Archive for the ‘Ethan Cobb’ Category

The Other Side of Eden, by Ethan Cobb

Posted: January 24, 2012 by Shaina in Dystopian, Ethan Cobb, Zombies
0
The Other Side of Eden, by Ethan Cobb

The Other Side of Eden, by Ethan Cobb

The Other Side of Eden, by Ethan Cobb
 Available at:
 Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

Description:  When Carrie failed to escape the city in time, she got trapped in quarantine. Civilization had abandoned her. However, she’s not alone. Others are with her—people infected and controlled by the single emotion they had when infected: Curiosity, Fear…Anger. She must avoid the contaminated and escape, or she too will be another victim.

Excerpt:

One foot punched the gas pedal, revving the engine.  Warm tears dripped off her face.   Carrie gripped the gearshift.  The engine belched throaty power, and then fell silent as she wrenched the keys from the ignition. She screamed at herself.  “Drive already, God Da-”She managed to stop.  Cursing God would only make it worse.  She was the one damned, and He was right in doing so.  Each day stuck on the island was a testament of her sins. Buster barked from the passenger seat.  The Dalmatian flicked his tail.  “You’re right, it was a good try,” she said, patting randomly.  Day ten of trying and she still hadn’t driven an entire block.  Mangled wreckage of twisted mailboxes, splintered fence timbers, and bicycle parts were scattered along the street.  At least no one was on the mountain bike when the car she was driving smashed into the frame and bounced over each wheel, leaving the bicycle destroyed. Then again, there was no one.  That wasn’t true, there were people, but she didn’t want to think of the others.  Those left behind were hardly human any longer. The rearview mirror tilted to one side, and she moved to adjust the angle.  At the end of the street, a shape moved around the corner and was lost among thorn bushes.  Carrie kicked at the door and bolted.  Squeaks from the metal brace attached to her left leg squealed with each step.  Eventually the figure at the corner would realize she could only move with the speed of an injured lamb. “Buster, to me,” Carrie said.  The dog bounded to her side. “Watch,” Carrie said.  Hackles raised, the dog turned to look at the yard.  Carrie wrenched at the front door handle and stumbled inside.  Buster leapt over her and she slammed the door shut.  Three locks turned close before she began to breathe normal again. She parted the blinds, expecting to see someone.  The road was vacant.  There was no movement except for the sway of long grass in the front yard from the breeze.  The bramble of her corner neighbor’s yard grew into the border of lawn.  They had kept the bushes trimmed, when they had been around.  But that was over two months ago.  She glanced back the other way.  The street remained empty.  Each of the yards seemed to imitate the next with a mosaic of trash entangled in the long hands of the grass.  Tall weeds towered across each green stretch. She breathed deeply and steadied her pounding heart.  Really, the movement could have been anything.  Another dog or cat left behind or even her mind playing tricks.  She wanted to shrug it off, but her eyes stayed riveted on the area just to be certain.  For over a month, she had not seen anyone on her street.  She acknowledged she was be getting careless, and needed to be certain of her surroundings before making so much noise with the car. Carrie looked at her yard, which looked the same as the rest on the block.  Part of her wished she could bring the mower out, but the clipped lawn would have made it obvious there was a survivor living in the house.  She turned back to the living room. Buster barked. “I know.  We can try the car again tomorrow.  Remember what happened when I went before I was ready last time?  We don’t want to have to find another car.” Buster barked. “Okay, okay.  Sure it was easy.  If I can find the keys the car is mine, but it means I have to go into houses.  Only one mistake is all it takes.” Buster barked again.  On automatic, Carrie reached for the bag and poured.  Brown pebbles dispensed for a second and were covered by crumbs and dust.  She sighed, took the food sack, looked at the full trash, and threw the bag into the front yard through a slit in the window.  The wind would drive the paper away. She looked at the bare cupboards and wished the breeze would return something edible.  Her reflection caught on the toaster.  She stared at the blue eyes and black pupils.  Part of her worried that one day she would look at a mirror and the eyes would be different, instead finding purple had replaced the blue iris. “We need to go shopping, Buster,” said Carrie.  The dog whimpered and lowered his tail. “You’re right,” said Carrie thinking of the blur she had seen.  “Wait until it’s dark.  At least then maybe no one will see us.” *** Moonlight littered each deserted home.  