Heather Graham - Night of the Vampires

Cole himself had wanted no part of it. Hard to say who was right and who was wrong when the abolitionist John Brown had flat out murdered slave owners in Kansas, and when the guerilla retaliation had been flat out murder, as well. John Brown had hanged at Harpers Ferry, and Robert E. Lee, sent out to apprehend the man, was now head of the Confederate Army. It was a mess of tangled loyalties all around, and among men who used to be brothers.

It was death. The death of the youth of one country, torn asunder; and it was mothers crying over the loss of their sons, little more than babes, because war always killed the fit, just as it killed the beauty of youth. Confederates were ripping it up as amazing cavalrymen and sharpshooters, naturally, because they mostly lived off the land, while their Northern brethren were simply whopping down hard on the South because they had numbers—numbers of men, numbers of weapons, numbers of financiers, numbers all the damned way around.

So many dead now.

The war was over States’ Rights, and the main right that many of the states wanted had to do with slavery, while half the boys fighting on the Southern side couldn’t afford a good horse, much less a slave. They weren’t really fighting for themselves but someone richer. Always someone richer.

It was a mess to begin with. It was horrible; it was ugly, it was heartbreaking.

Death, horror and bloodshed.

Then throw in a few vampires.

But, then, you could go on forever and not even know about the vampires. Most didn’t. The creatures had to slake a bloodlust, but they worked around the whole killing and draining human being thing by feasting on cattle—just like man himself feasted on beef. Then again, Cole knew a few folks who didn’t eat much meat at all—they lived on the land, consuming mass quantities of vegetables and beans and the like.

There were no vegetarian vampires, he thought wryly. Not that he knew about, anyway, but some were better than others, some had to be.

Cody, for instance. Well, half of Cody.

“Cole, five o’clock!” Cody Fox whispered to him.

He turned; the shadow was just slipping up behind them. He saw it, and quickly assessed his supply of weapons. He wanted to keep it quiet—didn’t want the creature screaming and alerting others.

A stake .

Quick and hard, straight through the heart…his aim needed to be good—

The shadow pounced, becoming substance, the flesh and blood of something that had once been human. It started to snarl, gnashing its teeth, but Cole moved swiftly, his stake honed, his aim true. He rammed the creature through the heart, pinning it to the wooden door marked Warden. Unless it was the leader, an old vampire, it wouldn’t turn to ash. No, this one wouldn’t. It was wearing the tattered remnants of a uniform, butternut and gray—a recent soldier. The fellow had been a prisoner here. Already beaten and bested at war, he was now dying in truth, pinned by the stake. The thing’s eyes widened and seemed to dampen with sorrow; its jaw continued to work. It— he— looked at Cole with a split second of humanity, and there seemed to be gratitude in the eyes.

Cole felt his heart squeeze. The thing twitched and went still.

Brendan stepped forward, a bowie knife in hand. A second later, the head fell to the floor. Brendan jerked the stake from the creature, returning it to Cole with a nod.

Once the rush began, there wouldn’t be time for such thoroughness, neither in the killing nor in the covering up of their deeds. Brendan, a Unionist to the core, could manage the Union authorities and make their actions disappear if need be.

After all, it was Brendan who had gotten them here tonight. Cody Fox, who had come to Victory in a time of need and become a damned good friend. He had been military with Brendan, but Brendan had been in the service his whole life—right up to and into this War of Northern Aggression, as Texans called it. Not that that stopped him from coaxing Cody Fox out to Victory, Texas, to stop the infestation that had killed so many Southerners out there. Nonprejudicial infestation—the damned vampires didn’t care much if you were free, slave, white, black, red, yellow, old, young, man or woman.

The bastards and their plague could certainly get around—here they were now, in D.C.

Hell. Ah, hell.

Maybe a Texas sheriff shouldn’t be in Washington, D.C.

Maybe he was even a traitor, in a way. There was a sad irony to this. Here he was, a Texas sheriff, with a ragtag band in a Federal POW camp, having to put down not just the Union guards, but his Southern brethren, as well.

But Cole knew himself, when he’d heard about the madness, it wasn’t going to matter to him any if the new bloodshed was occurring in the North, the South or Timbuktu, he was in on stopping it. Humans were humans, and that was that. He’d seen what the vampires could do, and he’d fight them with his fellow man, no matter what label anybody wanted to put on anyone.

God knew where they’d really come from, the whole damned war was so crazy, brothers choosing different sides, Lincoln’s wife’s family all in the South, fathers finding their own sons dead on the battlefield.

And now—this. No matter who was what and what uniform went on what man, there was no going around this.

“They’re going to be coming en masse any second now,” Cody said quietly. He looked at the others; they nodded to one another and stepped forward.

“Best we can, let’s pick them off before the numbers flood in,” Cole said.

“Oh, yes, yessir. As quiet as can be until…” Brendan said.

They all knew what he meant.

It started slowly. A few of them sensing—or smelling—fresh blood. They came slinking out along the walls, unorganized, instinct and bloodlust guiding them. Cole picked off another two, and Cody caught a couple while Brendan kept his keen eyes out, giving the warnings.

Then Brendan shouted, “They’re coming in force!”

And they did. Confederate and Union soldier, prisoner and guard, old and young. They arrived without further warning.

The first wave were all young vampires, or so it seemed. They weren’t turning to mist, weren’t moving at the speed of lightning. They were awkward, untutored. They hadn’t been diseased slowly, properly; they had been taken in a frenzy and, in turn, they were more like a sad and ragtag pack of stumbling, hungry corpses than creatures of wit and malice and true evil.

Vampires thrived in times of war and chaos. They could gorge themselves, and no one would really know what was going on—nobody could distinguish what was part of the war and what was part of an evil hunger. Vampires could be very clever, naturally keeping their numbers down by disposing of their food properly. Unless they were attacking an isolated people and had some luxury of time—such as with Hollow Tree or Victory—most vampires refrained from turning others. Mostly because they couldn’t always control them, and they didn’t like the competition. They could be restrained and clever, sliding right into society.

But vampires could also be like rabbits. Throw in a reckless, vicious few who didn’t seem to care about competition, and suddenly they’d be coming out of the woodwork…and wild. The feeding here had been a careless one like that.

A Union guard staggered toward Cole, his head cast to the side. His face was gray, his throat a raw and bleeding mass where something had ripped it away. The three men were at a set distance from one another; they had learned how to watch one another’s backs. Cole moved straight forward, Brendan and Cody flanking him.

The creature went down easily with a single strong slash of Cole’s sword.

A boy came next. A drummer boy, perhaps. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen.