Vampire Hunter D: Dark Road Part Three (16 page)

“The ice on the tundra's melted.”

“It'll still take two days to reach where it came down. And yet here we are, running into a river like this? The damn thing's gotta be dozens of yards across!”

Another of them pulled out a map and a photo and compared them to the scene before them. The river was easily in excess of five hundred yards wide, and while the spray from the water didn't create it, a fog hung over the opposite shore that kept them from making out anything on that side. There wasn't any trace of the great stands of trees depicted on their map. For that matter, it didn't show this river, either.

“There's bound to be more of this. I say screw it!”

“Shut up, Dan. Back in the Capital, folks are sitting on pins and needles waiting for word from us, you know. I don't care if it's a river or the sea; if it's in our way, we're crossing it. Start getting ready for a fording right away.”

Nearly twenty men dismounted in unison and began to take their gear down off their horses' backs.

“We're all set with the ropes!” someone shouted twenty or thirty minutes later, and another twenty minutes after that, explosions rang out overhead.

Rocket launchers shot ropes to the unseen opposite shore, and special metal-alloy drill tips on the ends of the ropes bored down dozens of yards into the earth to secure them. When the current was strong, there was no other way to cross with their horses except to hold onto these ropes.

Resigned to their pitiful lot, the group members looked up to the sky as one.

“What in the world's that?”

“Choppers, I think.”

“Whose?”

These shouted remarks were in response to five aircraft flying purposefully across the cloudy, ash gray sky.

“I don't think any of the villages around here own anything like that—which can only mean . . .”

The rest of that sentence had already formed in the heart of every man present.

“They're bandits!”

“Those bastards—they're fucking ghouls! They'll loot the place dry!” another man cursed, the words rising with the sound of his teeth grinding.

But this became a cry of astonishment when all five helicopters were thrown off course simultaneously and dropped behind that silky veil that wasn't quite spray or mist. Rotor struck rotor, throwing free chunks that impacted on still other aircraft—and no sooner had this happened than the sky was filled with fiery lotus blossoms. Black smoke spread in the air and flames consumed hundreds of pieces of debris as all the crimson blooms scattered their petals. Once they'd vanished into the depths of the fog, only the smoke snaked into the sky, and then that too disappeared.

“What the hell happened?”

“Turbulence?”

“The wind ain't blowing all that hard—the meteorite's gotta be to blame. A cursed star is what it is!”

“Damn! If we get too close, we're liable to drown. We'd do well to turn back, boss.”

“Shut your pie hole. Josh, you're gonna be the first to go across.”

“Shit. I wish I'd kept quiet.”

Ultimately it took half the day for the whole group to cross the stream, dodging oncoming trees and corpses floating in the current. Not only was it more than five hundred yards wide, but they also had to get their horses and baggage across, too. The dense fog hid any scenery more than three feet away behind endless white, so the leader ordered the men to form a circle and to be sure to keep tabs on the people to either side of them.

“The ground's mush.”

“Yeah. And it's warm.”

“You think maybe there was a volcano or something in the area?”

“Nope. That wasn't it. It's still warm on account of the friction when the meteorite struck.”

“You've gotta be kidding me! That was two days ago. This should've long since cooled.”

“Which tells us something—the meteorite itself is still boiling hot. Just look. We're still two days' journey from where it fell, yet every last tree's been uprooted. The ice hereabouts runs a foot thick, but it's been turned into this river and the fog. Every village we've passed up till now was knocked flat by a quake or swallowed by cracks in the earth. Hills crumbled, swamps boiled away, and there's not a bird or a beast to be seen. I don't care how big a meteorite we're talking about; there's no way it could do all this. On top of that, the communiqué from the Capital said astronomers watching the shooting star reported that it was just a little deal, less than eight inches in diameter. There's no way in hell it could've caused a disaster of this proportion.”

“Why didn't you say anything about that before, boss?” a number of them asked.

Their leader replied impassively, “Oh, that's simple. Because if I'd let that slip, there's not a man among you who would've come along!”

“Well, you're right about that, but still—”

Just then, the old huntsman who'd been by the campfire with his eyes shut tight put his finger to his lips and shushed them.

“What is it, Pops?” the leader asked.

“Something's coming from the north. And it's headed this way at a hell of a speed,” he said.

“What is it?”

“I don't know. Hey, put that fire out. Everyone, don't make a sound, now.”

The whole group grew tense. Aside from the old huntsman, they were all farmers who'd just signed on for the per diem and the reputation that came from having taken part in a survey party. But farmers were only used to dealing with the sort of supernatural creatures and monsters that ravaged their fields. Scattering an extinguishing powder on their campfire, they grabbed their respective weapons and took cover behind their baggage—all without a single extraneous action.

A minute passed. After another thirty seconds had gone by, red points of light appeared in the depths of the fog.

“Here they come,” the old huntsman said, cocking the old-fashioned rifle he carried.

The points of light swiftly grew from the size of a fingertip to that of a fist, and by this time the outline of the things had become visible as black silhouettes in the fog. From the bottom of cylinders about six and a half feet tall, a number of thin pipes wriggled like tentacles. A red point of light glowed from a spot about halfway up each cylinder. There were more than a dozen of these things.

The leader looked at the huntsman. When it came to combat, he was a veteran.

The old huntsman ignored him. His instincts had been triggered by the approaching foe. The same instincts that time and again had pulled him back from the jaws of death into the land of the living told him not to mess with this. They weren't telling him to run—just not to mess with it.

But before the huntsman could take any action, hostilities were declared.

“Draw them in before you open fire,” the leader ordered his group.

The silhouettes glided closer. They'd heard him.

“Fire!”