Block after block Carrie moved through the silence.  Thick towels wrapped around the metal brace muffled the sound of her movement.  Perhaps she was overly cautious, but better paranoid than dead.  Buster crouched low and moved forward.  He turned his head back and Carrie followed.  Times like these made Carrie appreciate she only had five feet of height to hide instead of the bulky frame of her dad. She wondered if her family was still alive.  Did they pass the barrier before the bridge was destroyed?  She was almost positive her mother was caught up in one of the last groups across the bridge, but she was uncertain about her dad.  She tried to ignore the thoughts.  There was a way to find out.  If their cold bodies lay on the pavement, she would know they died because of her. A group of five stood below a street lamp three houses down.  Each of the rust colored faces stared up at the florescent glow.  Deep gashes stretched down the face and neck of a young girl and an old man.  Carrie shuddered.  Those who could not run were caught first.  But even the old man had managed to escape; which meant there was some hope she might get away, if surrounded. She yanked the black beanie tight over her hair.  Her long strands of blond were a gleaming halo at night.  Her pale skin did not help and she covered herself in a dark sweater despite the heat.  Even her backpack, once bright purple and gold of the school colors, was now covered in a thick midnight shade of spray paint.   The bag had been her favorite, but blending into the shadows remained top priority. She squeezed past a broken fence post, moving away from the group.  Purple eyes and dirt encrusted fingers haunted her dreams.  She did not need reminders, and there was no way to predict if or when one would snap. The grocery store lights glowed through large windows onto the vacant parking lot.  Carrie stepped forward.  Buster growled, and Carrie jumped back into shadow.  A lone figure, almost blending with the night, stood under a parking light, staring. “We have to sneak around back,” she whispered.  Buster moved backward.  From the opposite edge of the lot, another figure burst out, running straight for the lone man under the lamp.  Carrie turned her head.  Buster’s growl deepened. “Shh,” Carrie whispered.  “There’s nothing I can do.” Sounds of metal carts crashing on the asphalt and banging against poles reverberated, but no screams.  There were never screams, which made witnessing the brutality worse.  Carrie kept her eyes forward, but movements on her periphery still assaulted her.  Bile clung in her throat.  The person under the street lamp would be dead by morning, or if not he would stare at his wounds in amazement for hours. The keys jangled as she rammed them into the lock and jumped inside the store.  She slammed the lock back home and sighed. A voice yelled in one of the aisles.  “Keep back as ravens eat the cream puffs!  I’m warning you!  Don’t make the shrimp jump into limburger cheese!” “Hey Herbert,” said Carrie. Herbert screamed again and the sound of cans crashing on the linoleum echoed as he scampered away. “Nice to see you too,” said Carrie. In a twisted sort of way, Carrie enjoyed seeing Herbert.  The man had been the grocery owner since before she was born, and it seemed only right to pick up supplies under his watch.  He was one of the few who offered any conversation, even if it was gibberish. “Get over your fear yet?” One of the freezer doors thumped shut on the far side of the store.  Most likely, others outside were infected with fear as well, but Herbert was the only she could identify with those symptoms.  The others probably hid in their cellars.  She wondered what emotions others might have, but the Curious and Angry seemed the most prevalent. She felt fairly certain of her theory.  Everyone seemed to be controlled by a single emotion, and most were curious or angry.  She figured when the evacuation occurred and people began to change most had been bewildered or frustrated and were now stuck with that emotion.  She had had those emotions as well as being scared and tired.  But she still had no idea what was going on.  She still didn’t understand how they lived.  Did they eat?  What was sustaining them? “At least you weren’t stuck with curiosity, like the guy outside,” she muttered.  “Or worse, anger.”  The dog chow bag resisted her pull to open it, and eventually she rammed the sack against a shelf edge.  Pellets sprouted and poured from the hole.  She took a list from her pocket as Buster crunched. “Don’t worry Herbert,” she said.  “I am keeping a tally and when humanity returns to this hell hole I am sure my family will pay you back.”  She reached in above Herbert, who was trying his best to hide on the bottom row, and plucked up a package of frozen burritos.  His purple eyes glanced from between his fingers for a moment and his body constricted tighter.

