SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

SUCKER OF SOULS Kirsten Cross

“Is that as fast as you can run? Because fella, I’m telling you right now, it ain’t fucking fast enough!” Snarled from a frightened man way, way out of his comfort zone and desperately trying to appear in control of an uncontrollable situation so as not to ‘frighten the civvy’ as they stagger-ran.

Soldiers, even ex-soldiers who now got paid to babysit grave-robbing archaeologists, shouldn’t show fear. Ever. Even when they were faced with an enemy that apparently had powers well beyond those that could be controlled with a quick double-tap from a Glock.

Fuck.

This was gonna be one well-earned pay cheque. If he lasted long enough to collect the damn thing, that is. What they had just witnessed had challenged Flynn’s whole concept of what was worth seven hundred dollars a day plus expenses and what wasn’t. And this very definitely wasn’t.

“I’m sorry?” The archaeologist didn’t seem to get the barely controlled desperation, panic and outright ‘what the actual fuck was that?’ tone in his babysitter’s voice. Flynn was still in control of himself. Just.

When they stopped to catch a breath and take stock of their surroundings for a second, Flynn pressed home his advantage. “You bloody well will be if we don’t stay ahead of… whatever the hell that was.” The ex-soldier gave his charge a cold, emotionless smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

The archaeologist peeled off a pair of round spectacles and rubbed at them with the corner of his shirt. He perched the glasses back onto his nose and pushed them up to the bridge. His hands were shaking violently. He used the mundane act to try and ground himself while his brain attempted to process the carnage they had just seen. “I’m an archaeologist, Mr Flynn, not an Olympic sprinter.”

Colby Flynn turned his steely-cold, pale-green eyes onto the quivering academic, rammed home a new clip and primed his sidearm in front of the man. That always got their attention. Sliding the bolt back on the Glock 17 made that gloriously satisfying cher-chunk sound that all movie scriptwriters love. It acted as an underline, emphasising his determination to go down fighting no matter what. It also helped to make the archaeologist more frightened of Flynn than the thing that was currently snuffling and snarling its way towards them. And that was a good thing. Because it would mean the bolshy academic would now do what he was told for a change. “Good. That increases my chances, then.”

The bespectacled, owl-like man blinked curiously at Flynn. “What?”

“It means, buddy, that while mister bitey back there is chowing down and ripping your throat out like he did with your mate, he won’t be gnashing on me, will he?”

Oh no. Not again…

A snorting, snuffling sound that was so thick and black you could chew it like a piece of liquorice imposed on their momentary pause. “Seriously, will you just fuck off, you bastard!” Flynn abused the darkness and then emptied a volley of shots into nothing. Whether it actually made any real difference or not, he couldn’t tell. But whatever was back there yelped and snarled. Flynn hoped that the swarm of hollow-points at least gave the bastard cause to pause so they could focus on running again.

Move! For fuck’s sake, move!” Flynn spun the archaeologist around and shoved him hard. “I’ve got your back. As long as you stay in front of me.” Flynn put his mouth next to the sweating man’s ear. “And yet, you’re… still… here?”

The archaeologist suddenly developed a surprisingly-fast turn of speed for a Cambridge academic.

Normally, Flynn wouldn’t give anyone a head start. This wasn’t a school egg and spoon race where the ‘special kids’ got to jog a few steps before everyone else set off, and it was the ‘taking part that mattered, not the winning, little buddy’. This was a slime-covered stone corridor lined with spluttering, flickering lightbulbs that had been Jerry-rigged by Micky Cox – an ex-REME armed with a screwdriver, a happy disposition, and a real ‘MacGyver’ approach to fixing shit. Their only source of light was being produced by a wheezing, 40-year-old generator with carburettor problems combined with mile upon mile of gaffer-taped cable. And there wasn’t some happy-clappy teaching assistant cheering them on. There was a five-hundred-and-seventy-year-old psychopath with a taste for blood, violence and carnage just a few turns behind them. And he – or it, whatever the hell it was – was playing with them, the sick, twisted little bastard.

Flynn needed the archaeologist alive. What was in professor brainiac’s balding little noggin might just keep him and his team in one piece, if he could get the egghead to the safety of the citadel’s old armoury that was currently doubling as a control centre for the dig. Damn it, if he was going to be paid to babysit an academic, he’d make sure the son of a bitch stayed alive.

The twisting, turning corridors were slick with algae. These dungeons and corridors were built well below the natural water table and a musky, foetid atmosphere permeated every inch of the subterranean labyrinth. Rivulets of water seeped down and followed the channels between the huge blocks of granite. There was no mortar holding these blocks together. Stone like this didn’t need cement to keep it in place. These tunnels – deep under what would have been a massive, imposing castle – had thousands of tons of masonry and rock pressing down on them.

Back in the comfort of the hotel, the archaeologist had told Flynn and his team a rambling account of the supposed history of the citadel. It was, as Gary Parks had said, a ‘two-bottle tale’. The bottles in question had been filled with the local hooch, a paint-stripping, intestine-melting liquor that would probably lead to blindness if you drank too much of the damn stuff. Flynn was a practical kind of guy and, right up to the point when that… thing… had come wailing through the door, took a pretty pragmatic approach to concepts such as the ability of true evil, despair and pain to impregnate the very walls of a building. So he listened patiently about how the stones were held together with the screams of the damned, long since dead but not necessarily buried. The archaeologist had gone into great detail about how the terror of the inmates had been etched into the stone with scrabbled, ripped fingernails and bloodied stumps. It had become as real as any painting; an everlasting memory of the evil that had happened in this dark and savage place. He recounted grisly details of how every cell had been occupied with frail, frightened prisoners, their minds shredded and tattered by the constant screams, yowls and cries for mercy that echoed throughout the underground chambers. When the guards came for them, they’d begged. Oh, how they’d begged! They crawled on their bellies. They pleaded. They called to their God – who utterly abandoned them to their fate and the whims of their sadistic captors.

The archaeologist spared no details in his story. He explained how the peepholes allowed guards who got a thrill from watching the suffering of others to observe the prisoners’ slow and painful deaths as starvation and disease took hold. How they would watch as the rats started chewing on the dying when they became too weak to shoo them away, taking bets on which part of a prisoner’s body the rodents would go for first. Apparently, it was always the soft tissue – the genitals, the face, the eyes. Once the body had been reduced to gnawed bones and a sticky, stinking coating of vitreous fluid on the stone floor, the door was opened and a new occupant took residence. Except one.

