No Shelter from Darkness (25 page)

It took most of the day to arrive at our scheduled station, but with the year being so young the journey was beautiful. The further north we traveled, the whiter the landscape became. Skipton's a small town at the southern corner of the Yorkshire Dales, and as soon as we stepped from the train we commenced on the remainder of our journey on foot. Walking north into the Dales under the low sun, we couldn't have been more than a couple of miles from our coordinates when the light bowed farewell for the day, and the snow-covered forest became a cold and harsh landscape. Under a darkening sky we continued deeper into the woodland, and using our leather flashlights made our way to the co-ordinates. We were expecting a temporary army barracks, or campsite, but in the blackness of night all we found was a small clearing in the trees, large enough for the small stone-built hut in its centre.

It was more round than it was square, and into the walls hadn't been built windows, but small angular holes where a few stones had been missed intentionally during construction. Through them we could see the violent orange flickering of a fire, and the air was filled with its smell.

The occupant must've known we were there, for it was as if he were standing behind the door ready to open it when I knocked. He was a tallish man, unkempt with long black hair and scruffy clothes, and I noticed he wore nothing on his feet. Despite his appearance he had a young charm about him, but I was in no doubt that he'd lived alone in and off the land for quite some time. I half expected him to talk in grunts.

“Who are you? Why are you here?”

Normally we would verify the recipient, but with no name or description it stood to reason he
was
the recipient, and Bettman presented him with the package.

“What is it?” he asked.

Bettman and I looked at each other, confused that the man hadn't been expecting the package. I think we both thought the same thing at the same time; that this was nothing more than an elaborate practical joke. Nevertheless, in the army you always do everything by the book. We were more at ease, but we followed our instructions.

“Lieutenant Bettman,” I said, presenting my stout friend who held the box. “Second Lieutenant Wade, Sir. This package is intended for the recipient at these co-ordinates. We request that you receive and verify the contents, Sir.”

“You want me to open the box?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Why?”

“They're our orders, Sir.”

“Who sent you?”

“Our Captain, Sir. The package originated from an organization outside of the army, Sir.”

The recipient raised one eyebrow. He struck me as being more educated than he looked. Bettman stretched his arms a little more, gesturing for the box to be taken, and finally the recipient took it.

He ran a thumbnail across the tape, in the groove under the lid of the box. As he opened it, his face contorted into an expression of pure fury, but I was too busy putting a hand up to my nose at the smell that was escaping. The recipient roared, dropped the box and attacked.

He lunged past me and took Bettman. In the time it took me as a well-trained soldier to turn and grip my sidearm, Bettman had been taken down to the ground and was kicking and screaming, trying to struggle free of the man on top of him. I would've put money on Bettman in any fight, but he seemed totally overpowered.

I took my gun from its holster, but by the time I had it aimed it was too late. In the flickering light of the fire that escaped through the door, I saw the man bite into Bettman's cheek and tear the flesh away from the bone.

I fired twice, but only the first bullet struck the back of the man. The second hit Bettman in the torso, missing his attacker by a hair's breadth as he leapt to the side and tumbled over onto his feet. He stood, the bullet wound having done nothing, and glanced back at me. For the first time in my life I was stunned. His eyes seemed to flash green in the escaping light of the fire, and his snarling mouth was red with blood that dripped from fangs. I got hold of
myself and aimed my revolver but I was too slow as the monster spun and leapt around the corner of the hut into rustling bushes and trees.

Panting, I looked down at Bettman and only then realized he'd stopped screaming. The light caught the edges of torn flesh and made the seeping blood glisten. The left side of his face had been severely disfigured, with rips in his cheek extending from his eye down to his chin. Chunks of flesh were missing outright, bitten clean off. Without the small fleshy lid, he was unable to blink his left eye and that eyeball alone was fixed looking skyward. The grisly cheekbone stuck out and the left side of his mouth was a perpetual sickening smile of bloodied teeth; the lips torn and missing. With his tearful and bloodshot right eye, he looked at me pleadingly. His jaw twitched, but only blood spluttered from between his teeth and I saw then that his throat had been torn clean through; his vocal chords severed.

I raised my gun. He closed his right eye.

Then I only had two bullets left.

I was out in the open, lit up and in plain sight. I had no idea where this monster was, but I knew where he wasn't. I dove through the open door onto the stone floor of the hut and shuffled back up against a rudimentary table. My gun was aimed true at the door. On the step was the empty box, but whatever had been inside had rolled out of the light, leaving a dark patchy trail.

I waited with a thumping heart and beads of sweat running down my face despite the white winter outside. From the corners of my eyes I tried to get a layout of my stronghold. Around the walls to my right were simple tools for preparing and cooking wild food, to my left a wooden bed. The open fire roared behind me. But that was it. There were no other doors, no other ways in or out. The window-like holes in the walls weren't big enough for anything larger than a small animal to climb through, and each had a thick wooden flap that could swing down and act as a blind, though all seemed to be propped up.

My plan was simple: This was the monster's home and it would have to come back sooner or later. When it did, there was only one way in.

After a long while, my arm was aching so much it started to lower against my will. Behind me the fire that had once roared was quietly spitting and cracking. A lot of the light had gone, and a lot of my adrenaline had worn off—but not enough for me to lose my attention. I cursed myself for not grabbing Bettman's gun earlier before I dove in, and the knowledge of a fully loaded revolver barely ten feet away nagged at me. But there was no way I was going back out there without knowing where that thing was first.

The ache in my shoulder grew and began to burn hot. I switched hands and then shifted my weight to get some feeling to my backside. I must've glanced down for not more than a second when my head snapped up at the sound of twigs cracking.

I was being watched.

