Salazar is the first to react. As the knock repeats, Salazar whips out his flare gun and opens it, checking if it's loaded. That alone is enough to communicate the situation to me.
“Eliza, be ready but we do not engage unless attacked directly. John, here is your pick-me-up but do not, I repeat, do not use it unless directly attacked,” I bark orders and open a small pouch on my belt, “We have only three capsules with T left and I don’t want to waste any on a minor confrontation.”
I carefully take out a capsule, holding it in the palm of my hand, and slowly pass it to John. The gas inside is dense and pitch black as if I’m holding a small bottle of concentrated darkness. The capsule itself is made of plastic and wouldn’t break easily but one can’t be too careful with Tenebretin.
John grunts in acknowledgment and takes the substance from me, his hands trembling slightly as he shoves it into his right pocket. I close the pouch and pick up my helmet. Eliza has already secured hers on her head.
“What can we expect, Sal? Who else knows about this place?” I ask the old man. Salazar looks at me, his face concerned, as he zips his bag closed before replying:
“There is a local group of Guides that’s been harassing me these last few months. They think I’m invading on their turf. I hope it’s them because the alternative is worse.” He stands up and puts his hand on the lightbulb. With his other hand, he passes me the flare gun. I automatically shove it behind my belt.
“Stay here and don’t let them see you. I’ll handle this.” Before I can protest, he turns off the light and quickly moves between us to the entrance hatch. Goggles already on his face, the old man intones each word as he speaks: “Stay. Here.”
I nod swiftly, both to flip my own goggles and to assent, and he disappears into the open hatch. I quickly check the battery level and look at my sister. Eliza, her NVGs on her face and the weapon placed on her lap, gives me a thumbs up.
I turn to John and shiver slightly, unnerved — the big guy is crouched, half-sitting half-standing at the balls of his feet, his hands placed on the floor in front of him, every muscle tight with tension. He reminded me of an animal ready to pounce. He turns that way — animalistic, predatory — before any big fight. It’s as if John instinctively can predict a confrontation turning violent before it happens. And then the killing usually starts.
From where I sit, I can hear shouting, an unfamiliar and shrill voice demanding something from Salazar. The old man’s voice, raspy and controlled, replies calmly. I scoot over, closer to the hatch, trying to discern the words. The shouting match grows louder and suddenly stops. I hear a strike and a grunt, then the sound of something falling on the floor. A body?
I stand up almost straight, as much as the ceiling permits, and turn to Eliza. She nods - at this point, we don’t necessarily have to speak to understand each other in a tactical situation.
Before I get to do anything else, two things happen. The first — a man jumps into the hatch and stares at us. He starts opening his mouth to call for help when the second thing happens — John dashes forward on all fours like an animal, avoiding me, and slams the man into the wall, hard.
“Bring him here!” I shout and John grunts in agreement. He scoops up the man’s legs and drags him across the floor to me. Idiot struggles and screams, trying to break free. He stops when he turns and sees Eliza with the spikethrower, aiming at his heart. She clicks her tongue and says to the man:
“Sup. Stay down.”
Keeping her eyes fixed on the guest, Eliza asks me:
“What’s now? I hope you have a plan, Ash.”
“I always do,” I reply with a grin. Except I don’t — the whole situation got desperate fast. I do have an idea though. I take a step closer to the hatch and yell:
“Hey! We have a hostage here! Let us out and let’s talk!”
For almost a minute, nothing happens. I can hear a murmur outside, even a few angry shouts. Then, the same shrill voice I heard before calls out:
“We have a hostage too! Come out but only one of you! Negotiate!”
I turn to my family and say quietly enough so only the people inside could hear:
“John, if shit goes down — you know what to do. Eliza, if this idiot as much as even opens his mouth or moves — put a spike through his kneecap.”
Eliza nods and the man freezes up, his hands raised as he’s still lying on his back.
I start ascending the ladder. Before I climb out fully, I holler:
“I’m coming out! Hurt me and he dies!”, just to remind them of the stakes. When I climb outside, there are about eight people, excluding Sal, standing all around the hatch in a crescent formation. I suddenly feel like I’m in front of a firing squad.
All of them are dressed in whatever they could find — a random assortment of shirts, jackets, and shoes. All eight have different models of NVGs and respirators — some wear full gas masks with shabby goggles similar to those that Salazar wears, and some have old military respirators and a night vision monocular covering just one eye. As for weapons, everyone’s packing only for close quarters — I notice fire axes, machetes, knives, and even a sledgehammer. Two burly guys are holding Salazar, who is sitting on his knees, his goggles lying on the floor near him.