The Other Side of Eden, by Ethan Cobb
 Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

Shadow Sport, by Ethan Cobb

Posted: January 12, 2012 by Shaina in Ethan Cobb, Vampires
0
Shadow Sport, by Ethan Cobb

Shadow Sport, by Ethan Cobb

Shadow Sport, by Ethan Cobb
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

Description:

What is the price of eternity?

When Vespa’s father mysteriously dies, her family uproots and moves to a small coastal town in Oregon. Vespa yearns to disappear from the gawking stares of her new classmates, except one. She’s intrigued by Ember, a fashionable, and charming student. But the deeper Vespa involves herself in Ember’s life, the darker his secrets become. As Vespa unravels more about Ember, she suspects there may be more to her father’s death. Then she finds herself caught in Shadow Sport—a celebration that will answer all her questions and awaken new nightmares.

Shadow Sport is approximately 53,000 words long, and contains riveting action like the Hunger Games and chilling monsters like Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Excerpt:

Chapter One

Year: 1911

A line of dirt clung to the blood on Ember’s face. Looking up through dense pine branches, the moon was almost overhead, only minutes remained until midnight. The hunters would quit trying to kill him then, but he needed to hide until the final gong from the mansion tower bell. After that, he could find an escape, somehow. One thing at a time, and surviving was first. Sixteen was too young to die. Every ounce of terror drained from his tired muscles over the past two days; now there was only a determination to survive. He knew another of the monsters might appear any minute, but he couldn’t dredge enough feeling to worry about what might happen in several moments. He worried about what was happening now. Any second he was going to pass out and leave himself exposed, with only a mile of forest separating him from the main house. Already, he only had the strength to crawl. His arms shuddered as if each might stop functioning. Ember pressed against the short grass again, avoiding the broken fingers swelling on his right hand. His body bent in a heap, inches from the bush he struggled toward. Maybe rolling under the low, bowed ferns would hide him well enough. A bush rustled behind him.

He spun his head, but only mossy juniper and pine trees shone in the dim light. Much of the forest underbrush was so dense he could hardly pass through. This area, however, was cleared, with meadow grass that had grown in naturally.  Several yards down the path, a blackberry bush grew at the edge of a trail. Crickets chirped not too far away. The place seemed serene, empty.

“Would you like to try again?” a soprano voice asked, only a foot away. She moved into view.

Terror grabbed at his chest. She was one of them, a monster. He recognized her voice as the leader’s. Sticky blood dripped into his eye again from the cut on his temple. Through the pain, the fear rebounded, trumping all other emotion. He forced himself to be calm, refusing to die afraid. He would go on his own terms. His head lifted from the ground and then, exhausted, fell back to the dirt.

“That’s the best you have?” she asked. “Tsk, tsk. And I thought you were going to make the midnight bell. Hiding in the trees was clever; lucky we’re in Oregon and not Arizona, hmm? I think I might use this venue again. Something about the greenery of Oregon forests goes so well with bleeding men.”

“You can…” His tongue ran over the cracked lips and he tried again. “You can go to…” His speech failed.

“Yes?” She leaned closer, but he no longer moved. “Are you still breathing?”  Her boot kicked his shoulder and his arm flopped. A gash in his black shirt exposed his chest. “That’s a pity. I hoped to feel your heart quit beating in my hand. I guess there’s always next century.”

He let out a cough that convulsed his entire body, and simultaneously clutched the knife handle. The metallic glint flashed in his hand as he plunged the blade as high as his arm would allow. She staggered back, clutching her stomach. The handle of his hunting knife protruded from her side. A smile flitted across Ember’s face. Going on his own terms felt good.

“Not quite dead,” he said in a hoarse voice.

The seven-inch blade slurped out, her white knuckles grasped firmly to the grip. Crimson drops fell from the end. One hand clutched the side of her black shirt, blood seeping through her fingers, and the other hand gripped the knife as if the weapon were an extension of her fingers.  “But…what…” A shiver shook her shoulder. She stumbled back two paces. Ember could plainly see she’d never been stabbed and he smiled again. Her bloody hand rose to her blank stare, palm toward her face, and trembled. She turned to him and his expression fell. A mask of hatred now covered her face as she raised the knife high over her head.

“Now you die!” she screamed.

In the distance, a heavy bell began to toll. Everything froze.

“The bell,” said Ember. “The bell,” he repeated his eyes growing wide. A new, intense terror leapt into his chest. He’d resigned himself to death when he saw her, but now things were much worse.

“Very well,” she said, and the knife fell from her fingers to the dirt. Panic controlled his every thought. He struggled, pushing with his broken fingers, not feeling the pain, but his energy was too depleted to fight or run. His heart hammered faster. His limbs no longer heeded what he wanted and instead became rigid, freezing him like a battered gothic statue. The moon disappeared behind her black silhouette. “From now on, you will know me as Queen Lilith.” She yanked his head to the side, exposing his neck, and bit down hard.

Chapter Two

Year: 2011

“Do you believe in vampires?” Steven asked his daughter.

“Of course,” said Vespa. She looked both ways and pedaled across the street, keeping to the shadows away from the street lamps. Silent, dark homes zipped by on either of the road. The night air felt cool against her skin. She would soon be old enough to drive, but she wondered if even then they might continue to make these secret excursions on bike.

“Really?” His bike glided beside her. She took three pedal pushes to each one of his.

“It’s the only way Santa could keep production going year round. What’s the lifespan of an elf? With the candy and cocoa they’re laying back every day and the year round work schedule? Eighty years, tops. Vampires you train once and they’re good for eternity, with no worries about sweet intake. Much more convenient, I say, and I’m sure Mr. Jolly St. Nick has figured out the same.”

“What about finding blood for them to drink? That doesn’t sound too convenient,” he said.

“There are always the elves. Santa had to find a way to get rid of them once he saw the benefits of vampire labor anyway. Elves are probably the perfect bite-size snack for a hungry blood drinker.”

Steven snorted at his daughter. “Vespa, sometimes you’re strange,” he said. “Maybe mom was right; attending a large high school is slowly corrupting you.”

“I’m strange? You’re the one who started bringing up vampires. Besides, we did just sneak out in the middle of the night to go run in a graveyard—without telling Mom, I might add. Who’s corrupting whom?”

“We could go back to the house.”

“No, I’m going to beat the clock this time and then you’ll have to tell me that deep, dark secret of yours. That’s the deal, remember? I make the run in under a minute and I ask a question.” She knew she was practically giddy and it showed, but she didn’t care. So what if her dad made fun of her later? Tonight was going to be her night; she could feel the certainty. It made her tingle. Learning her father’s secret had gone past curiosity. Now it was a passion, something she had to know. Something she was sure would connect her to her father in a deeper way. Private information had a way of pulling people together and making the bond stronger, if both people knew the secret. And she wanted to be closer to her father.

Most nights he worked late, coming home exhausted. There would be some conversation, but eventually he would lock himself away in a room and work for another four hours. When he finished, his mind was mostly mush and he talked little. But when they did graveyard runs or she hinted at his clandestine activities, he was ready to jump into the conversation.

She kept probing him with leading questions, until one night he had developed the graveyard run. If she could make the run across the cemetery in under a minute, he agreed he would answer any question she asked.