Like freaked-out boy scouts telling ghost stories around a campfire, Flynn and his team had leaned in. After all, everyone loves a good ‘haunted castle’ story, don’t they? The archaeologist risked permanent sight damage by pouring himself another glass of hooch and had continued with his tale.

This cell, he explained, had no door. Instead massive stones had been seconded from other parts of the castle and used to wall up the doorway, leaving just the iron-barred peep-hole through which guards occasionally pushed a hissing, squawking cat. This unique prisoner, brought back home to this dark and terrifying castle after rampaging for years across Europe, liked his food still kicking. So they gave him cats because it seemed to be the one thing he… it… feared. That was their torment – giving him something they knew full well he detested, but was so starved and emaciated that he had no choice but to overcome his revulsion and feed on whatever screeching titbit the guards tossed through the barred gap.

The isolation was a torment, too, especially for such a brilliant, bright and diamond-hard mind. The knowledge that the stinking, festering cell littered with the bones of cats and rats was to be his everlasting tomb – a tomb that was designed for the living, not the undead – had warped his already-twisted mind beyond evil, and beyond any form of redemption and turned it from a ‘he’ into an ‘it’. That’s why the priests had brought it back here. Even they were afraid of it; afraid of what it had become. Afraid of what it could do, especially after Death had supposedly claimed its putrefying corpse and it had reanimated, sending at least three of those same priests to early and very violent deaths.

This was the cell it had called home for years, centuries, driven utterly insane by the lust for sustenance and tormented by the hissing, caterwauling animals the guards hurled into his cell. When the citadel was abandoned and the tunnels lost to history, it went into hibernation for centuries. Occasionally, it woke and fed on any rat that wasn’t quick enough to escape its clutches. Then, it returned to its state of stasis until the starvation became too great once again.

Well, that was the story. Flynn had listened, but up until about five minutes ago, he really hadn’t bought any of this BS. As an ex-soldier he had seen enough horror in his life to be open to the idea of the manifestation of evil. Getting chased through slime-covered corridors by that a snarling, salivating monstrosity meant he was getting more open-minded by the second…

They’d found the cell. And behind the stones lurked a creature that had wandered the dark desert of madness for more lifetimes than it could count. When the archaeologists had unblocked the tomb it had burst forth in a howling, screaming frenzy, tearing the first man it saw to pieces. It had sucked the young man – a research fellow in the final year of his doctorate – dry, gorging itself and likely relishing the feeling of drunken power. Sated, it had slumped to the floor for a moment, laughing maniacally. The first taste awoke the hunger. Now? It wanted more.

This was what Colby Flynn and the archaeologist were running from. Not an alcohol-fuelled story. A very real, very hungry and very angry creature from the pit of mankind’s nightmares.

But this was no simple medieval terror, released from its prison at last, and free to unleash its maddened, blackened rage once again on the world. Once, it had been a sentient, passionate young man, a visionary and military genius. But fate had been cruel to Vlad and the Black Prince had eventually been imprisoned in the stone-lined cell of Tokat Castle, a broken tooth of a citadel that towered high above the city.

The Seljuk Turks who had conquered Tokate in the 12^th Century had discovered a maze of underground passages and stone-lined cells, and had turned it into their own stronghold. In 1442 they were given their most dangerous prize, Prince Vlad III. But the young boy and his brother were political hostages, not prisoners. So, during his internment the Ottomans had attempted to create an ally out of him. They taught him military strategy. They nurtured his natural ability for warfare and combat, taught him the classics, languages, geography, mathematics and science. They had given him every advantage.

But they also brutalised him, beating and humiliating this prince’s son who would not bend his knee to the Turk’s rule.

And that was a big, big mistake.

They turned an intelligent, bright boy into a sadistic, vicious man – a military savant whose ability to strategise played a major part in his success as a ruler later on. But his brutalised, blackened heart became darker and more infested with evil until he created a monster that would resonate through the centuries.

Dracula.

The Impaler.

The devourer of children and sucker of souls.

This was to be his prison – firstly in life, and later, when the monks of Comana had brought his bloated corpse back from their monastery to the one place on earth they knew would hold him.

And it had held him. The monks’ plan had worked – right up until the moment when well-meaning academics with no understanding of true evil and a firm if totally misguided belief that knowledge would be their shield, had torn down the stones that kept Vlad from unleashing his unique brand of horror on the world.

To modern minds, especially those belonging to academics and military specialists that had indulged in the local hooch for a couple of hours, vampires were nothing more than a myth. One that had been responsible for some of both the best and the worst literary endeavours, and that echoed down through the ages to become sanitised by Hollywood into sparkly vampires with sickly complexions, beloved of swooning and incredibly stupid teenage girls. All of the archaeologist’s tales were merely that. Just tales. Stories. Pseudo-romantic embellishments of the history of an otherwise ordinary Ottoman castle.

Yeah. Tell that to the ragged, bloody remains of a twenty-five-year-old research fellow who had been Vlad’s first real meal in over five hundred long, long years. He had taken the full brunt of Vlad’s maddened rage. Flynn and the archaeologist had watched helplessly as a whirling maelstrom of hatred, blood-lust and utter fury swirled around the screaming student, tearing and shredding his skin, ripping it from his face and spraying blood in an arc around the corridor. It moved too fast to see clearly; just a tornado of rage that dismembered the student in a heartbeat.

And then?

Silence.

For a few fleeting seconds, a lull had descended on the corridors, allowing the echoes of the research student’s screams to fade into the stone and join the entombed chorus of thousands of other victims locked into the granite blocks for eternity. But then slowly, after the savagery and the silence, came a growing, rolling, maniacal laugh that reached out beyond the walls that had entombed the monster for so long. In the nearby village, the not-quite-so-ignorant-as-everybody-thought peasants who had grown up on fireside stories of the demon that was entombed in the citadel’s secret tunnels, bolted their doors, pulled the shutters closed and huddled together, gripped with an ancient fear that their ancestors had passed to them in their very genes. They knew. They knew that Vlad was free. The Dracul, the Black Prince, the Impaler. He was free…

Flynn had been the first to snap out of the terror trance and realise that they weren’t dealing with some damn fairy story here, but a real threat. A real nasty threat that was just about to turn its attention onto Flynn and the one remaining and utterly freaked out archaeologist. Flynn didn’t care whether this monster was the real Vlad, some crazy, inbred village idiot or the damn Devil himself. So he’d reacted in the only way he knew how. Natural or supernatural, this son of a bitch was flesh and blood. So a Glock should have an effect on it, even if it was only to slow the fucker down for a few seconds and give them that chance they needed to put more than twenty feet between it and them. He emptied an entire clip into the thing and watched as its body twitched and danced.