From over my left shoulder more twigs snapped. My instinct was to turn toward the small hole through which the telltale sound came and I had to use blind reason to convince myself that the hole was too small. I'd seen how swiftly this thing could move and I wasn't going to take my eyes off that door again.

Regulating my breathing, I tried to focus on the still night outside to calm my nerves. Something hit the wall, this time over my right shoulder. It may have only been a stone or a stick, but it was a sharp sound that tried to command my attention and again I fought the compulsion to turn my head. I felt frustrated eyes watching me.

All went quiet once more save for the spitting fire. Perhaps a different plan was brewing in that monstrous intellect. Something sharp scratched along the wall outside to my right, from front to back. It stopped, around where I knew there was a looking hole. And then there was a sudden, sharp exhale of breath.

My control faltered. My head spun around quick enough to see a face covered in dried blood blur out of sight. I turned back to face the front in time to see the man-like monster flash by the door and I pulled my trigger for the fifth time. My aim was off from my sudden movements and a small puff of stone exploded out of the wall an inch from the door. I was down to my last bullet.

Without moving, I strained to look for the other gun on Bettman's body, but his body was gone. Taken. I wondered if some tree-dwelling freak would know how many bullets a Webley took. I'd seen no weapons in here, and while it gave me hope that he didn't know much about firearms, it scared me more to think how he hunted. I kept the gun held out in front of me, with my one remaining bullet ready to fire. The monster had already taken a bullet and I had to consider that one more may not make any difference. My hand trembled at my dire situation.

Outside to the left there was a snap. Not like a twig; this was sickening, like the pulling apart of bones. Then there was another, and another. The monster was busy doing God knows what. There was nothing I could do but wait.

Something was spat in through the lookout hole.

It landed close to my left thigh before unsteadily rolling forwards a bit. Without so much as a twitch of my head, my eyes rolled down to the corner and I saw the finger that had been bitten off just below the second knuckle.

My eyes were wide, but I didn't make any sudden movement or sound and returned my gaze frontward. There was another spitting sound, and I knew exactly what it was that hit my left shoulder. I stayed almost motionless when the third bloody stump hit the back of my neck and rested in the lip of my collar. I shuddered slightly and it rolled down my back, which only made me shudder more. Regardless, my eyes and aim stayed focused on the door.

The eerie silence returned briefly. The monster's latest tactics had failed.

The sound that came next was unimaginable: a chorus of breaking bones, muffled only by the squelching of ripping flesh. It was almost enough to make me vomit. I flinched when something sprayed across my face at the same time a soft, vaguely rubbery lump landed on my thigh and rolled down to the floor between my legs. It was Bettman's heart, having been viciously ripped out. Thick blood still oozed from a punctured ventricle.

I hadn't even realized I was staring down at it in horror until I heard a snarl in front of me. When I looked up the fiend was already in mid-air, with hands like claws stretched out and fangs bared, ready to tear me apart. I flinched to the left as my gun went off. The beast's roar turned to one of pain, but the sharp nails of its left hand dug into my right shoulder. I was thrown against the makeshift table with such force it slid and smashed against the wall. I went down to the floor and the injured monster tumbled onward, its momentum ripping its hand out of my shoulder.

It had taken a second bullet, but it still wasn't down and I was out of ammo. The monster flipped up onto its feet, but it had lost some of its grace and finesse. I still held on to my empty gun and shielded myself with my arms as it pounced on me. With strength I couldn't contend with, it prized apart my arms and pinned the left one on the floor. It wasn't as strong pinning my right arm; it only managed to pin my hand on my own chest. Then the monster opened its mouth and lowered its head. I felt my right arm free up slightly and with the last of my strength I brought the gun up, hoping to hit the fiend under the chin. I couldn't have mistimed it better. It bit down on the barrel of the gun with such force I could hear its fangs cracking and it wailed in pain.

The monster reared up, releasing me. I blindly reached for the nearest thing and found a large porcelain vessel, smashed it on the ground and grabbed a shard. The monster lunged. I swung my arm with every ounce of my strength and slashed its arm with the first swipe, its chest with the second and its throat with the third. Arcs of blood sprayed upward and out to the side.

With the creature off-balance, I rocked and made it tumble to the floor, reversing our position. I was on top of it. I slashed again at its neck and its heart pumped out a gush of blood followed by a second, smaller one. Unbelievably, the blood was clotting before the thing would die. It smiled up at my horror and grabbed my injured shoulder. In my scream of pain I gave up on reality, raised the shard high in the air, and as it moved its strong hand to my neck and started to squeeze I drove the shard down into its chest.

It held me at arm's length, and though I didn't have the strength to bury the shard completely it had gone in far enough. The vampire's eyes dulled. Its snarling face relaxed and the strength in its arm dwindled. I choked for air before leaning my bodyweight on the makeshift stake, forcing it down straight through the vampire's heart and its head flinched as one last breath escaped.

I collapsed to the side. My palm was bloody from the shard cutting into me, my shoulder burned from the vampire's claw-like nails stabbing me and I was exhausted. All around me on the walls and roof was the splayed blood of that monster. As I watched, some of it seemed to slowly change … metamorphose. The reflected flames of the dying fire no longer shone, but were dulled. The blood that had dried and crusted was now changing before my eyes into an aged ash, which began to float away like soot. It was as if some burning reaction was occurring. It left nothing but faint scorch marks on the walls.

I heard footsteps approaching over the snow and twigs outside. I had no energy left to be scared and accepted the quick death that must've been coming for me, but when I raised my head there in the door stood no friend of the slain monster, but a man in smart clothes.

It had all been a test, one that Bettman failed.

I had been recruited from the army into a small clandestine organization that called itself the Ministry.

*   *   *

“I'm a Shadow Minister; a hunter. It's my responsibility to exterminate the revenant threat and keep the world from knowing such evil exists.”