The shout was followed by ear-shattering reports, while the old huntsman leaned his rifle up against his pack and grabbed the right lapel of his fire-beast vest. Telling himself to calm down, the old man focused his attention on his own fingertip, which soon found something hard and thin.

Up ahead, screams split the night air. A tentacle had just snared one member of the party. Legs thrashing, he was hoisted up into the air. Along the way, he raised his rifle and fired. There was the sound of something hard being struck, and his slug changed direction.

The cylinders were now plainly visible. Entirely silver, they were supported by two of the tentacles, which seemed to be tied to them by iron rings. The other six tentacles were apparently meant for combat, and they seized another member of the party who'd taken cover under his baggage by the ankle and effortlessly pulled him out again.

Screams rang out here and there. The crack of rifles followed, and soon there was silence.

The men hadn't abandoned resistance voluntarily. As they were struggling in midair, a tentacle had been put against the back of each man's head, and from the end of it a slim needle had penetrated the skull. Although it didn't look as if the needles had pierced very deeply, this attack had a horrifying effect on the party members. There was a slight pain in their heads—as if something were flowing out from them to nowhere in particular. And that was the last thing the men felt before they lost consciousness—and their lives. By the time their limp bodies were thrown to the ground, they'd already stopped breathing.

Scanning wildly all the while, the cylinders passed over the dead, and then they finally spotted the old huntsman crouched down behind his baggage. A tentacle stretched from one of the approaching cylinders and touched the base of his neck. It soon came away again, and as if they'd lost all interest, the cylinders disappeared without another moment's hesitation into the mist from which they'd come—into the depths of the steam.

After the tentacles that could be called sensors had registered whether the person they came into contact with was living or dead, a long, needlelike suction device drew out what was essentially the core of his life force. A human's life force flowed through his body from the chakra. As a human reached higher mental and physical levels, the chakra shifted to a loftier position, with the chakra in the back of the head linking human beings to the power of the universe. This is why when people had ascended to an existence that was more than human, they'd been depicted in ancient artwork as saints with glowing halos behind their heads. Undoubtedly that was the reason the cylinders chose to extract the life force from the back of the head.

The shore lay under the stillness of death. While the sound of the river hadn't died out, it still felt that way. This was probably due to the blanket of pitiful corpses. When an hour had passed since the butchers had left, there was movement in this dead world. It came at the moment when dawn tinged the eastern sky blue, its light spreading across the cruel ground like faint wings. It was the corpse of the old huntsman. His body had been like a mummy's, with its pulse stopped, brain waves gone, and every trace of life missing, but now it was returning to life. The blood pumped fiercely through his body, his heart beat strongly, and he opened his eyes. Then, closing his eyes for a few seconds to reflect back on what'd happened an hour ago, he strangely enough reached for the very same spot on the back of his head where the cylinders had drained the life from his compatriots and pulled out a long, thin needle. A foot in length, the needle was stark white beast bone—and he'd learned where to jab it from his father, who in turn had learned the trick from his grandfather.

If you're in the forest or out on the tundra and can't move, and you don't think you've got enough food to last till help comes, press here. When you do, you'll become a corpse. Aside from the very smallest of arteries, which will carry blood to your brain to keep it from dying, you'll be a dead body in all other respects. And no one will be able to detect that pulse. Depending on how you push the needle in, you can make it last a half hour or an hour, a year, or even a decade if you like.

His father had told him he'd survive all that time without anything to eat or drink, and that he had to make sure there were no wild beasts around before using the needle on the appropriate spot.

Your grandfather's grandfather said that a long, long time ago, these things with bodies like cylinders and snaking tentacles appeared and started killing folks like crazy. Our ancestor was the only one to survive because at the time he happened to be doing these experiments with needles.

The old huntsman mouthed something softly: words of thanks to his father and his ancestors.

Looking out across the gruesome tableau, he muttered, “I'm gonna have to get these boys buried.”

And with that he reached for the rifle leaning up against his pack. Once it was back in his hands, he was transformed into a professional on the hunt. By the time the stock came to rest against his shoulder, he already had the hammer cocked. The two-pound rifle meant for killing armored fire dragons was trained unwaveringly on the muddy flow; the huntsman's ears had detected a change in the water's roar.

—

III

—

The old huntsman's eye caught an arm reaching for shore from the muddy torrent. Appearing to struggle against being washed downstream, a second arm appeared, and a moment later the whole body popped up. While it couldn't exactly be described as effortless, the figure managed to collapse on land after being pushed just a foot or two further by the water.

The old huntsman called out to the wheezing form, “That you, boss?”

The mud-covered figure jumped up, but his tension passed as soon as he saw the old man.

“Pops!” he said, letting out a deep breath. “I'm glad you made it. The fact that those damned things didn't go into the water saved my skin. I suppose everyone else . . .”

The old huntsman nodded. “They all bought it. You're lucky to be alive—oh, but you're a veteran fish trapper, aren't you?”

Though the leader tried to smile, he couldn't.

For generations, his family had made a living hunting the fish that lived in the ponds and lakes near his village. Up to ten feet long, these fish were voracious carnivores, but there wasn't one of them that the leader's family couldn't land with ease. The leader was better than anyone at this sort of hunting because of the way he'd been raised—he could stop his breathing and remain underwater for more than an hour.

“When they grabbed Roscoe, I jumped into the water. I clung to some weeds—damn, I must've been scared, because I couldn't come out for over an hour. Anyway, I'm glad you survived, too. From here on out, having someone else along should be more reassuring than going it alone.”

“You don't mean to tell me you intend to keep going?” the old huntsman said, his eyes growing wide. “Those things will be up ahead. Probably worse stuff, too.”