The blood-daubed creature recoiled for a few seconds and then stopped its snapped-marionette-string dance. It smiled, white teeth emphasised by the gore-covered skin. It stood, unfurling and flexing taloned fingers.

“Oh, shit…” Flynn grabbed his charge by the shoulders and screamed one word at him. “Run!”

Whatever that thing behind them was, it kept pace. Flynn got the distinct impression it could quite easily overtake and overwhelm them. But it was toying with them like a cat would play with a mouse. It was watching how they reacted, determining how well they knew the terrain. It was assessing them, learning their tactics, and letting them draw it along. Flynn had the distinctly unpleasant feeling that the little the archaeologist had told him about the legend of the Black Prince being a military genius was just the tip of a blood-soaked iceberg. His skin prickled. Back in Afghanistan there had been this one Taliban chieftain that had made all the others look like complete amateurs. He had had that cold, detached way of disciplining his men that revolved around ‘making examples’. The examples were bloody remains left swinging in trees in the savage winter gales that swept through the Tora Bora caves and the White mountains between Afghanistan and Pakistan. He had mounted an IED campaign so successful that it had claimed the lives of twenty regulars and seven Special Forces troops. He had been known for his extraordinary ability to pre-empt when and where the SF teams would go in on a ‘flush out’, and vanish like a wraith into the mountains, forever one step ahead. He had retained that arrogant, smug smile and defiance right up to the moment Flynn put two bullets between his bloodshot, hate-filled eyes.

Flynn then had to run for his life as the man’s two radicalised and equally insanely-violent sons pursued him and his team through the badlands, promises of revenge screamed in Pashto ringing in their ears. He learned then that when you cut the head from the Hydra, two more grow back. Evil is never conquered. It’s merely subdued until a greater evil comes to take its place. He had seen that same evil in the eyes of… whatever the fuck that thing was when it paused in its bullet-dance, dropped the mushed-up, ruined heart of the research fellow, and locked its gaze with him. An evil allowed to fester in a dark, vile place for centuries had become focused into a singularity that, when unleashed, would sweep everything before it. And Flynn’s Glock17 was going to do fuck-all to stop the bastard, no matter how many clips he emptied into its emaciated, putrefying body…

Vlad watched the soldier and his charge scuttle away down the corridor and smiled a chilling, venom-filled smile. Cold. Calculating. A military strategist like no other before or since. Stalking its prey at its leisure. It had waited hundreds of years. It could wait a few moments longer. Blood was only half the meal. It wanted to savour the fear as well. It wanted to hear their hearts pounding in anticipation of the terror that was about to befall them. It relished the futile attempts of a little man with a pop-gun trying to comprehend the evil he faced. That sweet, satisfying moment when the man realised that there was no escape. There was no fate other than the one the Black Prince had chosen for him. The Black Prince smiled a virginal white smile. Soldiers rarely operated alone. So there were more. So he would make sure the little soldier with his useless gun stayed alive long enough to watch any comrades he may have devoured in front of him. The anguish, the rage, the pathetic howling and screaming as he watched the Black Prince’s teeth rip into the throats of men he loved like brothers would be almost as delicious as the blood itself.

‘Lead on, little soldier. Lead on…’

Flynn and the archaeologist pelted down the slippery corridors that twisted and turned under the citadel and carried them deeper into the labyrinth. A line of gaffer-taped cables acted like a trail of breadcrumbs leading them back towards the sanctuary of the armoury. Without that advantage they would have become completely turned around in the myriad of tunnels that weaved and meandered beneath the ruined towers and crumbling walls. A wrong turn would take you into a dead end. And a dead end had a very literal sense when you were being pursued by an insane and bloodthirsty monster.

As he shoved the archaeologist again in the small of the back, Flynn pulled out a radio and pressed the squawk button. “Micky, get ready with everything we’ve got ordnance wise. We’re coming in fucking hot!”

“Don’t tell me those boffins have gone rogue on your arse? Coo, there ain’t nothing worse than a cocky egghead, fella!” Micky Cox’s cheerful voice crackled out of the hand-held and bounced off the stones.

“Don’t fuck about, Micky! I’m serious! FUBAR! FUBAR like you wouldn’t fucking believe!”

“Fuck… copy that.” Micky’s light-hearted tone instantly changed.

Flynn felt himself losing step as the archaeologist, not the fittest of academics, started to slow. The adrenaline was wearing off and panic was starting to take hold. Flynn knew from experience that he had seconds before the bloody fool froze up and probably went foetal on him. He reached out and grabbed the man’s shirt, overtook him and ignored the protestations as his coaching method changed from snarled encouragement and threats to brute-force dragging. “Move! We’ve got a few more turns before we get to the control room. I’ll lay money that your bitey friend back there won’t be able to get through that door once we’ve locked it, right?”

The archaeologist gasped as he tried to keep pace with Flynn. “And once we’re locked in with nowhere to run, what do you suggest then?”

“I’m not thinking that far ahead right now, fella. Priority number one is to stay away from Count Chompula, okay?” He yanked hard at the archaeologist’s multi-pocketed waistcoat, hauling him around another corner and a few steps closer towards safety.

They were close.

