Time & Space (Short Fiction Collection Vol. 2) (15 page)

“I ran from the room shaking with anger, fear, and disbelief. I ran away and hid from the world for a whole month, trying to get my mind around what I’d seen that night and what, if anything, I could do about it. Eventually I went back and killed Zubrus but it wasn’t easy. I didn’t know any of the things I know now. I just got lucky and found him during the day. I chopped his head off with the fire axe hanging on his office wall.”

Baron Larouche is somewhat confused as to why De Muur wants to tell him this story but something in his tormentor’s eyes has him tasting real fear for the first time in nearly eighty years, since he was turned. Swallowing hard under De Muur’s intense gaze, Larouche feels he should say something.

“And your wife?”

“No. She was gone. I’m in the habit of telling people I meet that she’s still ill and institutionalized for her own good, but the truth is I have no idea where she is or what horrible things she is doing.”

“You can’t possibly blame me for this!”

“Yes I can. You… and the rest of the demons like you. You’ve made me what I am and there’s no going back. Now tell me who turned you and where I can find the bastard. Do it now or I promise you’ll regret it!”

Baron Larouche is silent, weighing his limited options. The sun is rising higher in the sky, the mountain range to the East fully illuminated now, and the wall of light creeping steadily towards them at the far end of the valley.

De Muur can wait no longer.

“Hand me the axe, Hendrik. We’ll take off his arms and legs… make it easier to carry him inside that way.”

“
No!
I’ll… I’ll tell you.”

“Speak then, demon. My patience is gone.”

Baron Larouche whispers the name of a man and a city. De Muur nods once, contented, then climbs back down the ladder. He is barely to the ground when the first rays of sunlight reach the garden and find their way to the man chained to the cross. For the second time this day, Larouche bursts into flames. His face registers agony, but he is determined not to give De Muur the satisfaction of hearing him scream again. Instead he summons his last strength to shout down to his executioner below.

“May my master rip your lungs out and feast on your heart. I promise there will be no mercy for you.”

“Just as there will be none for you… from
my
God!”

March 09, 1870,

Letter, Simon Hesler to Arthur De Muur,

London, England.

I’m afraid I have grave news, my friend. Commander Fenton made a surprise appearance at the abbey last September and our little ruse has been exposed. He was furious with you and angered enough with me that I was thrown into a London prison for impersonating a member of the Templar Order. Former member, I tried to reason, but he was having none of it. Since I hadn’t really committed a crime, he eventually had me released and I thought it best to contact you straight away. I have no idea of the commander’s plans, or what he may or may not decide to do with regard to you, but I felt I owed you this letter of warning. Bad days may be ahead, Arthur. I hope I’m not already too late.

Be well,

Simon

June 18, 1870,

Wittem Castle,

Maastricht, Netherlands.

The sun is directly overhead, and without any breeze the heat is nearly unbearable. De Muur puts his back into the tedious shovel work and is soon soaked with sweat. Twenty minutes later the hole beneath the cross is large enough and deep enough to suit his purposes. Time to take what remains of the husk that had recently been Baron Larouche down. He’s nothing but bleached white bones, some holding together on the cross, others already heaped on the ground below.

De Muur is half way up the ladder when Hendrik comes running from the castle at top speed. He’s out of breath and clearly upset about something by the time he arrives at the foot of the cross.

“Sir… a messenger just delivered this letter for you.”

“You read it, Hendrik. I’ve got to get this demon buried and out of sight.”

“I have read it, sir, and you need to read it right now. It’s from your friend that used to be at the Abbey.”

“What do you mean,
used
to be?”

Hendrik hands him the wrinkled letter.

De Muur quickly reads Simon Hesler’s letter and then tosses it into the hole he’s dug in the ground. He remains silent for several minutes, thinking. It’s young Hendrik who speaks first.

“Sir? Does Commander Fenton know about Wittem Castle?”

“By that, do you mean will the Templar Knights be showing up at our doorstep?”