I raise my hands slowly and ask:
“Who’s in charge here? We don’t want any more trouble.”
“I am in charge here. Hello,” a man’s voice calls out to me from the darkness beyond what my NVGs could fully discern. It’s unpleasant to hear, the same voice I heard before. As the figure comes closer, I can see more features — he’s old, with a grey, dirty beard hanging from his face, long enough to stick from under the respirator. His other features are obscured by an impressive four-goggle night vision device attached to a military helmet. The rest of the clothes though? A mix-and-match of pre-Dawn police uniform and an old duster he scrounged somewhere.
The man approaches Salazar and I see a knife appear in his old, wrinkly hand.
“My name is Donald. You have my son, we have your friend,” he points at Salazar by way of touching Sal’s face with the blade.
”I would prefer us to stay civil, especially here, right under the vampires’ doorstep,” Donald says and points upward with his free hand, “None of us want any trouble with them, don’t you agree?”
“Sure,” I nod and look around, quickly assessing the situation. Nine enemies in total. Two people holding Salazar, plus Donald holding a knife to his face - Sal won’t be able to break free without sustaining some damage. Even if John gets here fast enough, I’ll get hurt too.
Negotiation it is then.
“What exactly are you suggesting, Donald?”
“Well, Salazar here caused us a serious grievance,” he presses the knife harder, enough to draw blood. Sal, to his credit, doesn’t move away. Donald continues:
“We are Guides, same as him, except we are better. Better equipped, better trained, better paid,” he emphasizes the last word, “Dear Salazar though, he’s a bygone. A relic that refuses to accept the new state of things. We told him to stop taking clients here and what do we have here?” he shrugs and points at me with a crooked finger,” A client. In our territories. Unacceptable,” he almost spits out the last word.
Ah. That's what it's all about.
“This is a misunderstanding then. We are not clients, we are his family. Just visiting,” I reply and take a step closer. Donald’s team visibly tenses up, all seven of them.
“That changes everything then!” Donald replies and I can picture him smiling under the respirator, “Then we will be willing to let everyone free, provided you pay us a restitution and return my son untouched.”
“A restitution? How much?” I ask.
“Fifty tokens and we forget about this situation,” Donald’s squeaky voice is suddenly lower, more confident, almost growling. Letting me know the price is non-negotiable.
The commerce in the Anthill revolved around two things - barter and supply tokens, which were the closest thing to currency here. Supply tokens could buy things - food, clean water, and such - or favors, which was usually better. The problem here was simple — we had only twenty tokens between the three of us and I doubt Salazar had enough to cover the difference.
“We don’t have enough. Maybe there is a different way we could repay the rest?” I try, knowing full well that we have nothing else to offer, except Tenebretin. Which would be too much.
“Get my son back here and we’ll see what we can do,” Donald says, irritated.
I nod and take a slow step back to the hatch, not breaking eye contact with the people in front of me. I drop my arms to my sides. Nobody objects.
"John! Let him out and get up here!", I holler. I hear some struggling and muted swearing from below. Then, Donald's son emerges from the hatch and walks to his father. While doing so, he jostles me with the shoulder, his body language displaying self-confidence. Bravado, even. How nice it would be to just beat his ass again.
"Lance, my boy, are you alright?" Donald hugs his son, almost possesively. Lance immediately pushes him away. He takes off his gas mask and can take a better look at him — the "boy" is a good ten years older than me, already balding, with a long rat-like face and patchy beard under the mask. He wears an old leather jacket, weathered army pants, and sneakers. At this distance, I can see Lance's eyes light up in the dark, like cats' eyes do, and the black veins all over his neck and exposed forearms. He's a Tenebretin addict, small-dose, probably an impure version — all the drawbacks, almost zero benefits.
"I'm alright, Daddy, stop hugging me!" Lance's voice is even worse than his father's. A memory from my childhood resurfaces at the sound — how I saw a rat get crushed by a falling rock in Hive Delta. It sounded similar to Lance.
"There is also a bitch and a giant mutant there," Lance tells his father and my hands clench into fists. It takes willpower to unclench them. Lance continues:
"I fought the mutant off but the bitch cowardly struck me from behind," he puts one hand on the back of his head as if it hurts. Sure, that's exactly what happened, Lance. Unsurprisingly, Donald believes him.
