Vampire Hunter D (27 page)

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Or actually, an explanation of the dedication.

Most fans of
outré
cinema should be familiar with the film
Horror of Dracula
, produced in Britain by Hammer Films in 1958. Along with the previous year’s
The Curse of Frankenstein
, this classic helped fire a worldwide boom in horror films, and, in addition, served as the first inspiration for this humble horror novelist. I’ve seen quite a few horror and suspense movies, but no film before or since accomplished what this one did—to send me racing out of the theater in the middle of the show. Though most will find this information superfluous, Terence Fisher directed it, Jimmy Sangster wrote the script, and Bernard Robinson was the production designer. Surely the film’s stars, Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing, require no introduction. The whole incredible showdown between Count Dracula and Professor Van Helsing—from the fiend’s appearance in silhouette at the top of the castle’s staircase, to the finale where sunlight and the cross reduce him to dust—is something horror movie fans will be talking about until the end of time. I hope it’s made available on video as soon as possible.

At present, Kazuo Umezu could be regarded as the leading man of horror manga in Japan, but so far as I know, the only male manga artist in the past with such a distinct horror style (I don’t know about female manga artists) would be Osamu Kishimoto. But rather than aiming to produce more of the same Japanese-style horror that had preceded him, this man created a gothic mood in the Western tradition. Whether it was a weird western-style mansion standing right in the middle of the city, with coffins resting in its stone-walled basement and a horde of creepy inhabitants, or the logic of the conflict that runs through all his stories (such as the cross against vampires or the power of Buddhism against kappas), the way he succeeded in bringing his creatures to life in a field like Japanese horror manga, where they were so sorely lacking, was, in a word, refreshing.

It would be most unfair if someday someone were to write a history of horror manga in Japan and dismiss Osamu Kishimoto as merely one more author of sci-fi and adventure manga. Even now I get goose bumps as I recall the short tale about the kappa that turned itself into a beautiful woman when runoff from a factory polluted its lake, and later took up residence in a brother and sister’s house, as well as many other tales. Lately I haven’t seen much work by him, but I sincerely hope to see him in better health and producing new stories in the future.

.

Hideyuki Kikuchi

December 6, 1982, watching
Horror of Dracula

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Wintry sunlight fell from high in the hollow sky to the valley below. Bright enough to trick a smile out of you and cold enough to empty your lungs in a cloudy white chain of coughs, the rays bound for the narrow and more-or-less straight trail were also quite refreshing. Perhaps that was because spring wasn’t so far off.

Not far from there the road through the valley came to a modest plain surrounded by black woods and ushered travelers into a tiny Frontier hamlet.

Including the ranches and solar farms scattered about the area, there were still probably less than two hundred homes. The roofs of wooden and tensile plastic houses were crusted with white remnants of snow, as were alleys that never saw the light of day. And the people here, so bundled in heavy furs they might easily be mistaken for beasts, wore stern expressions. For all the younger folks, even the littlest of children, the single-minded determination to live made a hard mask of their features.

A narrow stream ran through the center of town from east to west. The surface of its clear waters reflected a sturdy bridge, and at this moment a silent procession of people crossed the bridge with a grave gait.

Ten men and two women were in the group. Sobs spilled from one woman’s lips as she hid her face with the well-worn sleeve of an insulated overcoat. Graying hair reached her shoulders, and the other woman—also in her forties, by the look of her—stood by her side with an arm around her back for support. No doubt they were neighbors. Although this pair set the tone for the whole party, their grief hadn’t yet elicited a sympathetic response from the men.

The old man at the fore wore a robe heavily adorned with magical formulae and all manner of strange symbols, and his face was wrought with terror. The other men’s faces were plastered with almost identical expressions, though six of them were also plainly in physical pain. Not surprising in light of the abominable burden digging down into their shoulders.

An oak coffin.

However, more disquieting by far was the heavy chain wrapped around it. It almost seemed like a concerted effort had been made to keep whatever rested within the coffin from getting back out, and the way the chain rattled dully in the wintry light testified to the desperate fear of those who bore the oak box.

The party came to a halt at the center of the bridge. That was where the structure jutted out an extra yard on either side, forming a small gathering place over the river.

The old man who led them pointed to one side.

With much shuffling of their feet, the men bearing the coffin hustled over to the railing.

Giving a shudder, the sturdy man by the elder’s side reached for the weapons girding his waist. Steel stakes a good foot and a half long, to be precise. The man had at least half a dozen of them in a pouch on his belt. His other hand pulled out the hammer he wore through the opposite side of his belt. The old-fashioned gunpowder revolver he had holstered there didn’t even merit a glance.