Hendrik can only nod.

“Yes, I think they might. Duncan Fenton and I were very close once, and he knows how much I love this castle. He may not show up personally, but I’m sure someone will.”

“What do we do then? Obviously we have to leave.”

“Not we, Hendrik, me. If they dig up some of the bodies in this garden, I’ll be swinging from the gallows soon enough, but no one will blame you. You’re just an employee and that’s all they need know. You’ll stay here and tend to the castle, as always. If I do not return, consider it yours.”

“But, you’ll need me…”

“Don’t argue with me. My soul is already lost but there is hope yet for yours. Whether I like it or not, this is a journey I must take alone.”

“But there are Templar Knights throughout Europe aren’t there? You can’t hide forever. Eventually someone will hear your name and know who you are.”

“Not necessarily. Not if Arthur De Muur is waiting here to greet whoever Commander Fenton sends.”

Hendrik is more confused than ever, but De muur simply points to the hole in the ground at their feet.

“We erect a marker here, beneath this cross, with my name on it in big letters so it can’t be missed. If you’re here and Fenton is told I’m dead, there will be no reason to continue looking for me. I’ll change my name and carry on as before, only this time I’ll kill the vampires where I find them. I’ve learned more than enough about them now. The time to hunt with a vengeance has arrived.”

“What if they dig up the grave, you know… just to be sure?”

“We put Baron Larouche’s bones inside. Those teeth will give Fenton something to think about, I’ll bet.”

Together, they bury Larouche beneath the blackened cross, and begin to make the headstone with De Muur’s name on it.

“Go prepare my things, Hendrik. I’ll need the stakes, crosses, holy water, garlic, and the silver chains… clothes and toiletries of course, but nothing that isn’t absolutely necessary. I must travel as light as possible and making haste is of the utmost importance. I’ll finish up here.”

“Yes sir, I’ll handle it. Just out of curiosity, what will your new name be?”

De Muur considers the question carefully.

“I honestly don’t know yet, Hendrik. Larouche told me his master can be found in Amsterdam, so something Dutch, I’d imagine. Van Dyck? Van Buren? Van… who knows? Don’t worry… I’ll come up with something.”

STORY NOTES

Van… something? Any suggestions? God, I hope you all know who I’m talking about and what his last name is going to be or I haven’t really done a good job with this one. Again, this is a story I like a lot. It has that alternate history angle that I love, what with all the Knights Templar and real locations going on. And vampires… can’t go too wrong with them. Not the sparkly kind, of course, but when they are mean and nasty I’ve always enjoyed a good bloodsucker story.

Beneath A Templar Cross
was written for a mass market anthology being released by one of the major publishing houses in New York. It was about the fictional character my protagonist will eventually become (and no, I’m still not telling you who he is – figure it out!) and I badly wanted to be in that book. I didn’t have an invitation, of course, but it was open to the public to submit so that’s what I did. The trouble was I rushed it, the deadline for submissions sneaking up on me and the version of the story I handed in wasn’t all that great. I received the rejection that I fully deserved and the book went on to be published without me. I really didn’t have anywhere else to try and submit the story to so it sat on my computer going nowhere for a long time. It called to me though, and even though it might be unsellable, I wanted to finish it properly.

So I did.

GENOCIDE

…We wait, in darkness.

A jet-black room, in a jet-black world.

Peter is trembling.

“I hear something. I think they’re coming!”

“No Peter,” I tell him. “Not yet.”

“Yes, they are… I can hear them. They’re coming, oh God, they’re coming!”

“No Peter,” I try again. “It’s still early. Too early.”

I touch his hand, gently.

He calms down. A little.

Again we wait, in darkness…

Time for us, is quickly running out. You see… Peter and I are condemned to die today – this morning, in fact. Peter is taking it much harder than me, his mind fading in and out like a flickering bulb, but perhaps that’s for the best. It will be easier for him to go to his death while swimming in the deep calm sea of insanity. I’m actually quite happy for him. I envy him!

