Nosferatu left the boat and waded ashore. He entered the dark jungle, and was immediately swallowed up into its blackness. He could see well in the darkness, having inherited the Airlia predisposition for lower levels of light. Indeed, he had found that the sun greatly hurt his eyes and he also had to protect his skin from the burning rays during the day as his flesh had no tolerance of its touch.
Nosferatu moved through the jungle, at one with the other creatures. In the limited light his eyes perceived the spectrum of colors and he marveled at the lush greenness all around him. Even the arable land next to the Nile had never produced color as vivid as this. And the bounty of life in the jungle — he could hear it everywhere.
Nosferatu also began to discover that he had other abilities beyond that of his superb night vision, thanks to his Airlia genes and blood. He could run swiftly, as fast as a deer — something he discovered while crossing a small clearing where he came across several of the creatures. He ran one down, startling himself as much as his prey.
Realizing he didn’t know the extent of his capabilities, he spent a little time testing his body.
He discovered he could jump almost twenty feet straight up and land upright on a branch. With his bare hands he could break an eight-inch-thick piece of wood. When the feat left a scratch in his palm, he watched with amazement as it healed within the hour.
He became so caught up in exploring his newfound abilities, he almost forgot his hunger — almost, but not quite. After an hour following the bank of the stream inland, he came upon a clearing in which there were a dozen huts surrounded by a thorn thicket through which there was but a single opening blocked by a crude wooden gate. Nosferatu stood still, waiting and watching, until he saw movement. A young boy with skin as dark as the night and a spear in his hand was slowly walking in a circle just inside the wall of thorns, peering out at the surrounding jungle with wide eyes at the sudden silence that had descended at Nosferatu’s approach. Nosferatu felt the blood fever come over him, remembering what it had felt like to taste of the priest at the base of the Black Sphinx. The blood he’d been fed by the high priests had always been cold and thick, an hour or two removed from the draining. Fresh blood, pumping straight out of the vein, that was a very different thing.
Nosferatu waited until the boy was on the far side, then he moved forward. He lightly jumped over the thorn fence. He crouched down, hidden in the shadows as the boy came round once more. Nosferatu leapt up, jumping straight for the boy, clamping one hand over his mouth and shoving the spear away with the other while his mouth fastened on the thin neck, teeth tearing into the flesh. He was rewarded with a spray of blood, which strengthened him. The boy’s struggles were futile as Nosferatu drained him.
Distantly Nosferatu could hear a dog barking in alarm but he kept his mouth tight to the torn vein, allowing the blood to pulse in, the boy’s wildly beating heart aiding in the feeding. When he heard voices crying out, only then did Nosferatu look up from his victim. A half dozen warriors, spears in their hands surrounded him. They stepped back in shock as he lifted his blood-soaked, pale white face from the body. His glittering eyes and alien white skin made him appear a demon. Nosferatu laughed, lifting the body over his head and throwing it at the men. They jumped out of the way and he leapt back over the thorn barricade and sprinted off into the jungle before they could attack him.
Before dawn Nosferatu had cleaned up and was back on the boat. The kill lasted him well over a month before he felt the urge again. By that time they had made their way farther down the coast of Africa than any of the crew had ever been. They had passed a place where two tall white-capped mountains beckoned in the distance and the land changed from jungle to open plains reaching the shoreline. Nosferatu heard the men muttering about turning around, about going back; but he pressed them to continue on, giving them more gold, a fortune that would mean none would ever have to work again.
Unable to find anything on land as they passed an arid stretch of coastline, three weeks later, Nosferatu’s second kill was one of the sailors. He took the poor man in the night, silencing him, pulling him off the ship and onto land, where he drained the man’s blood and hid the body. In the morning there was panic and consternation among the survivors about the sudden and silent disappearance of their comrade. Nosferatu said nothing, only pointing to the south before retiring with his gold to the tube, making sure he locked it from the inside as he knew they were considering killing him and taking the gold. The man had been the one who had been the most insistent that they turn back, so the consensus among the others was that he had jumped ship and was trying to make his way back by land.
After two more weeks they rounded a storm-lashed cape and began moving north. Nosferatu realized they must be on the other side of the continent in which Egypt rested. Was he far enough away from the Airlia to be safe for a while?
He killed a second crewmember not long after they began moving north. The remaining four were panic-stricken and superstitious. They spent that entire day in the rear, muttering among themselves as the boat made its way north. The shoreline had also turned forbidding.
The land was edged with cliffs, rocky and barren. The men were running low on food and water but they pressed forward for another week. Nosferatu knew he had gone as far as he could without feeding again. He took a third that night, draining him, then sliding the body overboard, where sharks immediately took it into the depths.
Sated with blood, he climbed into his tube just before dawn, and sealed the lid against intrusion. As always he fell into an uneasy slumber, dreams of Nekhbet mixed with nightmares of darkness and confinement.
He woke when his forehead slammed against the top of the lid. Disoriented for a moment, he pressed against the metal sides of the tube to steady himself. The tube rolled one way, paused, then the other. The action didn’t stop.
They’d thrown him overboard, Nosferatu realized with a rush of panic. He cursed at this unexpected turn of events. He’d counted on their fear to keep them in place and knew now that he had miscalculated. He held steady against the sway of the tube to the waves. He knew if he opened the lid, water would pour in and the tube would be lost, leaving him adrift in the shark-infested water.
He waited.
It was unlike his previous time in the tube underneath the Giza Plateau. Worse, much worse, as the days and nights went by. Then he had had the monthly feedings and the presence of Nekhbet. Here he suffered in darkness, enclosed, growing weaker as the strength of the feeding from the last sailor faded. And his strength was worn down further as he fought against the external motion of the tube to avoid being injured.
Several times he spent hours fighting severe motion, the tube sometimes rolling over completely. He had to assume that those were periods when he rode out storms. At times he would sleep, more a lapse into exhausted unconsciousness, always broken by a slam to one side or the other of the tube.
Never did he despair. Never was he tempted to unlatch the lid and let the ocean in to finish his agony.
Foremost in his mind was Nekhbet, his last vision of her. He could endure a thousand storms before he would let go of that vision, before he would abandon her to an eternity of empty life in her tube.
Nosferatu woke with a start as he was once more slammed against the right side of the tube. He braced himself, ready for the inevitable roll to the other side, but there was only stillness. He waited, not even daring to breathe. Total, complete stillness. He had almost forgotten what it was like.