"Oh, my brave little boy!" he caresses his son's cheek only to have his hand swatted away. Then, Donald turns back to me and I can see him practically shaking with anger:
"You hurt my son. The price has just gone up to a hundred tokens."
"You can't be serious," I scoff. I notice some of the guards stepping closer to me on the periphery of my vision. My mind is racing for words. At the same time, Eliza climbs out, followed by John. They stand to my sides and watch me try:
"Look, I am terribly sorry that we hurt your... boy, but we don't have that kind of money. What if we gave you twenty tokens now and you would help guide us through the tunnels, to a place where our friends pay the rest?" I ask, focused less on Donald and more on his mooks to the left.
It was a desperate gambit. I hoped we could evade them somewhere down the line or Eliza's contact would fork up some money. It could have worked. But Lance just had to ruin everything.
"I want the bitch," he gives me a sleazy smile and I can imagine Eliza's eyes narrowing behind the goggles, “Give me the bitch, and you’re free to go.”
Donald chuckles in his maddening screech of a voice and says, amused:
“You heard the boy. Give us the girl and all is forgiven. We’ll take good care of her, I guarantee it.”
“Not happening,” I growl back.
Eliza tenses up like a spring. She and everyone else are looking at me expectantly. I raise my NVGs and my sister does the same. I wait a few moments for my eyes to get used to the darkness, then slowly put my hand before my back and wrap my fingers around the flare gun’s handle.
I open my mouth to signal attack only to be interrupted by the sound from one of the tunnels. It’s high-pitched and vibrating as if someone’s scratching metal on metal. Or sharpening blades. Heads turn to the tunnel, one after another.
When I see light starting to emerge from the end of the tunnel, a winged shadow falls on the wall of the tunnel, growing bigger with each step. The realization hits me like a hammer— the Hunter.
I immediately start issuing orders, trying to keep my voice as level as I can:
“John, get your capsule ready. Eliza, I need you to go down, get our stuff upwards, and get back. The rest of you - scatter around and prepare to fight. We are screwed.”
Nobody moves an inch. Lance, though, decides to get uppity.
“What are you even talking about, asshole? You are screwed alright, but we ain’t going nowhere and-” Lance doesn’t finish. Donald grabs his arm, digging his fingers into “his boy’s” forearm.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Son,” he speaks, staring Lance in the face, a sudden edge to his squeaky voice, “Shut the fuck up. The kid is right.” He waves off to Salazar’s guards and they step away, letting the old man rise.
“We work together or we are all screwed, simple as that,” I say and shrug, “Unless you want to be eaten.” The other shoe finally drops for everyone else.
“Oh no, please Mother Dark, no,” one of the Guides — dirty, heavyset woman with mousy hair, a gasmask with cracked glass, and armed with a fire axe — whines, and nervously shuffles closer to Donald. Salazar’s guards and other Guides scatter around in loose formation, without any tactical placement but enough to cover as much ground as possible.
I look at Donald and command:
“Goggles off or eyes gone. The bastard will be lit up like a Yuletide tree.” Donald nods and raises his NVGs. The rest of his group quickly follows suit. Lance, being the rat bastard he is, hides behind his father. The light turns brighter as the metallic sound gets louder.
I step away from the hatch and position ourselves behind everyone else. Just to be safe. My siblings follow, again standing by my sides.
“Where do you need me, Ash?” Salazar approaches me. I notice the respirator dangling on his neck and that his nose is bloodied. I make a mental note to flay Lance and/or Donald for that if we survive. I lean closer to him and speak so only he and Eliza can hear me:
“Take Eliza and get our bags from the shelter. If things get too messy, we might have to bolt out of here.”
“Don’t even think about it. I’m not going anywhere, Ash,” she hisses at me, “I can fight as much as you, maybe even better.”
The light turns brighter as the scratching sound gets louder. At this point, I can hear heavy, ponderous steps echo across.
“Fine,” I spit out, not wanting to argue, and turn back to Salazar: “Can you sit this one out, please?”
“Alright,” he nods and darts to the hatch of the shelter. I catch Lance pointing a finger at Sal and opening his rat mouth to say something. I let go of the flare gun, swiftly unsheathe my machete, and point it at Lance with intent. He closes his mouth.
When the light from the tunnel gets painful to watch and be near, its bearer emerges. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to get used to the light and properly register what I’m seeing. It would be magnificent if it wasn’t so scary.
