Andy followed Clara around the village for a couple hours, searching for signs of the payload. On the outskirts of the village beside the main road, they spied inside a large garage stocked with dozens of motorbikes, lined up on the concrete outside or dismantled on work benches within. Their black bodies and silver handlebars glittered in the light of a welding torch, as three goths wandered about the interior of the garage, tending operating on the disembowelled machines. Andy skulked closer in the shadows of the long, low building, while Clara observed through her binoculars from afar.

The building’s road-facing wall was made from entirely glass, most of which was smashed and patched up with chain-link fence. It was poorly defended. If Andy wanted to, he could just walk right in, whether now, or when the mechanics went to bed, except for one obstacle. A curtain of zombies hung from the roof by their ankles, attached to a long chain and crank which kept them suspended. As they dangled, chimes and bells adorning their withered limbs tinkled like soft rain off fine chinaware. If Andy approached now, no doubt the zombies would sense him coming and make a racket, and Andy imagined that the mechanics would lower the curtain once they retired. All in all, it was an impressive design, more on the creative side than the practical, but Andy appreciated the artistry.

“What do you think?” Andy whispered over his radio, hand resting on Julie’s holster. Keeping his revolver company was his nine-millimetre semi-automatic pistol and a few grenades. Andy had left his assault rifle at the jeep. Clara said it didn’t go with his costume. But he wouldn’t need it for this. “Shall I go in?”

“No,” Clara hissed over the radio. “It’s not worth blowing our cover.”

“Are you sure?” Andy’s hand drifted to Julie’s handle. If only he’d brought a silencer, maybe he could convince Clara to let him crack on.

“It’s not there.”

Andy slunk back into the shadows, retreating from the rows of bikes to around the shack where Clara hid.

“They’ve got a welding torch,” he said.

“I know.” Clara waved her binoculars. “I can see. But I don’t think it’s in there. If I’m wrong, once the ritual is over, we’ll come back to this spot and break in.”

After wandering around a little longer, they returned to the courtyard to wait for midnight. Andy found a stool to sit on beneath the eaves of a thatched roof, but it was uncomfortable, and he was bored. At least the Țuică in his hip flask made everything lighter. Andy lounged with his back against the shack, exhaling warm air into the cold night. He was feeling cognitively limber, having been drinking spirits since the morning. Thankfully, the six pints of beer he’d drunk in the inn had hydrated him enough for him to keep his wits about him.

At eleven o’clock, people started gathering in the courtyard. They huddled around candles, dressed in long robes, talking in hushed voices. The cultists didn’t pay any attention to the man in the cage, but as their numbers grew, they encircled him. The prisoner was unmoving. Maybe he’d died. That’d make things easier. Andy had a feeling that Clara was going to do her charitable thing and risk her life to save the unlucky sod. If she got carried away, and the injured merc dragged them down, Andy was prepared to do the right thing to ensure they both got out of this mission alive.

By half past eleven, easily around five hundred goths had gathered. Like blowing out a flame, the courtyard became hushed, and everyone turned to watch as a woman with a huge umbrella collar floated down a fenced pathway behind the courtyard. Five small fires floated about priestess, trailing smoke and fire in the dark. Andy squinted, wondering what powers she possessed. If she was Augmented, she might be dangerous. Perhaps she’d put up a fight, let him test his strength. But as she got closer, Andy was disappointed to see a wire contraption attached to her back. It held five fat candles at arm's length, like insect limbs, and wobbled with each step she took.

The matriarch shepherded an entourage of young women dressed in bright white bodices, wrapped in dark cloaks. Each carried a single candle. They wore silken, arm-length gloves and knee-high black leather boots. Two girls unlocked the gate and their leader strode through. Her face was bright and pale. Her expression danced in the candlelight, ferocious. “I beseech thee, disciples of the dark lord, whomst amongst you possesses tribute worthy of his woefulness? His malevolence. The dark lord of Hallow Hill… Drakaula.”

“Did she say it with a k?” Andy said.

“Shh,” Clara hushed him.

“Hearken to me, unworthy ones, if yee dare,” the lady beckoned. “The way to his excellency is wrought with terrors, not for the faint hearted.” She spoke with a lyrical moan, with an ebb and flow. It reminded Andy of a classmate he once had in drama class at primary school before the cataclysm. She used to try and make everything she said as dramatic as possible, even if it was just a stupid play about making breakfast. Andy smiled at the memory. He’d enjoyed drama. It was the only class where messing around was appreciated.