“It looks like rain,” he continued. “You might twist an ankle.”

“Quit stalling,” she said and crouched in the middle of the path. She looked past the wrought-iron gate into the cemetery. Mist rose like steam from the moss encrusted headstones. The smell of pre-rain swept the area. Anticipation tickled her and she drummed her fingers against the concrete in a jittery motion.

I own you, graveyard, she thought.

“Okay, on my mark,” he said.

The first beep of the alarm began and Vespa broke into full sprint. Blasts of air whipped her long hair. A streak of lightning spread overhead, flashing blinding light. In the burst, a mud hole, caused by a patch of missing cobblestone walkway, was illuminated.

Dodging to the hole’s right, the path vanished into a milky cloud of fog. Spears of moonlight filtered through the weeping willows, giving just enough light to avoid tombstones. The squishing of her footsteps on the grass was scarcely perceptible above the groaning wind. The hole had thrown her off the best path, but that was no reason to panic. There was still plenty of time. She would have smiled, but she was already beginning to pant.

A vase of Gerber daisies scattered as Vespa jumped over “Edison Willard—Beloved Father”.

What were the dates of birth and death? There was no time to check, and she knew her father would test her on these later; might even hold back part of his answer, if she beat the clock, as punishment. He was always trying to make her aware of the details.  Soon the beeping of the stopwatch would end, and she wasn’t there yet; she had yet to see the black gate, which remained hidden in the darkness.  Her legs pumped harder causing her lungs to burn. A drop of rain pelted a splintered wood cross ahead. Spinning kept her from colliding with the grave marker. Her shoes slipped across the grass dumping Vespa into the mud.

“Oh…dung beetles.” An actual curse was on her lips, but she could never manage to say them while looking at crosses and other religious paraphernalia among the headstones. She still had time, but she needed to be calm if she hoped to reach the gate. Running recklessly into another headstone would kill her chances of learning her father’s secret. When she panicked, injury followed. A glance at her watch revealed only seconds remained.  “Gak!” She fled forward not focusing on any of the graves any longer. Where was that blasted gate?

Panting and ignoring the pain, she jumped over a headstone. Materializing from the night, the back gate appeared five yards away. The bars swung outward inviting those inside the graveyard to leave.

Faster, faster.

With a scream, she leapt across the threshold. The beeping on the watch went silent.

I made it. I made it. She shook the watch several times to make sure there were no broken pieces. She checked the time again. Then she thought, of course I made it. I’m amazing.

Breath wheezed into her lungs. The damp grass caught her as she sprawled backward. The fire in her legs felt like months would pass before she’d become whole again. She didn’t care. She’d beat the graveyard run.

Like a ghost, her father emerged from the mist. He bent down and helped her stand then slapped her on the back.

“Good job,” he said, a grin on his face. “I’m sure the $200 sneakers made all the difference.” She’d saved her allowance money for months to buy the shoes.

“They…slipped…on the…grass,” she said between gasps of air.

“Twist an ankle?”

She glared back at him, but she couldn’t pretend to be angry—her excitement was too obvious.

“Then I guess I owe you the answer to one question,” her dad said.

“You already know what I’m gonna ask,” she said, excitement building inside. This was it. She’d waited so long. A part of her, however small, wondered whether she would be disappointed when the mystery was gone, when her father told her his deepest secret. But another thought, who cares? I wanna know!

“I could tell you all about water pipeline design.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t doubt you know civil engineering.”

“Just that I am a civil engineer. You think my job is more…covert.”

“Yes, do you work for—”

“What were the birth and death dates from three of the graves?” he asked.

“Come on.” She wanted to sigh loudly in frustration, but she remained patient. To an extent.

“Nope, you know you’re supposed to pay attention to the details. What good is rushing when you don’t take in anything around you?”

She sighed and pushed a lock of sticky hair from her face. “There was a Johnathan Pruite, 1904–1982, and a Samuel Clayborne, 1925–1999, and a, umm, Elvis Presley, 1930–1970.”

