Chapter 6

The factory had been built nearly a century before Col had ever come to Theyeark. Its outer walls were a faded shade of green where it had not been chipped white. Scrub grass and scraggly bushes had conquered the red dirt between the parking lot and a set of rusty train tracks not too far away.

Col shifted Batzuga to his left hand then unfurled his wings. The lights inside were bright enough to drown out all useful shadows, so Col had no choice but spy through the windows. He peered at the reinforced windows, then pushed himself up with his wings. He nearly slammed into the building several times as he rose, but each time was able to pull himself away before making contact. He obviously needed more flying practice.

After a few moments of jittering and bobbing in the air, he was finally able to get a good view into the building. The factory had once bustled with hundreds of hardworking bread-winners, who pressed their life’s ambitions into a single portion of a vacuum tube. They had worked in sterile cubicles separated by accordion-like movable walls that facilitated the transfer of parts. Only leftover scraps of the building still remained. This included the accordion-doors, of which some were left ajar in a maze like fashion. All of the ceiling tiles had been burned away, leaving rusted braces spanning across the factory.

Col couldn’t see Kandais or anyone else from his vantage point so he flew around the left end to get a better look. By the time he reached the last window on the short, alley-side wall, his wings were threatening to give. He lowered himself slowly to the ground and stretched them outward and up.

‘If she isn't on that side either,' he thought to himself, ‘then she must be in the other corner. They’re probably watching the windows on that side.' Col looked up at the bright light shining from inside, and smiled. ‘It’s too bright inside for me to blot out the lights… I think this will be a good time to try out some fancy shadow magic.'

Once the cramps were stretched out of his wings and shoulders, Col folded them beneath his trenchcoat and searched for a side-door.

A few yards away, a thin square of light gave omens of an entrance several feet off of the ground. The unpainted cement beneath the door stood like a monument to the crumbled chunks of concrete that had once been stairs. Col reached across overgrown shrubs and twisted the door knob hard. The locking mechanism bent with a thin whine, then snapped. He swung the door open, then hopped into the building.

Inside, the floor was gray linoleum, and the walls were glossy ceramic squares. Florescent light reflected off of the tiles. Col looked down at his shadow, then held his hand over it. He motioned with rising twitches of his fingers, like a conductor building to crescendo, and the shadow slowly rose from the ground. When it was halfway his height, he pointed downward over its head and made a deft circle-motion with his finger. The rising black shadow whirled in place as it grew until it was his height. Col reached out and grasped its shoulder. It abruptly stopped and gained color and definition. The shadow was now a three-dimensional copy of Col.

“Here,” he said then offered it the bag of Batzuga. It reached down and grabbed the bag’s shadow off of the ground. Col walked around the clone to check his handy work. Satisfied, he sent it off ahead so that he could use its eyes to scout the way.

The hallway Col presently stood in ended in a sharp turn. A few feet beyond the turn were the remnants of an old airlock, both its doors long since scavenged. The shadow-Col walked through them and noted a bare room with a few quick glances. There were two doors opening from the room, and the shadow Col chose the one towards the left, heading toward the center of the building. A light clicking sound followed the shadow Col down the hall, which took two more sharp turns before meeting another airlock. It passed through and chanced a glance behind itself. There was a small brown rat following him. The rat sniffed pensively at the air as it hurried along, and blinked its red, beady eyes constantly.

Meanwhile, the real Col traced his shadow’s steps to the first room then took the second pathway. His boot-steps rang hollow in the short, empty passage. He stopped only to press his ear against whatever closed doors he saw along the way. Col tried to stay focused so that he wouldn’t be caught by surprise, but one particular problem still plagued him: He had to decide what to do with Kandais once he had her. It was unlikely that he would get through this ordeal without her learning his dark secret, and once she knew, it would be too dangerous to let her go free. She knew too much about his mundane persona, knowledge which could easily be extracted and used by any interested party. That was a chance he couldn’t afford to take, for though a vampire was formidable at night, he was all too weak in the day.

He mused over what to do with the girl as he crossed a small room. There were two closed doors in this room, but he could hear nothing beyond them. Before entering the next passageway, he stopped and focused his thoughts on his master. The feeling of anxiety mixed with sparse reassurance told him that, in whatever form, the Vampire Lord still remained. Relief flooded through Col. This rescue-slash-meet of challenge was sure to cost him a good portion of the heedlessly darkening night. His watch read Nine-forty; leaving him six hours to find his Master, face a force of darkness possibly beyond them both, and finally drag his most-likely mangled half-corpse-self back to his coffin. Col grinned in spite of the balking challenge. Plenty of time.