They were so damn close…

Flynn and the archaeologist rounded the next corner and skidded to a halt, flailing wildly to try and keep themselves from tumbling into the waiting arms of the Black Prince. It stood stooped and filling the corridor, disproportionately long arms full of muscle and sinews ending in talons that would rip through flesh and bone like it was paper. White teeth shone in the flickering light. Unlike those dopey movie vampires, this vicious fucker didn’t have two slightly longer canine teeth and a mouthful of perfect orthodontry. It had a whole mouthful of dazzlingly-white points bathed in saliva and dripping with toxins. It opened its maw and hissed like an angry cat. Eyes fixed on the two stumbling men, eyes filled with insanity, hatred and a raging hunger beyond anything Flynn had seen during his humanitarian missions to Sudan. “Shit! Back! Back! Back!” Flynn shoved the archaeologist backwards, trying to twist him around. The academic, unaccustomed to any physical activity more strenuous than reaching for a book on a top shelf, lost his balance and collapsed in a heap directly behind Flynn’s legs. Flynn toppled backwards, and the archaeologist and CPP bodyguard became entangled in a mess of flailing arms and legs.

Flynn extracted himself and rolled backwards, coming up and drawing the Glock in one smooth move. He knew it wouldn’t stop the laughing, blood-smeared monstrosity, but at least it might slow the fucker down a bit again.

The archaeologist had gone foetal, curled up on the floor, whimpering like a baby with bellyache.

‘Fuck him. Focus on the target.’ Flynn’s eyes narrowed and he squeezed the trigger. Two shots rang out and the monster twitched briefly. Then on the third squeeze the Glock, normally a stalwart of reliability, did nothing other than issue a mocking ‘click’. “Shit!” Memory gave him a hard slap in the face. He’d emptied most of the clip into the bastard back in the corridor earlier. Damn, damn, damn!

Most people would have railed against fact that the clip was empty and pulled the trigger again and again, as if the action would magic some spare ordnance from out of the sky and into the weapon. Flynn had spent six years in Special Forces. He’d spent more time behind enemy lines than the enemy had. So he knew better. The clip was empty; don’t fuck about trying to deny the bloody obvious, just reload, prime and fire. Flynn jettisoned the empty clip and fumbled in his vest pocket for a new one, ignoring the old magazine as it clattered against the stones. Normally, he’d be able to reload, prime and start shooting again in a split second. Put him up against a bunch of howling Afghans armed with AKs, bad personal hygiene and angry intent and it would have been a walk in the park. But this? This guffawing, cackling monstrosity? It had him rattled.

So he did the unthinkable.

He dropped the damn clip.

Time demonstrated that whole ‘fluidity’ concept in glorious technicolour, and decelerated to a crawl. Man and monster watched the clip fall in slow motion, fleeting, flashing glimpses of the jacketed hollow-point bullets emphasised by the matt black of the clip. It hit the ground end on, bounced and spun through three-sixty in mid-air, spewing one bullet off at a right-angle. The clip and stray bullet clattered back down, shuddered and finally came to rest. The errant JHP rolled away into the darkness, lost in the shadows.

Flynn tore his gaze away from the clip and refocused on the grinning face of the monster. He knew, didn’t he? The smarmy, grinning motherfucker! He just damn well knew that was Flynn’s last spare clip. He fucking knew.

Flynn was determined to go down fighting. He stuffed the Glock17 back in his belt and pulled out his trusty Blackhawk blade from the drop-down leg holster it liked to call home. No self-respecting SF squaddie would be caught dead without one of these black beauties. The six-inch symmetrical blade was precision ground D-2 steel. It would cut through skin, bone, and flesh, and didn’t differentiate between the dead or the undead. Flipping it around so the blade w edge-on against the inside of his forearm and hidden from the monster’s line of sight, he smiled back at the monster like a man with nothing left to lose but his life. “Wanna dance, fuck nuts? Huh?” He beckoned with his outstretched left hand. “C’mon, you ugly fuck! Let’s do it, let’s fucking dance! C’mon!”

He knew it was hopeless.

He knew he was going to lose. And that losing meant dying. Badly.

He knew that as soon as that cackling, guffawing bipolar son-of-a-bitch flip-flopped back into black fury and bloodthirsty rage, he’d be facing an enemy whose savagery was beyond all comprehension. Savagery of that level made an opponent practically invincible. He’d seen how fast the thing was when it launched itself out of the cell. Nothing Flynn had ever encountered moved that quickly. His only consolation was that while mister bitey here was getting busy with him, it would give the archaeologist a chance to get out of danger, at least for a few moments. But it might just be enough.

Flynn may have appeared to have scant regard for his charge, but he was a good man. And good men care about those who can’t fight for themselves…

The monster stopped its insane cackling. The hunger was burning in it once more. And this time it lusted after the blood of a warrior, not that of a screaming, pissing boy. It wanted blood filled with passion and fire. Blood that had been spilled on the battlefield. Blood that sang out to him like a war trumpet. The blood of a soldier.

It could sense the man’s heart beating, a slow, steady rhythm, not the usual frantic pounding that its victims normally demonstrated. Ah, delightful! A true, battle-hardened warrior. They were always the most satisfying, especially at the very end when they knew they had lost their final conflict.

It would also give the Black Prince an insight into modern combat tactics. It knew it was capable of tearing the soldier to pieces as easily as it had devoured the screeching boy earlier. But it wanted to ‘dance’, as the mocking soldier said. It wanted to see just what kind of a ‘dance’ these modern warriors engaged in, and how things had changed in the five hundred years it had been locked away in that stinking cell.

But the hunger was also strong. It filled the creature. It consumed every fibre of its being.

Time to feed…

The Black Prince coiled, ready to spring. The soldier was certain to land a few blows before he succumbed, but the brief glimpses of fleeting pain would remind the Black Prince that it was alive. Free. And would be feared once again! The beast flexed its taloned fingers. Long, yellowed nails tapered into savage points. The knuckles were pronounced and gnarled, like the knots in a tree trunk. Sinews like cords snaked across the back of its hands and up his arms. It spread its arms, threw back its head and roared – a scream of defiance at those who would incarcerate and starve it for all these years. They were gone. Mere dust and ashes. Corpses for the worms. But Vlad? Ah, Vlad. He was here. He had survived! And now he could feed once more on the blood of a soldier. He lumbered towards his opponent, a low snarl grumbling in the back of his throat cut short when another sound intruded – a soft mewing. The creature stopped in its tracks. Its bloodshot eyes widened in horror and it screeched – a sound so piercing it made his human opponent recoil and cover his ears. The screech went on and on, reverberating around the corridors and echoing through the citadel, folding and doubling back on itself.

