Vamparazzi (26 page)

Children walked beside the visitors' horses, looking up at them with round, serious brown eyes. Max smiled down at a black-haired little boy who trotted on foot beside him, so small that he had to hurry to keep up with the plodding pace of Max's tired mount.

Apparently reassured by this smile, the boy tentatively touched Max's booted foot and spoke. His highpitched voice was imploring, and even Max, with his marginal Serbian vocabulary, understood what the boy said: “Please make them go away.”

He wanted to promise he would. He wanted to swear with confidence to the child that he would end this horrible nightmare, and then everything would return to normal. But, in truth, he had no idea what he would be able to accomplish here. He was increasingly unnerved by his failures, and even his modest successes as a vampire hunter were marred by subsequent setbacks.

He looked down at that innocent, imploring face and felt unable to lie or give false hope. Least of all to a child.

So instead of making promises that stuck in his dry throat, he said to the boy, “Please inform the village elders that we are here.” He could tell from the slight frown on the child's face that his foreign accent made the phrase difficult to understand. So he repeated it slowly, enunciating clearly. This time the boy nodded in understanding. Then he ran ahead of Max's retinue, calling for someone.

Finding the main square of the village was just a matter of following this street until it reached the heart of the community. The boy had done as asked, and five older men were gathering in the square to greet Max and his party, along with many of the other locals. The five men's faces were stern and grave. One of them was wounded, his arm cradled in an embroidered sling.

To Max's relief, there was also a modestly prosperous-looking younger man with the elders who spoke some German. This would make communication easier. Max's mother tongue was Czech, which he'd seldom had occasion to speak in recent years. German was among his strongest languages, along with English, Latin, Greek, and French.

The man who spoke German introduced himself as Aleksandar Bosko. He greeted Max and Lieutenant Hoffman, then introduced them to the village elders. Bosko invited them all into his home nearby, where they sat together in a sparsely furnished but comfortable room to talk, while the four soldiers who had come here under Hoffman's command patrolled the vicinity. Max accepted something to drink, but declined food—his stomach was still bothering him—and asked the elders to tell him their story. Bosko's role as interpreter was very useful; but Max had heard so many similar accounts since arriving in the Balkans in the spring of 1730 that he could follow some of the Serbian language in this account.

First, there was a mysterious disappearance, which was very unusual for the village—or at least it was when no foreign armies were marauding through the area. Within a few days, another villager went missing. Then people started dying. They would be found in the morning, white as chalk, their blood drained from their bodies, their corpses horribly mutilated—even partly eaten. Panic and hysteria spread through the village. Old grievances became fresh feuds, and private suspicions turned into public accusations, which soon escalated into violence and mayhem.

More people disappeared, and their families were increasingly too frightened to go out in search of them. Then someone finally saw one of the terrifying creatures that was preying on their village—and lived to tell the tale. That was when they began to understand what was happening to Medvegia.

“Now, Dr. Zadok,” said Bosko, “one person is dead or missing out of every five in Medvegia. We huddle together in fear at night and are preyed on by fiendish monsters. The dead walk among us, and people we knew and loved have become murdering demons who thirst for our blood.”

When the gruesome account was finished, Hoffman looked at Max. “Where shall we start?”

“The local cemetery,” he said promptly. “Let's commence our work by making sure no
new
vampires rise from the grave here. We'll start with the most recent burials.”

 

Opening graves and desecrating corpses was grisly, disturbing, and exhausting work. And, as usual, it was accompanied by an unwanted audience of protesting relatives and wailing women. Predictably, an angry Orthodox priest was also there, arguing that Max and his helpers were violating the repose of the faithful whom the church had buried.

“Not a very practical objection, considering the situation,” Max said, his rebellious stomach churning while the stench of decay gradually permeated his nostrils, hair, and clothing.

The more obvious it became that prayer and religious rituals weren't protecting their flocks or preventing vampire attacks, the more defensive and rigid the village priests tended to become. They were usually men of humble background who had very little education and no previous experience with such matters. Max was sympathetic to the terrified panic he could see in their eyes, but increasingly impatient with their obstreperous behavior.

Among the local volunteers helping with the work this afternoon, there were also, as was often the case, one or two young men who seemed to enjoy these distasteful tasks more than Max thought was seemly.

As night fell and darkness crept across the graveyard, the work continued; but, fortunately, the distractions diminished. Whether the locals were interested in watching the vampire hunter at work or just wanted to shriek at him in protest when he beheaded or staked the bodies of their former neighbors and relatives, the villagers were emphatically not willing to remain at the cemetery after dark. They departed, fleeing to their homes before the creatures of the night emerged, leaving an eerily ominous silence in their wake.

When only two sturdy local volunteers remained, Bosko said, “It's very dark, Dr. Zadok. Perhaps we should go now.”

“Yes, of course,” Max said absently, noticing some disturbed earth on yet another grave. “By all means. Be vigilant on your way home.”

“I meant that you and your companions should come, too,” Bosko said.

Three of the soldiers were still digging. Hoffman and another soldier were patrolling the graveyard alertly, their weapons ready, their pace measured.

“No, we must remain and work.” Max was still examining the grave which had attracted his attention. “Before you leave, may I ask when the burial in this plot occurred?”

“It's not safe for you to remain outside after dark,” Bosko warned.

“Based on the elders' account, being inside isn't safe in Medvegia anymore, either.”

“That's true,” Bosko said sadly. “Still . . .”

“I've come to your village to hunt vampires,” Max reminded him. “Therefore, it is advantageous for me to remain where I am likely to encounter them.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Well, then.” Bosko cleared his throat. “I must remain here, too, in that case.”

Max glanced at him. “That's brave, but very dangerous. I don't advise it. You would be wise to go home, sir.”