The Hunter is a tall figure, even taller than John, with gangly arms and legs and amber eyes with vertical slits of pupils watching us intently from inside the knightly helmet. He is dressed in an old crimson armor with an elaborate design of ivy, depicted upon the plates. The chest piece has muscle definition carved into it, like something out of a history book I saw as a child. He has a sword clutched in each hand, with their design reminiscent of ancient Eastern swords I saw in the same book. The blades are one-sided, but their tips are hooked forward at a slight angle, like beaks. The prospect of being hit by these weapons wasn’t particularly appealing.
A golden neon halo over the helmet and similar wings protruding from the armor’s back are what emit the blindingly bright light around the Hunter. I heard about this bastard too many times to count.
Unlike the rest of his bloodsucking kin, the Hunter wasn’t afraid to descend into the Anthill. He thought himself to be a warrior, an honorable knight, and he’s been doing it for years. With his armor resembling an angel from the old religious books, he relentlessly stalked the tunnels of sewers and subways, not afraid of Mother Dark, slaughtering her subjects until he was satisfied. Then he left back above only to return each month.
“Roaches. Pests, nesting under my city,” the vampire addresses us with a monotonous, robotic voice coming from his helmet, “Let it be known that I’m nothing but gracious. Those who pledge loyalty to vampirekind shall be allowed to live, as thralls. The rest shall suffer.”
He probably has a built-in respirator inside this thing. What other weak points are there? Think, Ash, think!
The flare gun is one option. Desperate, but still an option. I have only one shot and I have to make it count - hitting the vampire straight in the face is the only viable target, since his eyes are uncovered, unlike the rest of his body. I pass the machete to my other hand, then half-turn, making sure that the Hunter doesn’t see me moving, and take out the gun from behind my belt. I’m almost ready to shoot, only for Lance to ruin everything once again.
“Let me through or the old man gets it,” he yells. Everyone’s attention turns from the Hunter to him. Holding a knife to his father’s throat and dragging him with the other hand, Lance moves between us closer to the Hunter. Nobody tries to stop him and risk angering the Hunter.
“Son, please, I-” Donald tries to reason with his son only to be shushed by him. Staying about ten feet from the Hunter, Lance hits Donald behind the left knee, and the old man’s leg buckles under him. The vampire looks at the scene, silent and his expression unreadable.
“My Lord,” Lance grovels before the Hunter and kneels, the knife still at Donald’s throat, “Accept my father’s life as a sign of my-”
“Stand up, worm. Trading your own father’s life for your own? You despicable, blighted creature. Not another word from you.”
“B-but my Lord, I just-”
The Hunter interrupts Lance by way of beheading him with one swift move. Before the body falls, the vampire kicks it straight in the chest, sending it flying across the room with blood spraying all over the junction. The same woman that prayed a minute ago starts screaming, as the body lands in front of her. That sets everyone off.
Salazar’s guards dash forward, axe and sledgehammer in hand. They are big, burly guys, their faces indistinguishable behind their gas masks. The Hunter steps over Donald, who’s now lying on the floor in a fetal position and crying. Hunter meets the two attackers with a series of rapid sword slashes. Both men fall in chunks, cut down faster than I can blink.
“Eliza, shoot the halo, then the wings. We need to leave him without the light. John, buddy, it’s high time you get pumped,” I order my siblings and with a shudder notice the Hunter looking straight at me. Is it interest in his eyes? Or contempt? Hard to tell.
The screaming woman stops screaming, turns around, and bolts to the tunnel we first entered. Can’t blame her.
Mesmerized, my mind filtering out the sounds of the battle, I watch as the rest of Donald’s group attacks Hunter all at once. They surround the vampire and are hitting him with machetes, knives, and axes. It’s ultimately futile — the weapons clink off the armor uselessly and the vampire just slashes through the crowd.
He bisects another two men, then catches a machete-wielding woman in the throat with the hook of one of his blades and throws her like a broken toy. The woman hits the floor with a loud crunch, face first, and her body just crumples behind her head, her neck bent at an unnatural angle.
The remaining two Guides — a lanky, slim man with a fire axe and a short, stocky guy with a machete — attack in their own way. The short guy drops his machete and grabs the Hunter’s swords by the blades, pulling down hard and trying to limit his movement.
“Hit him, Brian!”, he yells to his tall friend and crouches. Brian nods and swings his fire axe at the vampire’s neck.