“Elvis?”

“Yeah, that grave had rhinestones. Couldn’t miss it.” She flipped her hair and put on her “I’m innocent” look.

He tapped his chin for several moments. “I don’t know. You didn’t memorize three.”

“I’ll do it again! Besides, that was never part of the original agreement.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, there’s no doubt you can finish the run in time.” He looked over his shoulder at the empty cemetery and the nearby copse of trees and bushes bordering the sidewall. His face grew serious. “What I’m about to tell you can’t leave this place, understood?”

“I knew it,” she gasped.

“I haven’t even told you what it is yet. I—” He looked back at the tree line. “Did you hear something?”

“No.”

“I think I heard something back where we hid the bikes. Wait here.”

“You’re stalling. You can’t hold out forever.”

He didn’t answer. Vespa watched her father walk into the thicket, annoyed he withdrew right when he was about to reveal who his true employer was. She hadn’t decided whether it was CIA, NSA, or FBI. Whichever organization it was, her dad was definitely undercover. Would there be secret tales of infiltration? Would he teach her everything he knew, so one day she could be a superspy? Several minutes passed. He was taking forever.

The bushes whipped. Thunder rumbled in the sky.

“Dad? Everything okay?”

There was no answer.

“You didn’t leave me, did you?” Who knew what her dad was capable of doing. He did, after all, bring her to run in graveyards in the middle of the night. Maybe this was just the next step in his plan. Vespa went to the edge of the outcropping and listened. There was only a light dripping of rain. And then a scream pierced the silence. The noise blocked every other sense, leaving her with only the drifting echoes. Her hands trembled. Vespa sprinted into the thicket in the direction her dad had gone. Branches caught and snapped at her clothes and arms and legs.

“Dad! Dad!”

Her legs knocked out beneath her, and she flew into a clump of ferns. Mud plastered her face. Picking herself up and turning back, she saw what tripped her. Her father’s body was sprawled face down. She ran to him and rolled him over. Deep slashes covered his chest. Blood oozed from gashes across his neck. An urge to run and hide shot through her, but shock rooted her to the spot. Some analytical part of her mind took over and pushed the scared part aside. He needed help—that was the first step.

“Help, please, anyone!” Vespa yelled. What did this? She had heard of large animals entering the city. She pulled the cell phone from her father’s pocket. Staying calm was important. A hysterical person would slow everything and make communication harder. But her panic was on the edge, waiting for her to lower her guard. Several yards behind her, the bushes moved and twigs snapped. She spun, but the space was empty. She wanted to bolt, but refused to give in to the feeling completely. Her dad needed her. A voice picked up on the phone.

“We’re at the cemetery, my father’s been injured. A bear maybe,” Vespa’s words rushed out. She looked around again. For a half-second, through the trees, she saw a flash of white, illuminated by moonlight, pass a distant path. There was no other movement. The forest remained silent except for the patter of rain. She looked down at her father.

She felt his heart stop beating under her fingers. Her father was dead.

Shadow Sport, by Ethan Cobb
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

Last Rites, by Ethan Cobb

Posted: December 30, 2011 by Shaina in Ethan Cobb, Thriller and Suspense, Vampires, Young Adult
0
Last Rites, by Ethan Cobb

Last Rites, by Ethan Cobb

Last Rites, by Ethan Cobb
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

Description:  Sometimes it’s hard to be a priest…when a slayer needs a holy man.
Weldon thought it would be another day of deep spiritual contemplation, until the vampire hunter showed up. Now there are so many questions the scriptures can’t answer: Do the undead deserve last rites? Is it really necessary to wear robes to a bloody slaying? Are all vampires unable to pronounce the letter W?

Thou shalt protect the flock from monsters.

This is a paranormal comedic thriller.