A small, calico cat sat serenely in the middle of the corridor, casually studying him. The skinny creature was one of the hundreds of feral cats that inhabited the citadel. For as long as the stone walls had stood, the cats had been there. They served a practical purpose in that they kept rats and mice under control. But the villagers seemed to have a special reverence for the mangy creatures, leaving out food and milk for them and chastising anyone who might feel the temptation to kick one of the creatures in passing. Cats, in this part of Turkey, were almost sacred.

Vlad hated them. They represented its madness, its incarceration, its humiliation. Every time it had fed on one of the screeching beasts, the creature’s insides felt as if it had swallowed acid. For days afterwards Vlad would writhe and scream in agony as the cat’s blood burned through its body. For Vlad, this tiny, mewing calico cat represented all the torment, the agony and the rage that had turned a man into a monster. What once had been a brilliant young mind had degenerated into that which terrifies mankind the most – a physical manifestation of the darkest evil that we are all capable of becoming…

Vlad recoiled in horror, inching backwards away from the calm little cat. Paying the vampire scant attention, the cat cleaned its paw, a tiny pink tongue darting out as it licked the fur smooth. It stood, stretched its back and legs, yawned and sat back down again, curling its tail neatly around its feet.

Flynn watched as the little cat studied Vlad with that casual interest felines have when they’re mildly distracted. Then, it got up, waved its tail in the air and walked towards the creature, purring happily and blissfully unaware that its misplaced show of affection was tormenting the beast.

Vlad screamed again and vanished down the corridor. The cat, baffled by the reaction, stopped and sat down.

Flynn looked at the cat in disbelief, amazed that such a tiny little thing could do what he couldn’t – repel a monster. “Well, fuck me.”

“He hates cats.” The archaeologist had uncurled from the foetal position and stood, supporting his shaking body by pressing his palm against the slick stones that lined the corridor. “Hates them.”

“You don’t say.” Flynn scowled, and put the knife away and pulled out his gun. He stepped forward and rescued his dropped clip, deftly flicking the clip into the butt of the gun before scooping up the cat. “Okay, kitty, you’re coming with us.” He turned to the archaeologist, Glock 17 in one hand and scrawny cat in the other. “Wanna get out of here before that bastard decides he’s more hungry than he is scared of a little pussy?” He nodded towards the darkened end of the corridor. “Straight ahead. Follow the cables. Don’t worry. Me and puss here are right behind ya.”

The archaeologist stared open-mouthed at the cat for a second, turned, and trotted away down the corridor, slightly crouched and ready to backpedal furiously if Vlad did his ‘surprise!’ tactic again around the next corner.

Flynn scratched the little cat’s head affectionately, and let the agile little critter clamber up onto his shoulder. The deep, rumbling purr felt like a massage cushion on his shoulders. He gave the cat one last affectionate pat and ran after the disappearing academic.

The cat turned and looked back, narrowing its emerald green eyes at something in the shadows. Its ears flattened against its skull and it hissed…

“Shut the door! Shut the damn door!” Colby Flynn dived through the opening and into the armoury. As he tumbled through the air he jettisoned a small calico cat from his shoulder, rolled and came back up on one knee facing back out into the corridor, the Glock17 up and ready. He stared out into the gloom. Shadows crowded in, advancing towards the armoury as one by one the Jerry-rigged bulbs Micky Cox had strung like Christmas lights along the corridor flickered, popped and died. Each section plunged sequentially into darkness, allowing the thick blackness to jump ever closer to the place Flynn hoped would be safer. Flynn knew that if the darkness reached them before Micky got the door shut, they’d all die in that room…

Micky slammed the heavy oak door into the frame and turned the key in the lock. There was no rusty squawking or atmospheric creaking from the hinges. Micky was ex-REME, a Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineer, and a damn good one. He hated any piece of machinery that didn’t work as it was supposed to, no matter how seemingly inconsequential. So the hinges and lock had been cleaned and oiled. They worked perfectly, and the reassuring click as the tumblers fell into place was the best damn sound Flynn had heard all day. Micky slid the top and bottom bolts back into their housings, providing additional reinforcement to the lock. He turned, grabbed a thick plank and dropped it into the cradle with a deeply satisfying and wooden-sounding clunk. The huge armoury door was now shut – properly shut.

Flynn lowered the Glock as Micky leaned against the door. Never point ordnance at your mates. Kind of a rule, really.

“Mind telling me what the actual fuck?” Micky turned and frowned at his boss, his vivid blue eyes narrowing. “Also? What’s with the cat?”

“Little Rupert here saved our hides, fella.”

“Rupert?”

“What’s wrong with Rupert?”

Micky’s frown deepened. “Okay, let’s gloss over the fact that you’ve called some mangy, flea-infested moggy Rupert, you weirdo. And just so you know? I’m allergic to cats.”

“Trust me, Mick, you’d be a damn sight more allergic to the thing it stopped from chowing down on our arses, mate. I’d put a week’s pay on that.” Flynn stood and ran his hand through his dirty blonde hair.

Micky shrugged. “I take it that’s what the FUBAR’s all about?”

Flynn glanced down at a heap in the corner. The weeping academic had gone foetal again. Flynn sniffed sharply, grabbed a handful of archaeologist and hauled him to his feet. “Upsy daisy, fella.” He shook the man like a rag-doll. “Oi! Stop now with all that yodelling and tell us what that thing is, and how we can kill it.” He deposited the frightened man on the corner of a table and shook him again. “Because right now, our situ is not good, son. All that’s stopping some insane, bloodthirsty creature from tearing you, me and my boys apart is a five-hundred-year-old door and, for some reason, a bloody cat.” Flynn glanced at the cat, which was winding its skinny body around Micky’s legs and purring loudly. Micky looked decidedly distressed.

“Which damn question do you want me to answer first, Mister Flynn?” The archaeologist sniffed indignantly.

“How ‘bout you work through them in order, mate?” A hard cockney voice snapped angrily from the corner and Gary Parks, a hulk of a man with a passion for blowing things up loomed from the shadows. His deep brown eyes shone out from mahogany skin and he raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Boss?”

“Waiting for Poindexter here to enlighten us, fella.” Flynn focused on the cowering academic. “Well? There’s four of us—”

“And this bloody cat!” Micky sneezed violently. “See? Allergic. Fucking allergic.”

“And the cat, yes, thanks Mick. Take an antihistamine. There’s some in the medipack.”

“Couldn’t we just chuck the cat out?”