I hear the Hunter sigh loudly as he lets go of the swords and knees the short man in the face. The man falls, clutching the swords with bloodied hands. Hunter catches the axe mid-swing and side-kicks Brian in the chest, sending him flying into the wall. With an aggressive fling, the Hunter throws the axe straight into Brian’s chest. The short guy cries in anguish as the Hunter’s heavy boot steps on his head and crushes it. The amber eyes focus on me again. Near me, Eliza pumps the pneumatic system of her spikethrower a few times to raise the pressure to maximum and yells:
“Ash!”
I break out of my trance.
I raise the flare gun and shoot. A small rocket, a hot streak of red flies several feet and hits Hunter square in the chestpiece just as he bends over to pick up the swords. I didn’t hit his eyes whatsoever, but a second of confusion on his part was all we needed.
Elizes uses it — she shoots a spike straight at the Hunter’s halo. He tries to deflect it with the swords but the spike flies through and hits home. The vampire flinches, momentarily dazed. The neon halo over his head breaks, with glass shards flying everywhere and the gas escaping the lamp. I smile viciously, as the room gets slightly darker.
The bastard underestimated the speed at which Eliza’s ‘thrower shoots its ammo — while it was ultimately an oversized blowgun, the pressure was enough to reach conventional bullet speeds. With three spikes in the chamber, Eliza has two more shots. She doesn’t need to shoot them.
Behind me, John grunts and takes out the capsule, then jabs it into the filtration system of his mask. With a sucking sound, the mask delivers Tenebretin gas straight into his lungs. The empty capsule ejects automatically and drops on the floor, rolling away.
John’s back arches as he throws his head back and roars, echoes reverberating across the tunnels. I shiver at the sound — no matter how many times he does this, I can’t get used to it. John also gets bigger, the muscles growing to the point that his cargo shorts, usually loose, now look a few sizes smaller.
The Hunter dashes forward, fast. The thing is, John is fast too. Before the bloodsucker reaches me or my sister with his blade, John dashes forward and throws a body at him. Lance’s body, to be precise. The Hunter grinds to a halt, then deflects the body by catching it with one of his hook swords and heaves it sideways. That leaves him open.
John closes the distance in a span of a second, following the body as it flies. When the Hunter deals with “Lance” and turns back to us, John is already jumping at him, roaring. My brother’s massive fist connects with the faceplate of Hunter’s helmet.
The impact is so strong that John’s arm breaks and folds like an accordion, accompanied by a disgustingly crunchy sound and clang of metal as the faceplate cracks. This sheer force is enough to push the vampire skidding away a good seven feet before he stops himself by plunging the hooks into the floor.
John jumps backward, closer to us. His breathing is ragged and his arm is ruined, dangling helplessly while bleeding from numerous lacerations, shards of bone poking through the obsidian skin. Except it’s temporary — in a matter of moments, the cuts are visibly healing and bones are disappearing into the flesh, rearranging themselves. John grabs his right bicep with his left hand and pushes the dislocated shoulder back together with a popping sound.
The Hunter looks worse for wear — he’s fallen on one knee and dropped the ruined helmet, the vampire’s black blood trickling from his face to the floor. He raises his gaze and stares at John, amber eyes burning with easily readable hate. I study his face quickly, surprised to see it — Hunter is an old vampire, which is not something I heard about.
With his deathly pale face covered in wrinkles of old age, his head bald, and a bushy mustache now stained with black blood, this supposedly “noble warrior” reminded me more of an old carpentry teacher I had in Hive Delta. Although the teacher was slightly more likable. Unlike my teacher’s, the Hunter’s bared teeth are monstrous sets of sharp incisors across the whole jaw, now black with his own blood. It reminded me of a shark picture I saw once.
“Abomination,” Hunter growls, spittle and blood coming from his mouth, “I’ll skin you alive.”
John, for his part, just roars incoherently in response and darts forward.
He collides with the Hunter just as the vampire stands up and they explode with violence. For each slash and stab of the Hunter’s blades, John replies with a kick, a punch, an elbow to the armor or face, his knuckles already sore. Drops of black blood are flying everywhere, from both combatants. In a span of seconds, John’s body is covered with numerous small lacerations that are rapidly closing and bigger gashes that are bleeding heavily and taking longer to heal. Hunter, on the other hand, is barely winded, even though his face is now blue and yellow from all the pummeling, with teeth missing and blood all over his chin.
The fight moves across the junction from one side to the other yet it doesn’t actually change, not in a meaningful way. It’s a stalemate. For now.
I can already see John moving fractionally slower, as the Hunter’s blades ravage his body with shallow cuts and deep slices, each missed strike gradually turning the tide in the vampire’s favor. I have to step in.
