Shades of Blood #4: Vampires In Vietnam, Page 2

  *

  Unsure where the noise had come from, the squad split up without order and searched every cage.

  “Wowee fucking Jesus, check this out!”

  Sarge and the others came running. Ed and Pete Walls had found the source. They were stood in by the largest cage, aiming their rifles inside. And the ever-brash boys actually looked scared.

  Sarge ran straight into them, almost knocking Pete over, and raised his own gun.

  “Who the fuck’s in there?”

  He bent closer, peering through the wooden bars. The roof was waterproofed by a secured tarpaulin; consequently not enough light entered to fully illuminate the man lying on a bunk sodden with his own gore.

  “Oliver, get that off!” Sarge snapped, indicating the tarpaulin. Oliver torn the sheet free from the nails that held it in place, and the cage’s occupant was gloriously displayed like an art exhibit.

  The bloodied man wore a black cloak pulled tight around himself, but this too was covered in glistening blood.

  “That’s a fucking monster, man!” Jake yelped. He backed off, away. His foot crushed Ed Walls’ toes and the younger man shoved his heavier comrade away.

  “Don’t be stupid, it’s…” Sarge stopped. He couldn’t get his mind around what he was seeing. “It ain’t no yellow gook, that’s for sure.

  The man was tall and wide; his shoulders were easily as wide as the single bunk itself. But given his sinewy neck, what there was of him under the black cloak was surely not fat. Padding? Sarge wondered.

  The man opened his mouth and screamed, and it was a noise unlike anything the men had ever heard. There was pain and fear in that scream, but anger also, and…desire. Again the cry, and this time Sarge’s torch was aimed at the man’s face, and what the Sarge saw he would never forget. The mouth opened as if on dislocated jaws, wider and wider, impossibly so, and inside that cavernous mouth were numerous rows of teeth, and a thick black tongue.

  “That’s not human,” Sarge said softly, like a man realising he’d missed something off a shopping list.

  Nero stepped forward and bent close to the cage. He wrapped his fists around two of the bars and pushed his face between them, staring at the beast inside. It stared back with equal awe.

  “Always bloody nosey, Nero,” said someone behind him with a snigger.

  “Reminds you of an ex?” Davidson piped up, expecting a laugh that he didn’t get.

  Just then the beast lurched forward, into the cage door. The whole cage shook, and the door slammed into Nero’s face, knocking him back to a chorus of laughter from his colleagues.

  Nero put his hands to his face, where two of the wooden bars had struck either side of his nose. That was when he became aware of two things. First, that the beast was sitting up, now not so lethargic, and that was it contemplating something on the end of one of its claws. It held its hand before its face, head listing to one side like a man admiring a beautiful lady. But there was nothing Nero could see.

  “Stop bloody laughing,” Sarge hissed. His men quietened. “Check the other cages for captives.”

  “Captives?” someone said. “You think this thing’s a bloody POW?”

  “They ain’t gooks, dickwad.”

  “Neither is it one of us.”

  “I know,” Sarge said with a glint in his eye. “Don’t look like no wet-nosed schoolteacher or dentist.”

  They ignored the insult. The men began arguing amongst themselves, but Nero heard nothing of their supposition concerning what they had found. His right hand was wrapped around the handle of his knife, while his left hand still rubbed his bruised face. He watched as the beast in the cage crawled towards the cage door again. It reached out a hand, poked it through the bars.

  “Ladies,” Nero croaked. “This thing’s lucid. Look.”

  They didn’t look. Too busy arguing.

  The beast was reaching for Nero’s knife. He stepped back, pulled the knife from its sheath and held it up defensively. Ignoring or not recognising the gesture, the beast, at the length of its reach, played its fingers in yearning some three inches short of the knife.

  That was when Nero noticed the cut on the back of his hand. A shallow groove brimming with blood. For a moment his care was lost. He raised his hand slightly, which brought it within reach of the beast. It flicked out fast, with a grunt, and took his knife.

  Or not - the knife clattered to the ground and Nero lurched back. The beast has smeared the blood on the back of his hand, that was all. But now it sat as before, and this time Nero could see the blood on its nails, blood that it seemed unsure about. Then it licked at its nails, at the blood. Nero felt sick.

  “Guys, Jesus, will you stop and -“

  A scream sent birds into the air. The beast had lunged at the cage again, only this time it was a snarling, angry animal and it reached through the bars withy a savagery that was frightening. Everyone jumped back, especially Nero.

  “What’d you do to it?” someone snapped.

  Nero felt his wound tingling. He shook his hand, spraying blood onto Sarge’s boots.

  He stepped forward and kicked at one of the beast’s flailing arms. He felt his boot connect hard with its elbow, and was sure he heard a crack as of bone snapping. But the beast persisted with its thrashing as if it had felt nothing. Nero pulled out a Zippo lighter.

  “Get some dry leaves,” he ordered, but nobody moved.

  Sarge snatched at the Zippo, but Nero didn’t let it go. And there the duo stood, both holding the Zippo, when the radio on Sarge’s belt crackled to life:

  “Sarge, Jesus, there’s people coming! Sarge, I hear them, but they seem to be laughing…or whispering…God, it’s loud, it’s…”

  Sarge unclipped the radio. “Smith, what the fuck? Who’s coming, asshole? Gooks? Your mother with cookies?”

  “Jeez, Sarge, this is scary, they - what the fuck was that? God, they’re in the trees, I think, or flying, or…”

  “Flying now, Smith? Have you been drinking the fucking morphine? What’s going on? Who’s coming? Where? Flying? Explain, asshole!”

  Smith croaked something they didn’t catch, because he was drowned out by the noise of the jungle moving. A terrible cacophony of rattling leaves and breaking branches, and then a final noise that might have been the cry of an animal. Or the scream of a man.

  Or both.