“But you, my friend!” Big Jon spoke up from where he stood with Zach’s arm across his shoulder, supporting him. “And that great ugly gun…”
“Arthur Robeson had it,” the chief tech nodded. “I suppose you could say he’d inherited it. He couldn’t get it working and gave it to me to fix. That was earlier this very night while we were getting settled in. Now, I’ve always hated guns, but I had a look at it anyway. The problem was in the feeding mechanism—a broken return spring. I fixed it, removed the breach block so it couldn’t fire, tested it with the half belt of special ammunition that came with it; until without having actually fired a shot from the brutal thing, I believed it would work just fine. So after I’d reassembled it I settled down for the night…” He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts before continuing:
“When the first of the gunshots from the perimeter woke me up…well I was tired, it was dark, and things were very confusing. I took the gun with me—don’t ask why, perhaps to give it to someone who was better able to use it?—and came looking for Big Jon. And…well, that’s about it.” He finished with a shrug.
“But you didn’t give it to anyone.” Donald Myers was frowning, shaking his head bewilderedly. “And then left off using it until the very last moment!”
“Yes, I know,” Fielding answered. “But like I said, I don’t like having anything to do with guns; I really don’t understand them, or men like Ned Singer who hold them so very dear. So you see, Donald, it’s just as well you reminded me about the safety catch. I might not have thought of it, mightn’t have wanted to think of it…”
“But that’s you, Andrew!” Big Jon repeated himself. “That’s just the very essence of you, while this…I mean—”
“—I know exactly what you mean!” The small man stopped him short. “But you’ll never know how much I hated that man! He was a bully, an ignorant pig, and finally a fly-by-night. I used to avoid him, keep out of his way! He would shove me around—talk to me as if I was dirt—but right now I’ve never felt taller, better or more totally satisfied with myself in my entire life! On the other hand,” he let his narrow shoulders slump a little, “I don’t think I much care for this feeling, not really—feeling like a killer, I mean—and even though that wasn’t a man I killed but a hideous changeling thing, still I hope the feeling soon wears off. As for guns: I’m done with them forever!”
And leaning on Don Myers strong arm, he turned away…
Less than one hour later, in the vicinity of Big Jon’s command vehicle, the leader and a small group of friends and clan elders—including Zack and Garth Slattery—extended their heartfelt welcome, deepest gratitude, and whatever frugal hospitality was available to them to the commander and lieutenants of the kindred expeditionary party which had come to their rescue. And as the bulk of clan personnel, assisted by their new-found allies, went about the awful business of clearing up in and around the camp, where as yet there remained several dead and undead—or now more truly dead—corpses to be dealt with, so Big Jon and three senior officers of the kindred force concluded the formalities of greetings, introductions, vows of friendship and backslapping, and went on to recount in brief their tales of recent trials and tribulations.
Big Jon, having sketched a greatly condensed history of the clan’s arduous trek, had now offered the floor to the leader of the expeditionary force.
The commander, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early to mid-thirties, with hollow cheeks, a deeply furrowed brow, and a shock of prematurely white hair, was quick to bring everyone up to date on recent kindred activity:
“After we lost contact with you,” he began, “our leaders in both our rapidly declining, indeed moribund subterranean refuge and in our open-skies settlement alike found themselves in something of a quandary. Had the unexplained radio silence resulted from a simple failure of equipment, or was the problem far more disturbing: perhaps a fly-by-night attack, in which your entire convoy, clan and creatures had been destroyed! They had no way of knowing.
“Arguing all the pros and cons, finally they arrived at a solution. Crumbling prewar maps showed three perhaps passable routes from your last known approximate location to more familiar, secured kindred borders; borders now scarcely more than a dozen miles away beyond the valley’s northern rise! If you had survived the perils of your trek, then surely your convoy must even now be very close, approaching along one of these routes.
“A decision was made: an expeditionary force would be dispatched to the edge of the densely forested region south of the fertile, mainly radiation-free zone that we have cleared of all fly-by-night pestilence; for inasmuch as we have built and occupied it, it is our homeland, patrolled constantly day and night with absolute vigilance and, whenever necessary, uttermost ferocity, permitting neither sight, smell nor faintest taint of any vampire creature within…within our…within our borders!”
He paused, visibly calming himself and shrugging apologetically before carrying on with his narrative. “Please excuse me, but such emotions—such bitter hatreds—are innate in all the kindred; no less than in you yourselves, I’m sure. But to continue:
“At the great forest’s rim our considerable force was split three ways equally, which allowed us to advance along all three routes simultaneously. That was at noon two days ago, since when we have maintained constant radio contact. My contingent, which as you’ve seen consists of three small armoured combat vehicles crewed by hugely experienced men—plus eight outriders on four multi-terrain motorcycles, plus one armoured support vehicle—was tasked with the forest route that follows the ancient river road through the mighty pines, and down and across the valley’s floor. Two evenings ago—which is to say on the evening of the night prior to this night—I sent two outrider teams ahead of me, down into the valley to commence checking the route’s viability; for it would have been a waste of fuel, time and effort if the route proved to be impassable.
“It was early evening when my advance exploratory party set out. Descending the densely forested northern rim parallel with the river’s white water, they made camp for the night in a cave they could very easily defend, with two men awake at all times, and the other two taking their rest. But before retiring to the cave, one man climbed up into the canopy of the tallest tree to scan the land south along the river through his infrared binoculars. He was looking for signs of your convoy, of course.
“Now, as I’m sure you’re well aware, vampire activity is by no means easily detectable with infrared. Except when they mass together in a swarm, or when they’re engaged in frenzied bloodletting, undead bodily temperatures are extremely low. Well, be that as it may, what my man up that tree witnessed some four or five miles away in the gloom of early night was definitely fly-by-night activity! They were flowing down the southern slope in a steady stream, following the identical route that your convoy might well be using—which indeed you have used—just one day later.
“But their movements were very deliberate; they had purpose and appeared full of a sly, covert intent, which wasn’t in accordance with any normally arbitrary or eccentric mode of undead tactics—or complete lack of such—to which we’re accustomed! And fascinated, my man continued to watch.
“Now the horde gathered here—right here, on the edge of the forest—and for a while remained static. Then the greater bulk of them, if not all of them, set out over that half-sunken bridge and vanished into those mainly derelict mills on the far side. Now remember: it was night time, which is their time, yet these creatures weren’t hunting; they were hiding! And for what possible purpose but to lie low, waiting in ambush!