Loosing an anguished scream, one of the women scrambled toward the coffin, but her neighbor and the rest of the men managed to restrain her.

“You simmer down,” the old man shouted at her reproachfully.

The woman hid her face in her hands. If not for those supporting her, she undoubtedly would have collapsed on the spot.

Casting an emotionless glance at the slender coffin, the elder raised his right hand shoulder-high and began to intone the words befitting such a ceremony.

“I am here today, my heart like unto a mournful abyss beyond description. Gina Bolan, beloved daughter of Seka Bolan and resident #8009 of the village of Tsepesh, Western Frontier Sector Seven, fell victim to the despised Nobility and passed away last night … ”

At this, the faces of the pallbearers grew visibly paler, but the elder may not have noticed.

Six pairs of eyes restlessly shifted about, their collected gaze turning imploringly to the calm surface of the river.

There was nothing to see there. Nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary.

Within the coffin, something stirred. Not someone. Something.

The men’s faces inched closer to the coffin, as if caught in its gravity.

Clank, clank went the chains.

The men’s faces grew white as a sheet.

The mayor shouted the name of the man with the stakes.

“Down! Put it down now!” the armed man said in a terror-cramped tone as he stepped closer. The other men didn’t comply with his command. Brains and nerves and even muscles stiffened as fear stampeded through their bodies. This was by no means the first such ceremony they’d been involved in. However, the phenomenon now taking place in that box on their shoulders was patently impossible. For pity’s sake, it was daytime!

Seeing the condition of the others, the man with the hammer and stake clanged them together and shouted tersely, “Set ’er down on the railing!” The results were evident enough.

Whatever spell had held the men waned and the coffin, which was a heartbeat shy of being thrown over the side, came to rest on the thick handrail. Three of the men still supported the other side of it.

It was a weird frenzy of activity on the bridge that fine, pre-vernal day.

The well-armed man dashed over and set the sharpened steel tip of a stake against the lid of the coffin.

His granite-tough face was deeply streaked by fear and impatience. The timing of this flew in the face of his vast personal experience and undermined the confidence he drew from long years on the job.

Sounds continued to issue from the coffin. From the way it shook and the sounds it made, it seemed that whatever it contained had awakened and was fumbling around without any idea of its present predicament.

The man raised his hammer high.

Suddenly, the sounds coming from the coffin changed. Powerful blows struck the lid from the inside, shaking not only the casket but also the men carrying it with their thunderous pummeling.

The elder cried something.

With a low growl the hammer tore through the air. Shouting and the sounds of destruction melded into one.

The stake pierced the coffin at almost exactly the same second a pale hand smashed through the heavy planks and clawed at the air. The hand of a mere child!

Wildly twitching, it clutched at the air again and again. Then, in a split second, it flew to the throat of the man who stood there, hammer still in hand and utterly dumbfounded.

“—coffin … Drop the damn coffin!”

Blood gushed from the man’s throat along with those words.

This ghastly tableau did more than his orders to rouse the men’s consciousness. Shoulder muscles bulging, they tilted the coffin high on the railing. It fell with the other man still pinned to the lid, sending up a splash that flowered in countless droplets across the surface of the river.

Surely the coffin must’ve been weighted, for it rapidly sank and merged with the ash-gray bottom. Amid the remaining ripples, crimson liquid bubbled up from one of those who’d sank with it, but in the world above the tranquil light of winter blanketed all creation and only a woman’s sobs remained to testify to the gruesome tragedy that had just played out.

..

Blades of grass that had long borne the weight of the snow took advantage of the reverberations from the heavy footfalls and threw off their burden. After all, their day would be here soon enough.

The footsteps came from a number of people. Each and every one of them looked as tough as a boulder and as beefy as a Martian steer. Their well-developed muscles bulged through their heavy fur coats. All of them were in their twenties. Not even their apparent leader, a man a bit taller than the rest, had hit thirty yet. They belonged to the village’s Youth Brigade.

The reason they were all breathing so heavily was because they’d already been climbing this slope for nearly nine hours. But it was clear from their expressions and the look in the eyes of all that they weren’t here for a picnic. Their faces were so hardened by brooding, they might as well have been on the verge of tears from sheer frustration and rage. From the look of it, they were trying in vain to hold back the pitch-black terror welling up inside them with the ferocity only the young possessed. The pair bringing up the rear was especially short of breath. Although that was partly due to the fact each had a wooden crate full of weapons strapped to his back, the real reason was the gently rolling hill they were climbing.

It was a rather odd piece of geography.

A mile and a quarter in diameter at the base and roughly sixty or so feet high, it looked like any ordinary hill from both the ground and the air. Those who set foot on its slopes with an aim to reach the summit would find that it took several hours to do so no matter how great they were at hiking.