Excerpt:

Weldon sat in the snow contemplating whether the undead should receive last rites. The seminary lacked the answer. He would have to think more on the subject when he had more time, possible after Father Rupert’s Tuesday flower arranging class. Until then, he had other matters to worry about. He rubbed the cross absentmindedly and tossed another garlic clove into his mouth.

Through a scream of wind, Weldon heard the slow crunch of plodding feet. A man materialized through the clouds at the end of the street. A bent and gnarled walking stick plunged into the snow-covered walkway. An equally twisted and bowed man gripped the old stick. Only the spiked wood plunged through to the muddy base seemed to keep the man from blowing away. His hat brim held fast like it had been nailed to his head like a horseshoe.

“You him then?” asked the old man.

“I’m Weldon Boniface III,” Weldon said.

“Father?”

“Almost-Father.”

“Almost-Father?”

“Well it’s not official yet, but I have taken oaths. A little more time and I will be sent to watch over a town of my own.”

“Looks like almost-too-young-to-be–out-without-your-parents’-permission might be a better title,” said the old man. “Well come on then.”

“And who am I serving today?” asked Weldon, biting back a less virtuous response.

“I thought that was God,” said the old man. Weldon opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off. “The name is Victor, but you may know me as Victor the Slayer.”

The old man turned and trudged down the village main street, avoiding the few carts and carriages left in the snow. At the edge of the town, the base of another mountain ended. The stick sank into the trail. Weldon followed.

A gust screamed past. Weldon’s hand braced against the elements. The gale tugged at the robes.

“I don’t see why I had to wear my robes,” sputtered Weldon through the flock of snowflakes blowing into his mouth. “I can read the Bible no matter what I wear.”

“Tradition is needed. The younger generation has forgotten,” muttered Victor. He adjusted the cuffs of his aged suit.

“The younger generation is not going to have a chance to remember it if I trip over and get sucked dry, all because I wore baggy priest robes instead of a nice sturdy pair of running trousers,” replied Weldon.

“You don’t need to worry,” said Victor.

“I know. I can outrun you.”

“I should have been more selective when I wrote for a priest.”

“I was the only priest willing to go. The other two boys below me quit the parish first. With my seniority in the parish, I was ideally suited for this type of work. God may believe in free will, but the parish doesn’t,” grumbled the boy.

“Priests used to line up for Victor the Slayer,” said Victor as he stopped. He breathed heavily for a few moments, leaning against the gray conglomerate of stones beside the trail. “They build these trails steeper every year.”

“Going down steep trails is usually a lot easier than going up,” said Weldon helpfully. “It’s not too late to get into the inn. I hear they have warm drinks and a glowing fire prepared at all times.”

The air had grown colder the higher they went and now each breath was expelled in great heaps of white clouds. Victor the Slayer waved the milky fog of Weldon’s words aside.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” asked Victor.

“What?”

“The evil. You should try to destroy some every day. That’s my motto.”

“Believe me. I do try,” Weldon said. Victor snorted, but remained silent.

The icy trail narrowed almost to the point of needing to balance across the remaining patches of earth. Chunks of the path had long ago fallen and tumbled down the mountain peak. The trail spiraled to the culminating point, which gave a dim light through the winter haze. The outline of a castle was just visible.

“We’re in luck, someone’s home,” said Victor.

“Yes. We’re lucky,” moaned Weldon. “Just curious. What’s the point of going after vampires, especially at your age?”

“Don’t you know what the word pride means? A village letting the beast alone after all these years, it’s preposterous. Does no one remember…”

“Sorry I asked,” interrupted the boy raising his hands in submission. “I am just saying any one of the villagers could be here right now instead of us.”

“What makes a monster?” asked Victor.

“What?”

“A monster,” repeated Victor.

“Well I –”

“The blood,” interrupted Victor. “Born to be evil. Everyone has a calling in life. The vampires are parasites. Hunting vampires is in my blood. I dream about it. There is a ceremony to the event. An order. The beast is the villain of nightmares. The pointed teeth, the cape, and the gloomy castle all point toward the ominous nature of what the thing is. A monster. It thirsts after only one thing. It is a fanatic.”

