Victor Gischler - Vampire A Go-Go

A foot below the symbol was a phrase in another language.

“It looks familiar,” Allen said. “Not Czech.”

“It’s Latin,” Father Paul said. “‘Here dwell our dead, for nowhere else can they find rest.’”

“I think it’s a Mortality Motel,” Amy said. “Sort of a slang term the Society uses for these burial places.”

Father Paul shot her a questioning glance.

“I’ve heard talk about them,” Amy explained. “Often a Society member would get branded a heretic, all that witchcraft, you know. They couldn’t be buried in regular church cemeteries.”

“There’s an iron lever here.” Finnegan gestured to the left of the door.

Father Paul said, “Pull it.”

Finnegan grabbed the lever and pulled with both hands. It made a rusty, scraping noise as he pulled it down. There was the distant, muffled sound of grinding machinery, and the circular door rolled aside. There was a whoosh , and all of their ears popped, a gust of stale air escaping from the door crack.

“It’s been sealed a long time,” Amy said.

Penny stepped closer to Allen. “I’d rather it stayed sealed.”

They entered, all of them clustered together. Father Paul stepped on a stone, which shifted. More muffled sounds echoed throughout the cavern.

“Uh-oh.”

Allen said, “‘Uh-oh’? What do you mean, ‘uh-oh’?”

On high shelves lining both sides of the hall, tiny flames sprang to life. The group flinched at the sudden pops of flame.

“What is it?” There was a bit of panic in Penny’s voice.

“It’s okay,” Father Paul said. “I think I just hit the light switch.”

Amy said, “Oil lamps. A spark spell to light them. Very simple to set up a remote-control trigger.”

Penny raised an eyebrow. “You know, I’ve yet to see you do one bit of magic.”

Amy gave her the middle finger.

The flickering lamps provided ample light, and they took a good look at the long hall. A vaulted ceiling arched twenty feet over their heads. The hall was fifty feet wide and twice again as long. Unadorned tombs cut from plain stone lined the walls. Clay urns sat on low pillars throughout the chamber. A dozen empty suits of armor stood along each wall, holding up swords in eternal salute, lamplight playing across dull metal breastplates.

Finnegan lifted the nearest urn carefully from its pillar, removed the lid, and peeked inside. “Looks like it’s full of dust.”

“Ashes, I would imagine,” Father Paul said. “I think you have somebody’s remains there.”

“Bloody hell.” Finnegan promptly returned the urn to its pillar.

“There.” Allen pointed to the large tomb all the way at the other end of the hall. Some instinct drew him on.

They followed Allen to the tomb. Again it was plain, except for a single word carved into the center of the lid: Roderick . Allen felt his heart beat faster.

Finnegan stepped forward. “One more time, lad.”

They jammed their crowbars into the slight crack of the tomb’s lid. The great slab of stone was unbelievably heavy. Allen felt the muscles strain along his arms and back. The Irishman’s face turned the color of a ripe tomato. Once the lid started moving, it went fast, tumbling over the other side, crashing to the stone floor with a racket to wake the dead.

No, I hope not , Allen thought. Let’s not wake the dead .

They crowded around the open tomb.

Within lay the mortal remains of Roderick, astrologer at the court of Rudolph II. Bones. The remnants of a dark robe. Roderick laughed at them with hollow skull eyes. In his thin, skeletal hands, he clutched a lead box the size of carry-on luggage. The heavy box had crushed his chest, nestled in his rib cage like it was a bird’s nest.

“Well,” Father Paul said in a voice barely above a whisper. “There it is.”

They all stood frozen a moment, the weight of history demanding a little respect.

“Let’s get the show on the road then.” Finnegan reached for the box.

“No!” Allen had not meant to shout. The idea of somebody else taking the stone suddenly panicked him. “I’ve come a long way for this. Let me.”

Finnegan looked to Father Paul, who nodded.

Allen reached inside and grabbed the box by the handle on either end. Heavy. He tried to lift it. Really fucking heavy.

Finnegan said, “Lad, maybe I should-”

“No, no,” Allen said. “I got it.”

With a final heave, Allen was barely able to lift it out. Roderick’s skeletal fingers slid from the box. The skull’s mouth opened.

And screamed.

The shriek was painful. They clapped their hands over their ears-all except Allen, who refused to let go of the box. The scream seemed as much in his mind as in his ears. After an eternal five seconds, the scream stopped.

And something else moved.

The suits of armor along the walls began to take lumbering steps toward them, their swords lifted high.

“Oh, shit,” Penny said.

Finnegan and Father Paul drew pistols. “I think Roderick sounded the burglar alarm.”

The suits of armor creaked and clanked, seemed to be working out the kinks, moving faster to cut off the group’s escape route back to the surface.

“Run!” shouted Father Paul.

Allen was already moving, Amy and Penny right behind him. He heard the pistol shots at his back, the metallic tunk s of slugs piercing armor. He didn’t look back. He had the stone. He would take it to his mistress.

Allen and the girls made it past the ghost knights right before they closed the circle. He hit the stairs and went up, grunting as he carried the box, sweat oozing from every pore. Gunshots echoed behind him.

He kept going. Up and up.

Father Paul watched Allen and the girls make it past the knights, but the suits of armor closed in, cutting him off. He and Finnegan had been surrounded.

They fired until their magazines clicked empty, the shots punching useless holes in the armor plating.

“No good, Boss,” Finnegan said. “Got any magic wands?”

Father Paul grabbed an urn off a nearby pillar, launched it at the nearest knight with a two-handed throw. It struck the helmet, exploded in a cloud of ash, the helmet clattering away, shards of clay flying. The knight dropped its sword, began to twirl in a lost circle without its head to guide it.

Finnegan dove for the sword, grabbed it, popped to his feet and swung the blade, lopped off the metal arm of a knight that had been coming up behind Father Paul, who knelt and scooped up another sword.

They parried clumsy blows from the ghost knights. The clattering suits of armor were slow and awkward, but sheer numbers threatened to swamp the priests.

“Cut your way to the door,” Father Paul shouted over the clanging weapons.

They hacked at limbs, sent helmets flying.

They were almost to the door when a knight thrust a long blade into Finnegan’s chest. The big Irishman yelled, kicked away the empty suit of armor, pulled the sword out of himself, and let it fall to the floor. Blood gushed. He stumbled after Father Paul through the door to the other side. He collapsed, rolled onto his back.

“Oh, no.” Father Paul knelt next to Finnegan.

“The door.” Blood gurgled from Finnegan’s mouth.

Ghost knights still lumbered after them.

Father Paul grabbed the lever, shoved it back into place. The door began to roll shut just as one of the ghost knights attempted to step through. The heavy stone door tried to close, jammed the suit of armor, slowly crushing it like an old car at a junkyard. It stayed jammed like that, a few of the ghost knight’s gauntleted fingers still twitching, helmet crushed flat.

Father Paul returned to Finnegan. “We’ll get you to a doctor. Hang on.”