“No, I will remain.”

“He
is
a brave man,” said one of the two local diggers, setting aside his shovel and making preparations to leave. “He has even slain one of the vampires.”

“Have you?” Max said with interest, well able by now to follow Serbian phrases about killing vampires.

The other digger, also setting aside his shovel, said, “Tell him, Aleksandar!” He added to Max, “It's a good story.”

“No, no,” said Bosko. “I cannot speak of my deed to a
true
vampire hunter.”

Max said in German, “Based on what your friends have just said, sir, I gather you
are
a true vampire hunter. The requirements of the vocation are quite simple, after all. It's
surviving
them that's complicated.”

“Yes, surviving the vampire was . . . not simple.” Bosko paused, then said, “If I may ask, Dr. Zadok, does your work make your wife very anxious?”

“Oh, she died some time ago.” It had been more than twenty years; but, given his youthful appearance, he knew better than to say so.

“God rest her soul. I am also a widower.” Seeing Max's inquisitive expression, Bosko shook his head. “No, not vampires. Childbirth.”

“I see. I am sorry to hear that.” It was a tragically common story. “God rest her soul.”

The two diggers bade them farewell and departed, casting understandably nervous glances around the dark cemetery as they began walking home with long, quick strides

Max's attention returned to the burial plot that concerned him. “We need to open this grave.”

“Oh, but this is the grave of Miliza Pavle,” Bosko said in surprise. “She was a fine woman. Much admired.”

“Alas, that is no protection against what I fear may have happened to her.”

“But the diggers are gone.”

“They have thoughtfully left their shovels.” Max picked one up.

“Oh,” Bosko said without enthusiasm. “Very well. I shall assist you.”

“When was Miliza Pavle buried?”

Bosko suddenly lifted his head and turned it slightly, as if listening to something Max couldn't hear. After a moment, Max repeated his question. Bosko still didn't respond; his attention was obviously engaged by something else.

Max looked around the cemetery, now illuminated only by several torches that the soldiers had posted when darkness fell. Near one of the torches, he saw Hoffman turn suddenly, his body poised alertly as he gazed out into the night. Then the lieutenant called softly over his shoulder to Max and the others, “Riders approaching.”

“Yes.” Bosko nodded. “How strange.”

“Your hearing is most acute,” Max noted, only now becoming aware of the faint thunder of hoofbeats in the distance. “Do you know who that is?”

“No,” said the Serb. “But surely they must be strangers. No one here would make a journey after dark. Not anymore.”

Leaning on his shovel, Max listened for another moment. “Well, I suppose we'll find out momentarily who they are. They're headed in this direction. It seems rather—Argh!”

The grave beneath his feet heaved violently, flinging him forward. He careened into Bosko and the two men fell down, hitting the ground together with a thud that knocked the wind out of Max's lungs.

An undead woman who was presumably Miliza Pavle rose from the grave in a quick, powerful surge of motion, sending dirt flying everywhere as she issued another earsplitting howl of bloodthirsty hunger.

“Oh, dear,” Max gasped, wishing he hadn't let the shovel fly out of his hand when he fell.

Miliza staggered toward him, her decomposing arms outstretched, foamy saliva hanging from her cracked blue lips, her ravaged torso gaping open where she had received mortal wounds from a vampire while still alive. She gave off a terrible stench.

Bosko screamed and seized the shovel Max had dropped. He leaped to his feet and brandished it at the approaching vampire, shouting in Serbian.

Two shots were fired in close succession, and Max heard shouts in German. One of the words he caught was, “Reload!”

If he lived through tonight, he would obviously need to remind his Austrian retinue that firearms didn't slay vampires and, unfortunately, seldom even slowed them down.

When Miliza dived for Bosko, who jumped out of reach, particles of dirt flew everywhere—including into Max's eyes.

“Perdition!” He scuttled backward on the ground, his eyes watering and stinging fiercely, his vision obscured. He needed his ax, which he'd left lying close at hand—or so he thought at the time. Now, disoriented from his fall and unable to see, he didn't know where the weapon was.

“Yarrrgggghhh!”
Miliza roared nearby.

Bosko was still shouting in terror, so at least he was alive.

Another shot was fired, and Max heard the lead ball whiz right past his cheek, barely missing him.

“Hold your fire, man!” he cried, feeling around frantically on the ground for his ax, blinking hard as he tried to clear his vision.

The earth under his hands bulged violently, and then burst upward in an explosion of noise, movement, and fury as another vampire leaped forth from its grave.

“Gott im Himmel,”
Max gasped, rolling away from the emerging monster which instantly reached for him, growling and drooling with hunger.

His panicky, crawling retreat from the powerfully grasping hands brought him into unexpected contact with his ax—which he discovered by cutting his hand painfully on it. “Zounds!”

Reflexively cradling the injured hand against his body, he seized the ax with his other hand, rolled to his feet, and took a wild swing at the approaching vampire. He missed its head but did manage to lop off its hand as it spun away from the blow. The vampire bellowed with rage, as well as with what may or may not have been pain—after so many battles against them, Max still wasn't sure whether the creatures felt pain. In any case, loss of a hand was not a severe enough injury to disable a vampire, as he well knew. When the creature lunged at him an instant later, he danced to one side, holding his ax ready, seeking the opportunity to counterattack.

He heard the shrill whinny of a horse and was vaguely aware that the approaching hoofbeats were very close now. There were male voices, deep-throated shouts echoing through the night. He realized from the howls and screams he heard all around him that more vampires were rising. The epidemic here was even worse than he'd supposed upon hearing the elders' account. He had neutralized at least seven corpses before nightfall, and yet an alarming number of vampires were nonetheless bursting forth from the hallowed ground.