“No vampires near your home I take it,” said Weldon.

“None. Most ran away years ago. Reputation flies faster than bats. They were gone before I even showed up at the door,” Victor said.

The ancient stone of the castle loomed over the snowy field. Gargoyles froze in morbid shapes gaping down. Behemoth wood doors stood as sentinels to the entrance. Flecks of rust peeled off the hinges.

The old man and boy stood facing the castle. The Slayer reached down to his lower back and pushed. His spine cracked into place. He gave a few feeble swipes with his pointed stick. He nodded his head in approval. The boy shook his head in horror.

The storm had died down. Fresh snow sparkled.

“Light a torch,” Victor said. “We need to let him know we’re here.”

Weldon pulled a match from his pocket. The soggy head took three strikes before igniting. He turned for the torch, but no one was beside him.

“Victor?”

The front door opened and the vampire stepped out. There was a small white dog in his arms. The puppy yapped.

“A lone priest?” said the vampire, putting the dog down to run back inside. Weldon searched around him, also confused about being alone.

“Not exactly,” said a quiet voice from just behind the vampire. “Prepare for thy doom, foul demon.”

“What do you mean foul?” asked the vampire, perplexed. “I’ve been using scented soap.”

Victor wrenched the shoulder around and stared the beast in the ruby iris. Horror crossed the vampire’s face. Victor’s hand swung a wooden stake so splintered the vampire was not sure which protruding point should concern him. The stake stopped two centimeters from the vampire’s nose.

“Oh that’s the point I should worry about,” said the vampire.

“What. Is. This,” sputtered Victor.

“What?”

“What are you wearing? Where is your cape?”

The vampire looked down at his brown knit sweater and dark trousers. He shifted his toes in his thick slippers.

“I didn’t know everyone was going to be dressed. Trousers are easier to run in,” explained the vampire.

“That’s what I said,” agreed Weldon.

Victor threw down his stake. He pushed the vampire’s head back. “Where’re your fangs?”

“Do you know how hard it is to eat or talk with those things? I sound like I have a demented lisp. I vant, sauck, vlood…it’s pathetic.”

“You do have good enunciation now,” Weldon said. He flinched as Victors eyes narrowed on him. Victor turned back to the vampire.

“Do you own this property?” asked Victor.

“Of course I own this property; inherited it after my father was staked by Dr. Helsing himself. Who are you?”

Victor puffed out his chest and raised his head. “I am Victor the Slayer,” he said.

“Is that Victor Helsing?” asked the vampire hopefully.

“NO. My last name is not HELSING,” screeched Victor.

“I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just…you know. The Helsing family name is special.” A distant glaze fell over the vampire’s eyes and he smiled.

“I don’t know Dr. Helsing. I am not a distant cousin of Dr. Helsing.” Victor’s voice rose several octaves. “I was not a patient of Dr. Helsing.”

“Just asking.”

“It’s not your fault,” whispered Weldon. “He’s a bit sensitive about the whole issue. You could pretend you have heard of Victor the Slayer to make him feel better.”

The vampire nodded his head in agreement, but Victor was already trudging across the snowy grounds to the door.

“One doctor kills one vampire and he is a celebrity. The vampire wasn’t even awake at the time. A complete hack. Blood everywhere. What kind of professional does that?” muttered Victor as he walked.

“It is impressive to see a slayer. I’ve only heard stories, well that and of course the whole thing with Dad,” said the vampire waving his hand.

“Not a single one?” asked Victor.

“Well, no.”

“The villagers must be out of their minds with the number of virgin sacrifices you have taken.”

“Never heard any complaints from them, although I like to think I am a lady killer.”

The vampire laughed and nudged the priest’s stomach with his elbow. There was silence. Weldon raised an eyebrow.

“Right. Priest,” said the vampire.

Last Rites, by Ethan Cobb
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