, their bodies jolting from the impact of multiple bullets finding their mark. They tumble down the irrigation channel, coming to rest face down, one with its face submerged in the stream. Dark thick smoke, almost too heavy to be mere vapor, begins drifting upward from their bodies. The smoke thickens even more. With a flash of heat, they both vanish behind a dark cloud.

  My boot comes clear just as the one diving at me nears. Reaching outward with my open hand, I grab a fistful of tattered clothing at the chest of what instantly registers as a female while ducking low to the side to stay clear of those talons. Pale silver eyes stare from a face that seems almost luminescent, the lower half stained red with streaks of blood around the mouth and along the cheeks. Long stringy hair flows behind and sharpened teeth protrude from gray gums, the mouth opened wide. The smell of rot, blood, and body odor ground into the clothing surrounds the vampire like an aura.

  I feel my knee wrench as I rotate with the creature, using its momentum to move it past me. Continuing to spin, I drive the vampire into the wall of dirt. As I attempt to avoid claws, I feel a raking across my cheek, the sting sudden and burning. Ignoring the pain, I drive my knife into the neck. Bright blood sprays once as my sharpened blade penetrates the gristle of the esophagus. Disengaging the safety, I pull the trigger and feel a jolt in the handle of the mechanism.

  The tip of the knife thrusts forward, punching through the bones of the vertebrae. The blade sides snap outward so rapidly that it produces a recoil before coming to a stop with a heavy click. The thick sharpened blades cut through arteries, veins, muscle, and soft tissue like softened butter. A surge of blood is forced outward in a single pulse as if from a broken hydraulic main, splashing across my face. The blood is neither warm nor chill, which makes the spray feel strange. Dulled eyes stare from the head as it rolls to the side, coming to rest momentarily against the shoulder before gravity takes over and it slips down the slope and into the water with a soft splash.