Death will be different for me.

Don’t get me wrong. It would give me great pleasure to join him in that cool void. To swim with him toward the distant shore of our next lives, but I can’t. I’ve come close… believe me, but every time I start running for that frothing surf, something always stops me, pulling me back to shore. My lifeguard or sanity-guard if you will, has a name. Its name is… Anger, or sometimes… Rage, some days even… Hatred!
MY ANGER, MY RAGE, MY HATRED!

Whatever its name, it prevents me from giving in and quitting. So today I will die, but at least it will be with my head held high and proud. My dignity is at least one thing they can’t take from me. Not ever!

But why must I die? And my friend Peter? Poor, sweet Peter, who’s never harmed a soul in all of his young life. Why must Peter die? The answers escape me. Haunt me.

You see… neither Peter nor I have any idea as to why we are condemned to die today. We have neither committed nor been formally charged with any crimes. We were never even read our rights. Apparently, we have none. We are simply scheduled for elimination. Peter is almost beyond caring, but I am still very angry. I seethe at the injustice of it all, but there doesn’t seem to be anything that I can do about it.

…Except wait, in darkness.

***

…We wait, in semi-darkness.

A sliver of sun peeking over the horizon like a razor slash in the dark throat of night.

Peter is shaking.

“Oh God, they’re here. They’re here!”

“No Peter,” I tell him, “not yet.”

“Oh God, Oh GOD, OH GOD…!”

“Easy Peter. Take it easy, it’s still too early.”

I drape my skinny, bruised arm around him.

He calms down. A little.

Again we wait, in semi-darkness…

If my calculations are correct (they’re just thin scratches in our cell floor), Peter and I have been held here for forty-one days. Today is day forty-two. Sadly, for us, it will prove to be a short one, much shorter than the rest of the days have been.

They began torturing us almost immediately upon our arrival. Poor Peter was taken away first. I could hear his screams echoing down the corridor. They went on and on and on. He returned to our cell bleeding, with glazed vacant eyes. It was my turn next.

Only so much agony can be registered in the brain. After the pain tolerance threshold has been crossed and re-crossed too many times, the brain simply blocks it all out. By the end of my first session with their needles and their probes and their electricity, my brain had crawled safely away into a dark quiet place. Thank God for small mercies.

I honestly don’t remember much about the subsequent torture sessions. I blocked them out too. They were daily and brutal, that much I recall. Worse for me than the pain, is the knowledge that Peter and I are not alone. There are more of us imprisoned here. A great many more. Cell after cell full.

Most of their eyes are as glazed and vacant as Peter’s, but not everyone’s. There are a few, like me, who still wonder what the hell is going on. They’re just as angry and confused as I am. None of them seem to know why they are here either.

There are rumors, though. Plenty!

In hushed whispers we talk, vigilant bloodshot eyes on guard for the slightest sign of our unmerciful captors. Peter never takes part in these talks anymore. He talks only to himself. The general consensus is that war must have been declared – a war somebody conveniently forgot to tell us about.

Genocide.

That’s the word I hear a lot.

“They’re going to slaughter our whole race,” someone on my left whispers.

An old dry voice, two cells down tells me it is happening in other places as well. This house of pain is only one of many. All across the land, we are being herded up and packed into these slaughterhouses. “Death Camps,” the old one calls them. A place to be humiliated, tortured, played with… and then eliminated.

Genocide.

Could it be true?

Could it?

My mind flashes back to the day Peter and I were captured. Our families had been hungry. Starving. Peter and I took to the streets to beg, borrow and steal – anything to make the pain in our young one’s bellies subside. At least for a little while.

We were lucky enough to find some food at the rear entrance to an Italian restaurant. It was mostly leftover scraps tossed in the trash, but we did find a tray of untouched pasta that had gone cold and even a fairly fresh loaf of cheese bread. Discarded trash to the rich people whose supper it had been – life to me and Peter’s families.