“The cat stays, Micky. It stays. Okay?” Flynn jabbed a thumb at a pile of supply boxes. “Antihistamine pill. Now. Get it down your neck, you tart.” He rolled his eyes. “Allergies. Seriously. Who the fuck ever heard of a member of the Regiment with allergies?”

“Damn near got him returned-to-unit, boss, remember?” Gary grinned at Micky and flicked him the finger.

“Bollocks, Parks, you ‘roided up wanker.”

“Focus, you pair of reprobates.” Flynn stared hard at the academic. “So. Wanna fill in the gaps, little guy?”

“Mister Flynn, I don’t think you realise the seriousness of the situation.”

Flynn glowered and slapped the man hard across the mouth. “Really? You think? You think I don’t get the fact that whatever that thing is out there has just ripped your mate to pieces and eaten his fucking heart?”

“Wait, what?” Gary and Micky stared open-mouthed at their boss.

“Or that I emptied two clips of hollow-points into the fucker and all it did was dance a little jig?” Flynn slapped the man across the mouth again. “What part did I miss?”

The archaeologist recoiled from Flynn’s raised hand. “Stop hitting me, damn it!” His shaking hands tried vainly to ward off another slap. “I’ll tell you, just… please, stop hitting me!”

Flynn dropped his hand. “Okay. Start at the top.”

“Vlad. It’s Vlad.”

Gary Parks frowned. “What, as in the Impaler?”

“Isn’t that a type of car?”

“That’s an Impala, Micky, you idiot!”

“Yes, as in the Impaler. The ‘Dracula’ of legend. Only he’s very, very real, believe me.” The academic ignored the scowling, sniffling Cox and focused on Flynn and Parks. “Remember that story I told you last night? It’s true. Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are. I expected to find nothing but bones, Mister Flynn, I swear!”

“Yeah, well that didn’t pan out, did it?” Flynn sighed. “Seriously. Look, sorry about your lad, by the way. That was bad.”

“So let me get this straight. We’re being laid siege to by Dracula? Are you serious?” Micky Cox’s voice was filled with incredulity. “Fuck off! That’s a myth!”

“Trust me, Mick, that thing out there, whether it’s actually Dracula or not, is no damn myth. So let’s ignore the fact that we’ve been dropped kicking and, in the case of Professor Braniac here, screaming into an episode of the Twilight Zone and figure out how we kill that fucker and get everyone out of here in one piece, copy?”

“Copy.” The two ex-soldiers nodded. Everything else was irrelevant. Myth or not, the identity of their opponent could be argued over later. They needed to focus on the reality of the situation. This was now a simple matter of survival.

“Right. So what’s the state of play with ordnance, Gary?”

“Not particularly tickity, to be honest. We weren’t expecting gunfights with angry vampires, boss. We’ve got two boxes of ammo for the Glocks and the three P90s are stocked up with subsonic rounds, with two spare magazines each. Other than that?” Gary shrugged. “I got some C4, if that helps?”

Flynn stared at his friend. “Why? Why do you have C4, Gary, why?”

“I thought it might be useful. Ya know. If we had a cave-in or something. And had to blast our way out. Hey, look. I don’t feel right if I ain’t got at least a little bit of Play Doh to bugger about with, okay?” Gary’s explanation tailed off into a mumbled, petulant mutter.

“Normally, I would be gently taking it off you and calling the men in white coats. But today, you crazy fucker, you might just have convinced me that your presence on this op hasn’t been a total waste of a plane ticket.” Flynn grinned at his friend. “Good. So we’ve got C4, some P90s and Glocks, and seriously limited ammo.”

“And that bloody cat.”

“And Rupert, yes, thanks, Micky.” Flynn snapped his fingers at the calico cat and it immediately stopped tormenting Micky and leapt back onto Flynn’s shoulder.

“It’s not enough,” a voice broke in.

All eyes focused on the archaeologist.

“What?” Flynn glared at the man.

“I said, it’s not enough. You’re not dealing with some Taliban terrorist here, gentlemen. You’re dealing with an ancient evil that has defeated whole armies and laid on banquets where his minions feasted on the hearts of his enemies!” The man’s voice was hitting the hysteria button pretty hard. “Once it gets through that door? I promise you, none of us will survive!”

Flynn grabbed the man’s collar and snarled in his ear. “Not helping, fella, not fucking helping! You’re upsetting my lads, mate! So enough with the ‘we’re all doomed’ shit, okay?” He tossed the man aside.

“I got a salami sandwich if that’s any use?” Micky held up a brown paper bag.

“How the hell would that be of any earthly use whatsoever, you tit? We’re up against some denizen of unmitigated fucking evil, not an angry deli counter server!” Gary cuffed his friend across the back of his head.

“Hey! It’s got garlic in it. Vampires hate garlic, right?”

All eyes turned again towards the archaeologist. He shook his head.

Flynn shrugged. “Right. So how about sunlight? Don’t they burst into flames or something when sunlight hits them? If that’s the case, then all we have to do is wait until dawn, old chompy out there has to retreat back to his cell, and we can get you and us out of here, seal up the doors and get the fuck out of Dodge, right?”

Again the archaeologist shook his head. “We’re underground, Mister Flynn. It could be midday and it wouldn’t make any difference.”

“Fine. So our options are we either blow the fucker into pink mist with Play Doh, or die of boredom and bad rations locked in here. Well, honestly boss? I didn’t expect to go out like this.” Gary Parks glared at the door and picked up a P90, winding the webbing strap around his arm and priming the stubby gun ready for action. “But whatever happens, at least we can go out shooting, right?”

“Reserve your ammo, big guy. Don’t get too trigger happy, okay? I’ve emptied two clips into this bugger and it didn’t even flinch. We need to find anoth—”

A massive impact made the door vibrate in its frame. Particles of masonry floated down. A second impact made the door judder again.

“Shit! How big is this fucker?” Micky turned and indicated at the ordnance box. Wordlessly and with the fluidity that comes with years of training, experience and working together, Gary grabbed an FNP90 out of the box and tossed it to his friend. Both men took position, stabilising their stance by dropping down to one knee and tucking the P90 hard into their shoulders. They sighted on the door, ready to fill anything that came through with hollow-points. The P90s held 50-shot magazines, so they were pretty sure they could at least dissuade Vlad from simply waltzing in and turning the armoury into an abattoir in short order.