Col also took a moment to check on his shadow-clone. Through however many doors and passages the shadow-Col had gone, it was now coming upon another sharp turn. In the corner of the turn were two closed doors. The clone was unable to handle anything that did not cast a shadow so it could not test the locks, and its senses were not keen enough to perceive anything beyond the pleated plastic, so it simply continued on.

The sound of rats here was unmistakable, a small chorus of at least a dozen clicked along in tow or ahead. The sound reminded Col of a Rat-grot burrow, for ratties kept thousands of rodent pets around as little spies or in hard-times, food. It wouldn’t make sense for there to be a burrow here; though perhaps an opening to one, so the ratties could come up and scavenge. That would at least explain the missing ceiling.

Col blinked back into his own senses after giving his shadow an order to walk to the end of its hallway and stop. The corridor ahead of Col turned sharply left after only a few yards. He took a final look at the two closed doors in the room, and wondered if he should bash them open and make his own path to the girl; but he couldn’t risk the noise. He had to keep the Hunters divided as to his exact location. They were lying in wait somewhere within the winding plastic walls and myriad rooms; they had the element of surprise but Col at least had his shadow clone as a distraction. Col drew his gun from the inside of his trenchcoat and moved it to a waist-pocket, keeping his grip ready for business.

The hallway ended after ten feet and showed no signs of further passage. Col moved up to the wall and checked it for handles or seams. Suddenly there came a duo of voices from some where nearby, harmonizing two separate prayers:

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death

I shall fear no evil, for God is with me.”

“The scion above look down upon this evil and damn it here,

That we should be safe from its bloody strengths

As we send it to infernal depths

To answer for its evil works”

-Over and over these prayers rang. Col turned to look behind him, but found nothing. He tuned back to the blank wall and gasped, breathless. Four rectangular panels opened cross-shaped on its surface and flashed an intense golden light into Col’s eyes. The prayers seemed to grow louder- booming loud and divine. His eyes were open wide, mouth agape. The light was painfully blinding, searing into his eyes, and coupled with the deafening ringing of the prayers in his ears, Col was developing a reverberating migraine

A pair of acolyte Hunters approached the shining light with caution. The leading one wielded a modified harpoon gun, now loaded with a sharpened wooden stake The holding it at ready in case the creature he hunted still retained its faculties. His comrade following held a long, iron pike- one hand on its shaft, the other on the sharpened crossbar. Their twin baritones rang clear until they turned the corner, then the pike-wielder sang both prayers alternately as the Stake-gunman lined up his shot.

----

In a cramped space between close walls and an accordioned door, Rinno jostled his thin form against Waofin’s wiry resistance. Waofin squinted his eyes and protested in angry whispers at Rinno’s quest for space. Every so often Waofin hissed for silence, then pressed a floppy ear against the door.

Normally, Waofin wore heavy sweatshirts with deep hoods cast over his head to hide his freakishly long ears. His gaze was always downcast so no one would notice his mutilated nose, which was missing both cartilage-bridge, and nostrils, leaving behind a blackened bisected triangle of flesh. But tonight he wore only a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans; for there would be no outsiders and their ignorant insults, only praise and adoration from the Prophet for a job well done.

“I hear somethin’. Footsteps. He’s roundin' the bend,” said Waofin. His voice normally rasped as air inadvertently escaped his nose, but it now honked from cloth-plugged nostrils. “You ready? Damn well better be. I gotta get outta he’ah, get some fizzin fresh ae’ah.”

Rinno squinted his eyes, “yea, m' little squeakers are in place. And by the way, eat me, dog boy. Just ‘cause I can’t lick m’self clean in twen’y different places don’t mean I stink. The girls love my musk.”

“Dog boy? good one. I bet the girls run and scream when they see yo’ furry hide, gaspin’ for air all the way.”

With a blink of his solid red eyes, and a deft poke to Waofin’s nose, Rinno was out of the door. He slipped cautiously across the corridor to lean against a tiled corner. He chanced a peek, then gave Waofin an ‘ok’ sign. Around, and many yards ahead, strode the Vampire, a twitching black plastic bag strapped across its back. It seemed mostly oblivious to its surroundings, striding along with the air of a sightseer.