“Eliza, as soon as you see an opening — clip the bastard’s wings,” I tell my sister while grabbing the machete back into my right hand, “Let Mother Dark handle him.”
She nods, puts a new spike into her contraption and starts pumping the pressure up.
“What are you going to do?”, she asks, “Don’t tell me you are planning to jump into this meat grinder.”
I look at her and grin maniacally. Eliza scoffs in response, rolls her eyes, and raises her weapon. She steadies her breathing, aims, and squeezes the trigger in rapid succession — busy with my brother, the vampire cannot protect himself as three spikes penetrate his right wing, one after the other. The Hunter's figure becomes less blinding with the neon gas unleashed from the wing. He bellows something unintelligible in frustration. I run forward to help John, machete at the ready.
I know I cannot do much damage but at least I can force the bloodsucker to reprioritize. I reach the fight just as John catches another slash with his forearms. I emerge from behind the big man and strike the vampire, aiming for his neck. The vampire reacts in time and blocks my machete with his forearm, the weapon and the armor colliding so hard my wrist aches. I jump away and smile, staring him down. Sure, he blocked my attack but left an opening for John.
John capitalizes on it immediately — weaving from a defensive slash, he crouches and launches a full-force left uppercut straight into Hunter’s chin.
The Hunter falls on his back and slides about ten feet across the floor. The flare I shot before had sizzled out, so the only source of light now was the Hunter. He has only one wing left and he’s hurt. We can actually win this.
I glance at John and my mood drops — my brother is barely standing, panting, glistening in his own blood, leaking from numerous cuts. It’s less dark and more red now, like in normal humans. A bad sign in itself.
“John, hold him! I’ll deal with the wing!” I yell and dart forward. He grunts in acknowledgment.
Both of them, of course, are still faster than I — John easily outruns me and the vampire is already standing straight when I reach them.
Hunter meets John with a crisscrossing slash, sticking hooks inside John’s chest and pulling as if trying to rip him in two. John screams in pain but grabs both blades and plants his feet to get a better position. The vampire pulls but John doesn’t budge.
“I admire your tenacity, Abomination,” the Hunter speaks, his voice strained, “But this ends now.”
“You’re right”, I growl as I jump. Swinging my machete overhead in an arc for more momentum, I slash full-force, aiming for Hunter’s neck. The bastard catches the blade with his mouth.
I land and immediately try to wrestle my weapon away from the Hunter’s maw. He bites down even harder and the blade snaps in two. Fucking wonderful. Before I can react, he adds injury to insult and lets go of the right blade to backhand me. The armored knuckles connect with my helmet and knock me down onto the floor.
My head rings as I roll away from the vampire on a reflex, a fraction of a second before his foot stomps the place where my head was. With the broken machete still clutched in my hand, I lunge forward and stab the sharp fragment to the back of his leg, behind the armored joint. The wound is shallow but it stumbles the vampire and drops him on one knee, as he loses the blade still stuck inside his mouth.
“Eliza, shoot the-” I don’t get to finish the callout.
With a screeching howl, Donald throws himself through the Hunter’s left wing, glass tubes breaking and gas dissipating over him as he falls on the floor a few feet away from John. The light goes out. The whispers start.
“Scatter!” I yell and flip my goggles on my face, running back to where Eliza is standing. Skidding on my soles as I stop, I turn around and look at the Hunter. I notice John step away to the right wall, dragging Donald with him and the swords still sticking out of his chest. The whispers get louder.
The Hunter still stands on one knee and straightens his back. Now he looks like a warrior about to be knighted by his king.
“It was a good battle, humans,” he says. With his mouth turned into a bloody wound from my strike, the vampire’s speech is slurred.
The whispers turn into screams, the sound around us reaching a crescendo as the darkness comes alive. It coils itself around the Hunter, gets thicker, smoke-like. With my NVGs barely discerning the vampire’s figure, I can see the tendrils of pure darkness wrap around the Hunter’s neck and limbs. Then, the tendrils raise him into the air. He groans as they squeeze tighter, the armor bending under the strain. The vampire coughs blood and declares loudly:
“You have felled me but you shall never reign again!”
As if on cue, the tendrils rip him apart and absorb the body and blood into the darkness, then dissipate. The screams stop as abruptly as they started.
I let out a sigh of relief and glance at John. He’s lying near the wall, unmoving. With her goggles on, Eliza sees it too — she yelps and runs to him. I swear under my breath and follow her.