Chapter 7

Col’s Shadow-Clone was not an entirely intelligent being. It didn’t think much of the increasing sound of rodents following behind, or the sound of semi-human laughter. When it reached the end of the hall it simply stood still and looked about boredly, down both sides of the fork; Left side empty, all glinting tile, the right side just the same.

The Shadow-Clone turned around to see what all the pattering was behind him, and saw a veritable wall of rodents pouring down the hall toward him. At the lead were sheep-sized rats with horrifically long canines chipped into sinister serrations. A feeling like fear, more like self-preservation, forced to shadow to act. It arbitrarily chose left and took off running.

The corridor made a complete u-turn into a wide shower room. A crop of ragged brick in the center of the room was the only indication of a wall that had divided the space into male and female facilities. On the other side of the rubble was an open door, so the shadow made for its safety. In its haste, the shadow clone didn’t notice the lack of pursuit into the room or the thin wisps of steam flowing out of the dozen, mineral-encrusted shower heads. The steam floated stagnantly against the cellophane covering the open ceiling, giving the room the appearance of hanging under a cloud.

Just as the Shadow-clone crossed the missing center wall, a series of loud ‘BANG’s rang out clear across the factory. One rang from afar, somewhere indistinct. The others were the result of both exits from the room slamming closed.

It was then that the shadow-clone noticed that it was alone, and that the room was rapidly filling with a warm, piercingly sweet vapor. One by one the shower heads burst into full blast, spewing hot water and plumes of steam into the room. Though the clone could not feel, in the conventional sense of the word, it could tell that it was in trouble. The smell was so intense that its vision began to blur. It stumbled against a wall and caught a glimpse of a rapidly disintegrating hand. The last thing it thought was a feeling of lost sadness at its short existence

Waofin opened his door a crack and peered into the room. A wave of steam poured out into the hall, hot and moist and reeking heavily of garlic. His keen eyes glimpsed a form lying on the ground. Checking the nylon net in his left hand again to make sure it was ready, he slipped in.

The signal startled Rinno, who was thinking on the far off blast he heard moments before. He quickly put those thoughts aside in favor of duty and opened the door on his side of the shower-room. Rats poured in before him, sniffing and tittering and splashing their thin tails in inch-high water. Waofin was standing above a huddled black form.

“Talk to me buddy, gimme a sign.,” said Rinno cautiously, fearing that his friend was mesmerized by the Vampire’s charm.

Waofin gave him a look of hopelessness and motioned for Rinno to come closer. “He’s not he'ah man, relax. Bastard pulled a fast one on us.”

Rinno approached Waofin slowly and nodded in agreement. He noticed that only a black trash bag remained as evidence of the trap. “Great, fooled by garbage. Well, let’s open ‘er up.”

Waofin shrugged and pulled a cross shaped dagger from behind him and slit open the bag. The bag let out a muffled shriek.

“Did that thing just… oh…” started Rinno before noticing the greenish smear on the blade of Waofin’s dagger. Waofin pulled a horrified expression and knelt beside the bag.

“The faster you help me out of this stupid bag, the less likely it is that I will stab you in your sleep,” said an irate voice from within.

Waofin hurriedly reached in and pulled out Batzuga’s tangled body. He stretched him out on the floor. “I could just put you back in there, y’know, then you couldn’t get me at all.”

“Oh I’d, ah, get you -ouch- if I had to chew -owww- my way out and drag along with my chin,” replied Batzuga between gasps of sharp pain and the muffled popping of his joints setting. He suddenly remembered the situation and asked excitedly, “where’s the neck-sucker?”

“We dunno,” replied Waofin. “He pulled a double-take on us, some shadow man or something. I’m not sure how you got here but-”

Another loud blast rang out over the factory. This time there was no mistaking the sound; it was a gunshot. Batzuga quickly rose to his feet, wobbling a bit on unsteady knees, and exchanged worried glances with the others.

“That’s our cue. Lemmie tell you now, this dude is tough. This ain’t no fresh dead, it’s the real deal Vampire Lord shit. You let those two newbies go ahead with their little scheme?”

“Yea,” answered Rinno as all three of them rushed out into the factory.

“Five bucks says they’re dead,” said Batzuga, plainly. “Here’s the plan. I’mma go see if I can help Zourdan, you two go tell Father Saul what’s up.”

“You don’t think Zourdan can take ‘im?” asked Rinno.

“Stranger things have happened, man, but fuck if any of that’s gonna happen tonight,” answered Batzuga and they hurried through the twisting halls and rooms, each filled with his own worries and frights.

---

Col opened his eyes to the sound of ragged breathing. A wretched creature with white, empty eyes was standing over him. The corner of it's mouth twitched sleightly when it noticed that its master was awake. Col assumed it was trying to smile.

“Tonto,” he ordered, “there is a light down the hall. Destroy it.”

The ghoul looked at each of the two branching openings from the small, square room. It turned its whole body to one, then the other, then back in an almost comical fashion. Unable to disappoint its master, but equally unable to decide on a course of action, it simply oscillated.