In Rinno’s part of the hall were gathered a swarm of rats of all shapes and sizes and coats. He could feel their excitement rising as they chittered and squeaked, and he focused on amplifying the energy, working them into a frenzy. There were more rats than these, some of his own private stock which he had raised from rattlings. At the moment, those were herded into rooms along the vampire’s path, waiting for his signal to rush into the hall and tear anything in their path to shreds. Rinno grinned and rubbed his clammy hands together, then dropped on all fours. He would race along with his furry little mates, and hide in their midst to add to their frenzy. It was almost time, they were almost ready.

---

“This blessed stake fly true and swift to end this cursed-soul’s mobility, that we may be blessed with its ill-begotten gifts,” prayed the acolyte, as he lined the shot to sever Col’s spine. The wood was blessed and soaked in holy water, a precaution that would ensure the wounds it inflicted on the unholy would not heal without difficulty.

Col fought against his dazzled incapacitation. Every one of his senses both natural and supernatural returned whiteness and static. His stomach lurched for the first time in a long time, and his knees began to quiver. Suddenly, there came a pain in his left side, then the sound of a blasphemous curse that cut through the ringing prayers. Then he heard:

“It’s jammed, shit-damn it’s jammed!” said the voice. “Don’t just stand there like a phone-pole, start pike’n the damned th-

Col’s gun rang loud, with an accompanying sound of a wet shattering and a dull thud.

A second voice, that of the pike wielder, turned high-pitched and frantic. “You bastard, you killed him you Bastard!, You’re dead, Dead! Raaaaahhhhhggg… uuuuooooohuuuukk!” The pike wielder raced toward Col but tripped over his fallen friend’s body. Col stumbled toward him and stomped hard on what he could only assume was an arm.

Col pointed his gun down at what to him appeared to be a grayish blob lying on a less-than-white backdrop. The ringing in his ears subsided to a thin whine. His head still throbbed painfully, and his side was crying out in agony. He leaned back against the wall and slid to the floor slowly.

“Stay still or die, your choice you little shit,” said Col finally. “What is this thing in me?”

There was silence so Col slammed the butt of the gun down on the first piece of anatomy he could discern.

“It’s a stake. I dunno where it came from,” came the reply after a soft yelp.

“You little shit, you stupid little shit. What… do you think my brain is dead? Pull this damned thing outta me, now.” There was more pain from his side, so much that his hand shot down to the wound. His shirt and coat were slick with his own cool blood. The stake had pierced through him entirely, and burned his fingertips as it left his side. Yet there was a strange, thick warmth dripping into the gaping hole from somewhere inside.

“Here’s the deal, you’re going to shut off that damned light. Then you’ll lead me to the girl. If you can do both without pissin’ me off, or stickin’ me with more wooden projectiles, you keep your life. How’zat soundin’?”

The man grumbled and wept something into the floor. “What was that? You havn’t answered my question and I’m getting pissed.” Col slammed the butt of the gun down on the man again. His eyesight had improved only slightly, so now everything appeared in soft gray hues. His boot still held the man’s arm pinned to the ground. The arm led to a torso and head which blurred with a pair of foggy-seeming legs, most likely from the unlucky partner. The man’s head was lifted slightly from the ground. He seemed to be checking his situation.

Col leaned his head back against the wall and tried to blink away the obscuring mist, hoping that once his eyesight had returned the marching band in his head would stop playing. He cracked a blurry eye at the sound of something sliding slowly across the ground. The man was sliding cautiously onto his knees, being careful to leave his left arm completely motionless so that it would not alert him to his movement. In his right hand was the stake that he had pulled from Col’s side.

To Col it seemed like a grayish bipedal thing was preparing to slap him across the face. The color of the arm and body mixed together confusingly as it moved so that he could hardly tell where the blow was going to land. Col raised his hand over his heart, and felt the agonizing sting of the blessed stake piercing through. He pushed his pistol into the larger bulk of gray and fired. The man gasped endlessly, and fell onto his face.

Col was running out of options. He grimaced and gripped a handful of shirt then dragged the dying body of the man back around the corner, back into the small room. The pain in his hand matched that in his side, and increased screamingly as he pulled the stake through. He quickly tossed the offending item aside.

“I think I’ll call you ‘Tonto’,” said Col not caring if the man was still conscious to hear him. “Means stupid, stupid like you.”

He knelt and groped blindly for the gunshot wound. He found it over what seemed to be the man’s left lung. There was a soggy choke as Col bit the tip of his own finger and plunged it into the hole. The chokes burbled and whined as the man convulsed violently. A pattering of wet froth misted upon Col’s cheek. He dragged the shuddering corpse over to a corner of the room, sat against the wall, and hoped whatever trouble the gunshots would bring would be slow in arriving.