“Wait out…” Flynn gave the order to stand by to engage as soon as the ancient door gave way. A third impact sent tremors through the wood. All three men primed their guns in unison and waited.

A fourth impact. The door flexed – but it held. Just. From beyond the iron-hard blackened wood came a primeval snuffling and snarling. Clawed fingers scrabbled at the wood, sliding ineffectually over fibres that had long ago hardened into the consistency of steel ropes. The snuffling and snarling became frenetic, the sound of scrabbling nails more frenzied. The beast let out a howl of rage and launched a barrage of attacks against the door. A final scream of pure fury rang through the granite corridor then silence. The last few motes of mortar dust floated down.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Has it gone?” Micky Cox’s voice was an equal balance of hard-core ‘bring it on, you fucker!’ and just enough concern to ensure the element of self-preservation kicked in.

“Doubt it, Mick. Probably just buggered off up the corridor to take a good old run up, mate. Eye’s on.” Gary Parks’ eyes flickered briefly from the door to Flynn. “Now what, boss? Another battering like that and that door’s coming down.”

“Stand fast.” Flynn shifted his grip on his own P90 and waited. “Okay, Professor, suggestions? Because we can’t hold this thing off forever.”

“I… sir, I’m an archaeologist, not a damn strategist!”

“Fella, I’m an ex-soldier, not Buffy the fucking Vampire Slayer, but you don’t see me crying in a corner, do you? Now think! Use that brain of yours to try and figure a way out of here!” He jerked his head towards the table. “There’s a map of the citadel tunnels on the table. Find us a quick way to the surface. Because Gary’s right, that door ain’t gonna put up with another battering like that. Mister Bitey out there is coming through on the next assault, and I want to be ready for him.”

The archaeologist scuttled over to the table and started poring over the map.

“Boss? I could set a charge if you like? When Sir Chompsalot comes through I could vaporise the bugger, no probs.”

Flynn shook his head. “As much as I like the sound of that, it would bring the whole damn chamber down on top of our heads too. Kinda a lose-lose situation, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Nah. I can use it like blasting cord. Loop a line of Play Doh around the door frame and direct the explosion inwards. It would contain the blast, wouldn’t compromise the chamber ceiling, and give Chompy out there one hell of a headache. If nothing else, it would at least buy us some time to make a run for it. And to be honest? I don’t like the fact we’re effectively cornered in here.”

Flynn looked at his friend. “I agree, mate. Look, are you absolutely sure?”

“Yep.”

“You’re sure sure?”

“Boss, your doubt in my ability to blow shit up in a controlled and refined manner wounds me!”

“Gary, I have no doubt that you can blow shit up. I just don’t want you blowing us up at the same time.” He glanced at Micky. “Mick? You’re our engineer. You concur?”

“Do-able. As long as the Play Doh is put on the very edge of the frame it should do exactly as Gary says without compromising the roof. But dude, you better be pretty sparing near the apex of the door arch. If that central keystone block comes down, the whole lot follows it.”

Gary nodded. “Duly noted. Boss?”

“Do it.”

Gary immediately put his P90 down and turned to the ordnance box. Flynn flickered his eyes away from the door and towards the professor. “Professor? How’s it coming? Got a green route out of here yet or what?”

“I may have something…” The professor spun the map around and stared intently at it. “Yes… yes! There’s another way out!” He looked up and smiled a hopeful, slightly hysterical smile. “That door is obviously the main exit route, but there’s another egress marked here. It drops us into a corridor and then out into the main passageway.”

“Aww, bless! Listen to you, fella! Egress!” Micky laughed sharply. “We must be rubbing off on ya. Anyone else would’ve said a ‘secret door’!”

“Leave the man alone, Mick. Right. Where’s this ‘egress’ point, Professor?” Flynn nodded at Micky. “Don’t take your eyes off that door, Cox.”

“Copy.”

Flynn focused his attention back on the academic. “Okay. Show me.”

“This is the armoury. This is where we are.”

“Well, shit. Thank you for pointing that out to me, professor. I thought I was on the third level at Bluewater fucking Shopping Centre! Door, fella, where’s the damn door?”

“I… yes, sorry about that. It’s supposed to be here.” The academic stabbed a finger at the map.

“Supposed to be?”

“Well, I’m assuming that’s what this symbol means, yes.”

“And you know what they say about ‘assume’ being the mother of all fuck ups, right?”

“Um, boss? We got snuffling over here…” Micky Cox shifted his grip on the P90. Outside the door came that stomach-churning snaffling and scratching. The Black Prince was back and worrying at the timbers.

Flynn walked to his friend’s side. “What d’ya reckon he’s up to, Mick?”

“Weakest point of any door is the hinges. My guess? If he’s smart he’ll go for them. But another few shoulder barges and it’s going to be a bit of a moot point, boss, because that door is on its last legs. Look.” He pointed at the central plank. Bright, fresh wood that had been buried under ages of grime and blackened layers could clearly be seen. The plank was splitting.

“Oh, he’s smart, Mick. Believe me.” He jabbed a finger at the archaeologist. “Professor, find that trap door or whatever it is. Find it right now.” Flynn turned. “Gary? We ready, mate?”

“Two minutes.”

“We may not have two minutes, big guy.” Flynn took up position with Micky. He stared at the door and frowned. “Mick? I’ve got an idea. You’re not gonna like it.”

“O-kay?”

“We open the door.”

“Fuck off!”

“No, hear me out. If he starts battering that door again, it’s gonna give and we’ll be wide open with no way of stopping him from coming through full tilt. Trust me, this bugger moves fast. So we open the door, fill the bastard with two clips worth of twenty-eights, shut the door again and by then Gary should be ready with his Play Doh and the professor will hopefully have found us a way out of here by the back door.”

Cox’s eyes widened. “You’re insane!”

“You got a better idea?”

“Oh, I dunno, how ‘bout I try clicking my heels together three times and say ‘there’s no place like home’?”

“So that’s a no, then?”

“I’ve found it! The door! I’ve found it! The professor grunted as he pushed against a massive stack of shelves laden with old boxes. “It’s… behind here!” He grunted again.

“Take the damn boxes off, you idiot! Then you’ll be able to move the shelves.” Flynn looked back at the door. “Okay, fuck that, plan B.