Col would have laughed at his ghoul’s antics if there wasn’t so much pain in his hand and his side. He pointed at the appropriate opening. The ghoul stumbled away. Col took a moment to study his hand and noticed that the opening of the wound had been closed on both sides with a thin green membrane. He silently thanked Batzuga’s freakish blood then closed his eyes.

He searched for signs of his clone but only found a sharply-sweet mist where its signature should have blinked as a beacon. The Hunters must have met and dealt with his decoy. He didn’t have much time to waste.

In a few moments time, he was rewarded with the sounds of crunching and breaking- the sign that he could continue unhindered. Col hurried down the turning corridor and found his ghoul standing triumphant and thoughtless above a pile of plastic and glass rubble. The ghoul gave Col a lax, open-mouthed smile as he approached.

“Good, Tonto, you have done as I asked with no complaint,” the ghoul’s tongue fell from its mouth and hung motionless over its teeth. Col bent down and took up two knivish hunks of glass from the remains and offered them to the ghoul. “Take, Tonto, use and destroy.”

The Ghoul licked its lips, smiled at Col again, and received the glass weaponry. .

A memory stood out in his mind: His master ancient but strong in loose pants and no shirt. His wrinkled, tan hand lay on the head of a ghoul named Fronz. Fronz had been thin and wiry, formerly an addict of some drug that had left him broken and defeated on the shoals of life. The Master concentrated for a thin moment. In that span, the form of the ghoul had spasmed then doubled, until its ropey muscles bulged and tested the elasticity of its tattered clothing. It had even gained half a foot of height.

Presently, Col grasped Tonto it by its head, emulating the memory of his master empowering Guardian ghouls in their penthouse. Tonto, twitched and Col felt a chill run through him. There was a sense of something passing from him into his ghoul and then there was nothing. Tonto moaned happily and waited.

“Now go! Run forward and leftward, killing everything in your path that isn’t me or female,” said Col, a bit disappointed that there wasn’t more to the transfer. His spirits lifted a little when he noticed the speed at which the ghoul raced down the hall, its legs seeming more agile, more sure.

Col nodded in satisfaction; the ghoul should buy him a little more time. He wasn’t without pity for the wretched creature. Though the ghoul Tonto had been prepared to murder Col, it was against him to impress such miserable servitude on another. To be a ghoul was a fate worse than death, slow decay, feasting upon refuse and festering flesh. Col decided when this was all over he would dispatch the creature and allow it to rest in peace. But for now, he was glad of its help.

Agitation had not subsided from Col, a feeling that rose again into his mind now that the pain of the holy words and light had left him. He was weary of this maze. At first he assumed he would be in and out quickly, imagining the Hunters too weak or unorganized to stop him from regaining what was stolen. But he was past that thought. It seemed as if the hunters intended to tire and test him before some final confrontation. His only option was to bring the fight straight to them,and assault them head on.

He stooped into a half-crouch and pumped his legs full of strength. Then he jumped up onto rusted brace of a wall. Col grinned and crouched low to the thin, gritty surface, and prepared to leap from wall to wall until he found Kandais, or more trouble to dispatch.

---

In a room not too far from where Col crouched, sat a heavily muscled man of tanned skin and braided black hair. His cross-legged position was uncomfortable in thick leather breeches, but nothing he wasn’t used to. He had sat this way for the last few hours waiting for his prey to arrive, head hung low over his lap where his black-gloved hands rested; meditating. The bark of gunfire, and then a following sound of a wall shattering and breaking were the only things of late that had bothered his attentions.

For him, life as a Child of the Scion was one of solitary contemplation, with gruff reticence to everyone who wasn’t the Prophet, and total silence to any who did not follow the ways of the Hunter. His hands were part of the reason. He had only three fingers on each of them- Thumb, Middle, Ring- and scar-white circles where the others used to be. A special pair of gloves served as clumsy prosthetics, giving him the appearance of full dexterity, but only the appearance. The first and fourth fingers were no more than jointed metal designed to curl into fists when the need arose. When his thumbs crossed his fists, these false fingers would lock into place but partially disconnect from his hand. That was for the action, for the gift that was given in return for his lost digits. He smiled at his hands, and tested the mechanism of the gloves as he always did before he fought, or before going out into the public.

Smiles always felt odd on his face, but he let it remain a while anyway. Confrontation made him happy, which was why his body was so well muscled, ritually devoid of body hair, and trained to respond to his weight and balance. He wore the simple breeches to protect his legs, but he left his chest bare, inviting anyone to be foolish enough to strike him.

He closed his eyes to savor the anticipation, and curled his fists tightly. He began to clenched and unclench them, enjoying the way his middle and ring knuckles rubbed hard against the metal plate above them. The plate formed a shield that kept his hands safe from most blades, and if he was lucky or quick, a bullet. He was suddenly aware of his first and fourth knuckles, which now felt swollen, his hands eager to perform their favorite task; Destroying the soulless, decrepit creatures that preyed on human flesh and blood and spirit. Hunting the unholy carnivores. Zourdan felt himself a predator of predators, and he loved that feeling.

A feeling of foreboding broke into his reverie. His eyes snapped open. A figure landed before him. It wore a t-shirt proclaiming an ancient band, baggy black pants, and a leather trench coat still wavering from the fall. The Vampire had snuck up on him!