“There,” Clara said. The excitement in her voice seized his attention back to the courtyard. A line was forming beside the gate. Andy spotted the goth kid from earlier near the front of the que. What was his name? Crow, or something. At the back of the queue was an older man carrying a silver briefcase. Bingo.

Andy rose, but Clara grabbed his sleeve before he could make a move. “Wait.”

“I could just grab it and run,” he said. “You can stay here if you want.”

“No, sit down.”

“Honestly, I’ll just snatch it up, fire off a vortex shot and bounce. Meet you back at the jeep in twenty.”

Clara shook her head. “Chill out. Don’t rush it. Look, there’s a lot of people armed.”

“I see them,” Andy said.

There were few weapons on display, but nothing military grade. Bolt-action rifles, what looked like muskets and a few crossbows, the sort of primitive firearms popular amongst destitute wastelanders.

Andy spotted a group of men packing the most heat smoking beneath a thatched roof nearby–bolt-action rifles slung over their shoulders. Andy’s Augmentation’s Combat Conceptualisation drew his eye to the bulges beneath the cloaks of many others mixed into the crowd, the giveaway of small-arms beneath. If a fight broke out, a shot could come from anywhere, and though his Evasive Fire protocol would weigh the odds in his favour, Clara didn’t have such a luxury. In the chaos, she might catch a stray, and besides, there were kids about, it wasn’t their fault that their parents were batshit demon worshipers. It wouldn’t be right to see them caught in the crossfire.

“As long as the payload doesn’t leave our sight,” Clara said, “we have options.”

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Andy patted Julie’s flank in her holster, consoling her. She was just as keen as Andy to see some more action, but they’d both have to wait.

The young women dressed in white robes walked down the line of cultists, inspecting their offerings.

“Get in line,” Clara said. “Follow them. See where they’re going. When you get a chance, grab the briefcase and get out.”

Andy gazed up at the spooky castle’s black spires, shrouding the clear starlight. “I’ve got to admit, I like your thinking.”

“Keep it professional,” Clara said. “We don’t know what’s up there-”

“I can guess,” Andy grinned. “Looking forward to meeting it.”

“Whatever’s up there, we don’t need to kill it,” Clara said. “We just need the payload.”

“Fine. What’s my offering?” Andy asked.

“To the priests?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it matter?”

“What if they don’t let me in?”

Clara shrugged. “Say you’re offering your revolver. You’re not actually going to give them it.”

“Julie? I would never.”

“It’s just for the show. Just to get in the castle. Once you’ve retrieved the payload, radio in. I’ll break Robert free, and we’ll run for it.”

“Who’s Robert?” Andy asked.

“Be gone!” a woman shrieked from the queue by the gate. She threw a small object on the ground. It cracked on impact.

“No,” the young goth kid said, scurrying past her to pick up the pieces.

The woman kicked him. Two more came to her aid, kicking and shooing him from the plaza. “Unworthy,” they chanted.

The kid scarpered. The rest of the cultists standing in line suddenly looked nervous.

“They might be a bit picky about offerings,” Andy said.

“Okay then,” Clara said, unloading her backpack, handing Andy her wrist terminal from inside. “Don’t lose it.”

“What does this do?”

“Andy, it’s my computer. It does everything. It’s invaluable. I’ve talked to you about it before, you know, it has my maps and-”

“I was joking sis.” Andy winked. “I’ll take care of your baby.”

“You best, or I’ll have your balls.”

“Bit weird, but sure,” Andy said, turning to leave.

“Okay then… If you lose my terminal, I’ll sell your revolver to buy a new one,” Clara said.

Andy stopped in his tracks. He held the mini computer a little tighter. “In safe hands, sis. See you in a bit.”

Andy crossed the courtyard, weaving through the crowd towards a block of spectators watching the proceedings. Withdrawing Julie from her leather holster, he pushed her muzzle down the back of his beltline so that she was concealed beneath his leather jacket. “Sorry babe,” he whispered, then addressed the nearby goths. “Excuse me.” He slithered through the cultists to stand at the back of the line, standing three spaces behind his target with the briefcase and waited his turn. Two more goths were ejected from the line, however with a little less fanfare than before. One of the young white-clad acolytes approached Andy. Her porcelain skin reflected the frail light of the candle flame, her chest and collar exposed to the moonlight. She had a stern expression. Andy held out the terminal for inspection.

“What does this do?” she asked.

“It’s a computer. A really good one.”

The girl looked puzzled. She waved a companion over to inspect the terminal together.