“Good. ‘Cause you’re bang on, boss, I didn’t like plan A.”

“We’ll do exactly as I said and put the welcome mat out.

“Oh, c’mon, seriously?”

Flynn ignored Micky’s protestations. “We fill Chompy with ordnance, shut the door bloody damn quick, and then you, me, Gary and the professor get the hell out of here through the trap door. Gary? Don’t worry about being all delicate with the Play Doh, mate, put the whole lot up. Everything we’ve got, just slap and go, okay? We let him think we’re still in here, he comes barrelling through the door, trips the detonator and brings the entire bloody castle down on his head. Meanwhile, we’re exiting stage left sharpish. Any questions?”

“What about the cat?”

“Rupert comes with me.” Flynn looked at the cat and winked. Its green eyes lit up and it started purring loudly again. “All clear?”

“Copy.”

“Professor?”

The academic grunted a response and tossed another dust-covered box into the corner. “Um, copy?”

Flynn grinned at the man. “Adda boy! Okay then. On three, Mick.”

“Not liking plan B at all…”

“One.” Flynn heaved the cross beam out of its cradle.

“Two…” He slid the bolts back one by one.

“THREE!” He flicked the key, grabbed the handle and turned, pulling the door wide open. Flynn dropped to the floor so that Micky could fire over the top of him. He angled the P90 up so that anything running towards them would get a belly full of bullets at 45 degrees. He didn’t care how ‘undead’ you were, that would do a lot of damage.

Micky aimed into the darkness. “Incoming!”

The Black Prince came howling towards them, venom-laden saliva spraying from his open maw. There was none of the cackling laughter this time. Just a crazed scream that resonated like savage bells from the granite walls, ringing and echoing through the entire citadel.

“Fire!” Flynn depressed the trigger and the P90 spat bullet after bullet at the monster. The P90 could fire nine hundred rounds per minute, so Flynn knew they only had a few seconds before the fifty-round magazine was empty.

Above him a swarm of bullets from Micky’s P90 buzzed. The noise was deafening as one hundred rounds focused a colossal amount of kill-power into one soft body.

Blood sprayed the walls of the corridor. Vlad had just fed, so his stomach was full of the congealed remains of his victim. The bullets ripped open Vlad’s belly like a piñata. His own guts and those of his latest victim spilled out onto the floor and he screamed. Scooping up his own intestines with one taloned hand, he stuffed them back into his stomach cavity and roared at the two men. He slithered back into the shadows, burbling and spluttering, fresh blood flowing from the dozens of wounds on his body.

“Door! Shut the door!” Flynn rolled out of the way and Micky reacted instantly, slamming the door closed once again and re-securing the bolts, lock and cross beam.

“Gary, you’re up!” Flynn scrabbled to his feet, jettisoned the empty P90 clip and replaced it with a fresh one.

Gary sprinted to the locked door and slapped two blocks of C4 on either side of the frame. He inserted a detonator into one, stretched a thin trip-wire across the door frame and into the second detonator on the opposite side. He flicked a switch on the nearest block and a small red LED light started to flash. “Door’s live. I strongly suggest not being around when it opens.”

“Okay.” Flynn helped the professor give the shelves one last shove and they toppled over. Behind was a barely visible door, coated in layers of grime and filth. Flynn looked at the door – and the very large and very shut lock. “Okay. Key? Key?”

“No key.”

“Fuck. Gary? Got any more Play Doh?”

“A little bit.”

“Blow the lock.”

“Okie dokie.” Gary pulled out a small piece of C4, rolled it into a thin sausage and inserted it into the keyhole. He pushed a detonator in and waved everyone back. “Fire in the hole!” He pressed the detonator button and turned his head away, cowering from the small but deadly explosion. The lock, made brittle by years of rust and decay, shattered and the door swung open into a cobweb-infested corridor.

“Go, go, go!” Flynn pushed Micky, the archaeologist and Gary into the passageway. He took one last look at the door. Behind it he could hear the beast snuffling and snarling again. A slow, nasty smile spread over Flynn’s face. “Come on in, fella, come right on in!” He glanced down at the cat and nodded. “You ready, Rupert?”

The calico cat stood, stretched and mewed softly. His stripy tail lifted into the air and he leapt with one bound onto Flynn’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here, shall we, little guy?” Flynn turned and followed his friends into the corridor.

The Black Prince felt pain. Pain that he had never experienced before. These metal projectiles were very different from the firearms of the fourteenth and fifteenth century. They spat bullets faster than bees erupting from an overturned hive. Vlad smiled. They would be a useful addition to his new army’s arsenal. Behind the weakening oak door was not only more living food to help his body repair from its injuries, but more of these weapons too. Time to take ownership of both. He would feed on the small man with the spectacles. The others were soldiers. He appreciated their usefulness. They would be turned, infected with the venom that dripped from his mouth, to be forever compliant servants. He looked at the door, ascertaining its weakest point. The cracked central plank indicated that one more hard impact would shatter the ancient timbers. He let out a scream of delight and ran at the door.

The wood exploded and the Black Prince stood in the fragmented remains of the doorway.

A flashing red dot caught his attention and he peered at it, curious. What new experience was this? Vlad looked closer at the muddy brown block stuck to the stone arch. Inserted into its centre was a metal cylinder and the torn end of a wire.

The light stopped flashing…

Further into the tunnel a muffled ‘boom!’ and a shower of debris from rotting walls and crumbling ceilings caused the four men to stop, crouch and cover their heads with their arms. Stones and lumps of mortar clattered down and the men balled up tighter, pressing their backs against the wall.

Flynn was the first to uncurl. “Sounds like matey’s found our little gift. Let’s not wait around to find out if he’s gonna send a thank-you card. Move!” He hauled the archaeologist to his feet. “C’mon, fella, let’s get you back to the hotel for a nice hot bath and a couple of bottles of that local shit.”

“Which way?”

“Follow the cat.” The four men trotted after the little calico cat out into the main passageway – and straight into the waiting arms of a crowd of shuffling, snarling vampires.

These were Vlad’s most trusted lieutenants, whose own tombs beneath the armoury had been cracked opened by the explosion. The cat stopped, flattened its ears and hissed like an angry kettle.

Flynn brought his gun up to his shoulder and swore passionately. “Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me…”