Black ruins rose from the summit of the hill.

That was where the men were headed. However, that simple goal, glowering down at the surrounding landscape from a scant altitude of sixty feet, was not unlike the mirages that were said to occur in the Frontier’s desert regions—it taunted these men as they tried to reach it, and would do the same to anyone else who accepted the challenge.

The distance never decreased.

Their feet clearly trod the slope, and their bodies told them they were indeed steadily gaining elevation. And yet, the further reaches of the incline and the ruins they sought never got any closer.

Taking the accounts of all who’d experienced the phenomenon into consideration, it was estimated to take a man in prime condition thirty minutes to climb three feet. Ten hours to the top—even on level ground that much walking would leave anyone exhausted. Climbing the hill, it only got worse, as the slope grew steeper and the trek became ever more fatiguing. It came as little surprise that no one had even tried to climb it in the last three years.

The man at the forefront of the group—Haig, their leader—seemed to take no notice of his compatriots as he scanned the western horizon. Beyond the forest and the silvery chain of peaks far behind them the sun would be going down in two hours. That made it roughly three o’clock Afternoon, Frontier Standard Time.

If they didn’t reach the top, accomplish their aims, and take their leave in the one hundred and twenty minutes remaining, Haig knew as well as anyone what fate awaited them when darkness fell.

To make matters worse, once they eventually made it to the summit, the fact of the matter was they didn’t have the faintest idea where in the ruins the thing they sought would be slumbering. Although a roughly sketched map was stuffed in the leader’s breast pocket, it’d been drawn decades earlier by someone who’d since passed away, so they weren’t entirely sure whether they could rely on it or not.

And then there was their exhausted state to consider. Though this group had been selected from the proudest and strongest of the Youth Brigade, the physically taxing climb was actually far more fatiguing mentally. When no amount of struggling would bring you any closer to a goal that was right before your eyes, sheer impatience could physically destroy you. This was said to be a particularly effective defense against intruders from the world below. Once they set foot in the ruins, there was some question as to whether or not they’d even have sufficient strength remaining to search out its resting place.

The only thing they had working in their favor was the fact that on the way down, at least, the hill lost its mystic hold over climbers. If they ran all the way, they could be down to the foot of the hill in less than two minutes.

Suddenly, Haig’s sweat-stained countenance was suffused with joy.

He knew the distance between the summit ahead and him was “real” now. Less than thirty feet remained. Ignoring the panting of his air-starved lungs, he shouted, “We’re there!” From behind him, satisfied grunts rose in response.

A few minutes later, the whole group was resting in the courtyard of the ruins. The shadow of fatigue fell heavily on each and every face, rendering them almost laughable.

“Just about time to get down to it. Break out the weapons,” ordered Haig. He alone had remained standing, surveying their surroundings.

The lot of them huddled around the two wooden crates.

Off came the lids. Inside were five hammers, ten wooden stakes honed to trenchant points, and twenty Molotov cocktails fashioned from wine bottles filled with tractor fuel and corked with rags. In addition, they had five bundles of powerful mining explosives with individual timers. Each of the men also had a bowie knife, sword, or machete stuck through the belt around his waist.

Everyone took a weapon.

“You all know the plan, right?” Haig said, just to be sure. “I don’t know if we can put a whole lot of stock in this copy of the map, but right about now we ain’t got any other options. If you think you’re in trouble, give a whistle. You find out where it is, give two.”

Bloodshot eyes bobbed up and down as the men nodded and got to their feet. Their grand scheme was going into action.

An unexpected voice stopped them in their tracks.

“Just a second. Where the blazes are you boys off to all charged up like that?”

Every one of them moved like they’d been jerked back on a leash, turning to where they heard the voice even as they went for their weapons.

From a shadowy entrance in the sole remaining wall of the stony ruins—a cavernous opening that faced the courtyard—a lone girl stepped casually into the afternoon light. Raven hair hung down to the shoulders of her winter coat, and what showed of her thighs looked cold but inviting.

“Well if it ain’t Lina! What brings you up—” one of the men started to ask before swallowing the rest of the question. The eyes of all took a tinge of terror, as well as the scornful hue of someone whose suspicions have proved correct. They’d known the answer to that question for quite some time.

“What the hell do you boys think you’re doing? You’d better not go and do anything stupid,” said Lina as she looked Haig square in the eye. Although her visage was still so innocent it couldn’t look stern if she tried, it shone with sagacity and all the allure of a mature woman. She was at that awkward stage, a neat little bud waiting for spring and a heartbeat away from bursting open into a glorious blossom.