Rage filled Zourdan. He had spent much time setting up trip-wires and bells in the nearby hall. The vampire had circumvented those alarms, and was now no more than four feet from him. It had also managed to avoid the web of trip-wires that also laced the room. Zourdan growled deeply. This was not at all going the way he had planned it.

“Listen, I’m tired of this nonsense ok?” the creature said, pointing a pinkish-white blade at Zourdan, using it to punctuate its words. “I’m going to ask you once, Where is the Girl? Tell me, or I use this sword. It seems the only thing you flims-o mortals understand is pain.”

Zourdan stared it right in its eyes. He felt its power pushing through his head. Ethereal fingers grasped for his soul and fumbled. Zourdan grunted, “pitiful.”

The bonesword arced toward Zourdan. Col’s arm jarred hard as his blade clashed against the man’s quick defense. They both paused, sword against metal-braced fist. In a flash of thin blood-spray, a pair of curved claws sporting wicked serrations exploded from the man’s first and fourth knuckles. The man twisted his claws against Col’s sword, wrenching it from his grasp. The sword flew off to the side and skittered across the floor. Zourdan shook his head slowly. This vampire was good enough to take out a couple of acolytes, and probably give Batzuga a hard time, but so far it wasn’t anything special.

Col frowned. This one was tricky. Decisively he stepped back and pulled the pistol from his trench coat pocket. His heel caught against something. Col pitched backward. He tried to steady himself but caught some other unseen barrier with his toes and fell to his knees. In an instant the Hunter was standing and defensive, staring down at Col with a cold sardonic light in his eyes. Col whipped his gun up, but Zourdan pressed a fist against the barrel-opening.

“Can we end this, defiled-one? ‘Less you want that gun to backfire on yah. Mess up that hand of yours,” said Zourdan. Col shrugged and tossed the gun aside. His gaze fell on his sword, ten feet or so away, probably under a mass of tripwires.

“Guy like you needs to use such weakling tricks like Trippers? I guess all that beef’s for show,” commented Col. He pumped his entire body with strength, but was suddenly aware of his dwindling energy. It wouldn’t be too long before he would have to feed again. Long enough, at least, to finish with this freak.

Zourdan stepped back a few paces. He remembered the exact patterns of the tripwires, and could walk unhindered. His opponent, however, was completely unaware. Inside he laughed, outside he motioned for the Vampire to stand and fight. All Zourdan had to do was lead him a few more yards backward and the vampire would be trapped by a noose made of thin, clear wire that hung from the ceiling. Zourdan’s inner laughter raged louder, ‘Vampire or no, you can’t see no clear thread.’

Col pushed up from his knees and raced forward. He decided not to worry about the unseen web below him. He stumbled twice, and took a shallow swipe on his shoulder. Col pushed aside the following strike, ending his movements in range of Zourdan. Col caught Zourdan’s next attack, blocking it with a deft movement of his left forearm against the man’s wrist. His own fist hammered twice into Zourdan’s stomach, first thudding harmlessly against the thick muscle, next pushing through. Zourdan inhaled sharply then cut a pair of deep furrows into Col’s neck.

Col growled and slammed a fist into Zourdan’s jaw. The hinge snapped on one side and Zourdan’s mouth fell sloppily open. The man retreated a hasty couple of yards, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes, his right hand clenching his hanging mouth closed. Col made sure to note where the man carefully placed his feet, and followed quick and low. He swatted aside another of Zourdan’s swipes and lashed out. Zourdan shielded his face with his free hand, so Col grasped it tightly and yanked the man forward. Zourdan forgot the pain in his jaw in favor of a stark fear; he was being pulled into the noose!

Col watched the man struggle and cringe as he pulled him closer. Zourdan's foot hit a tripwire just as his head jerked upward. Suddenly, he was dangling a few inches above the ground. He began to choke, and fumble at his neck. Blood-mixed spittle dribbled down his broken jaw as he struggled against an unseen wire.

Col lifted Zourdan higher off of the ground by his throat, leaving just enough slack in his grip to allow the man to breath. “The girl, or your life. No jokes. If you are wrong I will hunt you down and break every bone in your pitiful body.”

The man pointed a claw at a closed door on their side of the chamber. “Through that door, keep right and then make a left. The twelfth door on the right is the one,” Zourdan gasped.

Col laughed coldly and yanked down hard. The wire stretched, dug a deep, bloodied crescent into Zourdan's skin, then snapped. The man croaked softly.

Col hurried to retrieve his sword and gun. By the time Col had returned , slashing at every step to avoid more trips and traps, the hunter had turned pale and his eyes had fluttered closed. Col severed the noose none-too-gently, giving the man another scar to add to his neck. He crouched to check the man's pulse. The man’s eyes snapped open and he rolled away from Col. Zourdan scrambled to his feet and out of the door as quickly as his legs would carry him.

Col grinned. The man would surely show the way, all he had to do was keep up. His side and his right hand had all but healed, only a sleight throbbing reminded of the past wounds. Col did a running jump onto the top of a wall. He hurried off in the direction of Zourdan’s loud footsteps.