“Why would his horribleness desire such an antiquated device,” the other girl said.

“Maps,” Andy replied, trying to remember what else it was that Clara banged on about. “It has video games. It has the original Doom installed.” He wasn’t sure if that was true, but who didn’t like Doom?

“Doom?”

“Yeah, blood and gore and killing.” Andy grinned.

“This will suffice.” The girl spun and returned to the entourage at the matriarch’s heels. Once all of the acolytes had returned to her, the priestess spoke.

“Those of you whose gifts have been deemed worthy have passed the first test.” The costumed woman paced down the line, regarding each of them in turn. “However, your ordeal has only just begun. Steel yourselves now, for the ghost train awaits.”

The crowd in the courtyard murmured anxiously. He and the other gift bearers set off at a solemn pace, heading through the ornate gate and towards the castle at the cliff’s peak. As the gate creaked closed behind him, Andy turned and gave Clara the thumbs up. The brim of her cap dipped as she nodded back.

The path climbed steeply, narrowing as the cliff’s edge closed in on either side. The castle rose before Andy, charcoal black towers stained with shadows, silhouetting the pale moonlit clouds above. The wind rustled through skeletal trees bordering the path, their branches outstretched like clawed fingers towards the troupe. Andy was flanked on either side by cultist women. They wore a perfume of spice that was distinct, but not exactly pleasant. Smoke from their candles wafted in the breeze, mingling with the perfume–the combined smell reminded Andy of a korma curry.

At the castle’s base, a huge door loomed above him. Stone gargoyles jeered down at him from high parapets. A platform rose before him, made from timber. A large gasoline generator grumbled in a shack beside the platform–the first generator which he’d seen in the village. Steps upwards led to a row of carriages, each large enough for two men to sit inside. The cultists were embarking, while the girls stood in two neat lines and watched.

A gale rushed over the clifftop, flicking the candlelight, snuffing many of the flames out. Mist sprayed Andy’s cheeks as the current carried moisture from the expansive valley below. He zipped his leather jacked up until the grenades attached to his bandolier dug into his chest. Andy followed the others into the open-air train, approaching the rearmost carriage. It was fixed on tracks which ran towards the huge black door. The carriage was painted in bright varnished colours, bearing a werewolf’s snarling face. Other carriages featured ghosts, devils, zombies and a mummy. A large sign behind the tracks read: ‘DARE YOU ENTER DRAKAKULAR’S LAIR?’ It had the picture of a classical vampire baring its teeth, clawed hand clutching the ‘D’ on ‘DARE’.

“No way… it’s an actual ghost train?” Andy took a seat beside another cultist. The man clenched his jaw, clutching a satchel to his chest. Andy fitted Clara’s wrist terminal around his arm, tightening the straps.

A girl lowered a metal bar over his head and strapped him in. The cultist with the briefcase sat in the carriage in front of him. Andy glared at the back of his neck, hidden beneath long black hair. A killshot from this close would be the easiest thing in the world. Ahead, the first of the carriages set off towards the large black door, but instead of them opening, the carriages passed beneath a small black curtain that Andy hadn’t noticed was there before. Andy grimaced. It was less epic than if the doors had opened. He hoped the whole ride didn’t cut corners like that.

With each admittance, a voice cackled at them from tinny speakers, then repeated the slogan ‘Fresh blood for Drakaula.’ After a moment, the second carriage set off leaving a wide gap between each pair of passengers. Last of all, Andy’s cart jolted awake and trundled down the tracks. The cultist beside him shook his legs and whimpered.

“It’s going to be okay,” Andy said, slapping the fellow’s knee encouragingly. “They can’t really hurt you, son.”

The man looked at him, then at the black curtain. “Yes then can.”

“Oh really?”

“Haven’t you had the dreams? Seen them at night?”

“Seen what?”

“The apparitions.” The man’s voice trembled.

The speakers crackled. “Fresh blood for Drakaula.”

The black curtain brushed over Andy’s face. Blackness swallowed him. There was no breeze, no sense of space or movement. He could only hear the sound of their carriage on the tracks. It crawled one rung at a time. He leant back in his seat, gravity pulling him down. Julie dug into his hip, so he withdrew her from hiding and holstered her. They were climbing upwards, each click of the carriage sounded more laboured than the last, until his weight evened out and the carriage stopped clicking altogether.

“Oh lord, I can’t,” his passenger said. “Stop, I want to get off. Help!”

With a roar, the carriage fell downwards. Leviathan jaws swallowed them whole and they raced down the throat of a monster.