Wood took a length of old rope, and with hands frighteningly steady, formed it into a noose. He tied it with a blood-knot he'd learned when fishing with his brother as a boy; a good, strong knot, not likely to fail. Then he dragged a heavy chair from the bedroom, his daughter's corpse nagging at the edge of his vision, and tied the remaining end to the banister. He stood on the chair, then climbed up onto the banister, one hand against the wall to steady himself. He looked down, to the polished terracotta tiles, and it looked a long way down, looked a long way down into the welcoming well of his own death.
No fear. He smiled. No fear.
He would join Tahlan, and Sazah, and they would be together and that would be the end of it. Wood smiled, nodding to himself. He felt himself shift on the chair, and he passed the noose over his neck. The rope had been coarse on his skin, chafing him a little, irritating him – he was a man of small irritations, as his army recruits knew all too well. But this time he did his best to ignore it. After all, he was about to make that final leap…
Then, the door to his house opened, and a wizened old man stepped across the threshold. He was stooped, wearing brown robes and carrying a gnarled, polished walking stick. The old man's name was Pettrus. Once, just like Wood, he'd been a Command Sergeant and the two had met at an old soldier's drinking evening, down at the Soldiers' Arms, a dockside tavern of ill repute. The night had been a long one, and when Wood stepped outside for a piss, shuffling down a narrow alley to avoid prying eyes, he'd spotted Pettrus standing by the dockside, staring down into the black, cold, lapping waters, the churned scum and detritus of a busy city port.
"Pettrus? What are you doing, man?"
"I want to die."
"Don't be insane! You're a Command Sergeant in the King's Army! You've got everything a man could want!"
Pettrus turned then, and it was the haunted look in his eyes, the pain, that made Wood realise he was about to jump. There was anguish in the lines of the man's face; pure anguish. He was in mental turmoil. A psychological hell.
"I have nothing!" he snarled, and went to jump… but Wood was there, powerful fist around the older man's bicep, straining to pull him back. They fought for a few moments, struggled and scuffled, and fell back onto the dockside in a slightly drunken heap. They started laughing, and Wood stood, hauling Pettrus up after him.
"I'll buy you an ale. You can tell me all about it."
Pettrus nodded, and they went into the Soldier's Arms, through the smoke and crowds to a quiet corner. Wood brought two jugs of frothing ale, brown, bitter and intoxicating.
"Why the hell did you want to do that?" said Wood, slamming his jug down, a creamy moustache atop his real one.
"My wife."
"What's wrong with your wife?"
"Nothing. That's the problem. She's perfect. She's beautiful, well proportioned, long silky black curls, a perfect physical female specimen."
"However?"
"She'll open her legs to any man willing. I caught her, last night, with a young soldier from my own platoon. You hear that? My own fucking platoon. I beat him, of course."
"Of course."
"He ran around that bedchamber, trews round his ankles, squawking like a chicken with each punch until I knocked him down the stairs. That shut the bastard up. Then I turned on Darina…"
"You didn't…"
"No, no." Pettrus waved his hand. "We argued. She told me about them. About her lovers. Every week, a different man. Every night I was on sentry duty, she'd come down here, to the taverns, drink her fill and find somebody for comfort. She said she didn't want to be lonely, but we both know that's horse shit."
"Yes."
They drank in silence for a while, then Pettrus looked up, intense, and grabbed Wood's arm. "Thank you. Thank you for saving me."
"Ahh shit, Pettrus. Don't be ridiculous. I did nothing."
"No. No. You saved my life. I owe you."
And from that day they had become good friends, talking often, and helping Pettrus overcome his destroyed marriage. Until the plague hit. Until Tahlan and Sazah died, weight dropping away, skin turning grey, huge sores forming under armpits and in groins, gums peeling back from teeth and forcing them to protrude like on a five-week corpse…
Wood stood on the banister, noose round his neck, looking down into the shocked eyes of Pettrus. The man was older now, retired from the army, powerful but stooped a little. Too much sentry duty, he used to joke. Too much manual work.
"Get down here," he growled.
"Leave me be!" said Wood, tears streaming down his face.
"I'll not let you!" snapped Pettrus. "I thought you were stronger than that!"
"Stronger than what?" screamed Wood, swaying dangerously on the banister which creaked in protest at his weight. "Stronger than a man who watched his family crumble and die, holding their trembling hands whilst they begged for life? Begged me to help them? Spewed blood and black bile and black tears? Stronger than a man cursed by the very Black Axeman of fucking Drennach to the pits of fucking Chaos? Only he's not dead, he's alive and having to live through the same shit day after day after day? Tell me, Pettrus, in all your fucking unholy wisdom, what should I do?"
"Don't jump, is what you should do. Taking your own life is not the answer, my friend."
Wood stared down into those dark brown eyes. He saw a great sadness there, but it was not enough. Not enough to stop him… he went as if to step forward, but Pettrus held out a hand.
"The reason you are not to die, my friend, is because Tahlan would not want it so. She would want you to go on. To live. To be happy. And if you think about it, if you died, would you wish your wife and daughter to follow you to the Oil Lands? No. You know this in your heart, Wood. Trust me. Listen to me."
As he'd been speaking, Pettrus moved slowly up the creaking stairs, each board tuned so that intruders would alert Wood in the night; now, the noise got on his nerves, and he watched Pettrus reach him, and help him down from the banister, and he was covered in tears and snot, and sobbing, but as Pettrus' hand touched his, so the warmth of human contact felt good; it felt so very good.
They drank a bottle of rum, and talked about old times, talked about good times.
"Remember them, my friend."
And the next night, another bottle. And the next. And the next. Until Wood had a warm glow of memories, and of long companionship, and that nasty bite of wanting to die had gradually dissolved.
"Remember them always."
Now, Wood sat on the rooftop, eyes narrowed, watching the vampires. Over the past three nights he'd been making his way slowly, warily, across the Port of Gollothrim and towards the house of Pettrus. Hopefully, the old man would have locked himself in the attic and kept his temper in check. Wood needed to reach him. Needed to plan. Needed the bastard alive, for Pettrus was one of the best tacticians he'd ever met. But the going was slow for Wood, not just because of the rooftop scampers across ice-slippery slate, but because in hours he had watched the vampire filth spread, like an evil plague, a virus, oozing through the city like oil smoke. However, unlike the stories, the fireside myths whispered to frighten children in the dark, these creatures moved through the gloomy daylight; even more-so when thick fog rolled in off the Salarl Ocean, obscuring the winter sun. They weren't afraid of the light. And that worried Wood right down to his bones.