Vampire "Untitled" (Vampire "Untitled" Trilogy Book 1) (29 page)

It was perfect.

----- X -----

Paul
tucked the knife into the back of his jeans. It occurred to him just before
entering the picnic area that from their distance they would never have been
able to clearly see that he was carrying a weapon. That subterfuge must hold
longer. Hide the weapon, get close, grab it and use it.

Paul walked. Calmly.

The two men remained standing still as Paul
approached. Nealla had that same shit-eating grin of domination he’d worn
before. In his mind, the confrontation had already been won. This situation was
what Nealla wanted; he wanted the opportunity to fuck up Paul physically and
prove his dominance. Nealla quite clearly thought he’d won in advance. Nealla
also probably thought that he’d engineered the scenario, he probably felt
clever at seducing Paul to a barren spot with nobody to call to for help. Big
Man, on the other hand, was looking psyched and purposeful. He had moved ahead
of Nealla and raised his fists in preparation of a boxing match. He’d started
bopping, moving his weight from one foot to the other, rolling his shoulders in
preparation of throwing a punch.

Paul walked. Calmly.

When he was ten yards away, Big Man approached. He
kicked the snow ahead of him with each stride. He had his height, the higher
ground, his greater reach, the supporting figure of Nealla, the secluded
environment. Everything was in Big Man’s favour.

Paul remained calm.

Big Man made two strides to cover the distance. Calmly
and with perfect anticipation Paul took hold of the knife and swung it in a
wide arc as he jumped backwards to avoid the punch. The result was magnificent.
The knife was swung at the perfect angle and connected with maximum force. Big
Man’s fist was flying at speed and the blade sliced with all the power Raul had
mustered. The steel caught between his knuckles and bit brutally between ring
and index fingers, then carried on slicing across the back of his hand right
down to the wrist. The amount of blood that came out was astonishing. Raul
didn’t quite know what had happened. He was still moving forward, his bulk
carrying him with the momentum as Paul retreated. The moment Raul saw the wound
his face turned white. He grabbed at the gaping valley that had opened between
the bones of his fist and dropped one knee into the snow.

It was all the advantage Paul needed. He swung the knife
again, stepping close to ensure a harsh and deep wound across the side of
Raul’s neck.

Although the damage was strong, it lacked the force
and intensity Raul had added by punching into the blade. Despite being of lower
force, it was still an assured attack and a second after inflicting it the
slice was pouring with blood. Raul took his blood covered hand away from the
first injury and tapped it to the neck wound before checking his fingers for
bleeding. A redundant gesture because there was blood falling everywhere. Raul
tried to stem the flow from his neck by clasping his left hand against the neck
wound and tucking his wounded right hand in his left armpit.

Paul felt calm. Content.

Raul looked over his shoulder to Nealla, almost as
though to call for help. It was the dumbest most stupid thing he could have
done. Raul had both hands in use to stem the bleeding, he couldn’t defend
himself and now he was foolish enough to look away.

Paul slammed the knife point back into the neck wound
to double down on the same injury. Raul’s hand was beside the wound and the hit
was so hard it looked as though one of his fingers came off as the knife
punched through the jugular to his larynx.

Nealla hadn’t moved at all other than to take his
hands out of his pockets, but his face was one of ultimate horror.

Paul stepped towards Raul who now lifted both hands
forward in defence, on his knees, begging with hands out. The wound to his
right hand was horrid and the skin hung off the back like it was a patch of
cloth, the tip of his little finger on his left hand was missing, severed clean
when Paul had punched the blade into his neck. That wound had settled things.
With his hands held ahead of him, blood spurted from the carotid artery,
shooting at least six feet. Pure crimson, almost glowing as it stained the snow
around him.

Paul held the knife in anticipation, looking for the
opening of landing a huge stab to Raul’s face.

The Big Man whispered, “Varog,” and with it a huge
amount of blood spilled from his lips. At the same time his balance seemed to
go and his skin went ashen. He slumped backwards into the snow and lifted his
hands back to his neck.

Big Man was down. He was out of the game.

Paul turned his attention to Nealla.

“Nu!” Nealla called out as he turned and ran. He went
three or four strides before turning back. He looked at Raul who in turn was
looking up at him. Raul was alive but immobile. It looked as though Raul was
trying to call to Nealla for help, begging his friend, pleading with him,
knowing that without medical attention in the next few minutes he would die.
Nealla knew this too, but when he looked at Paul he turned back and started
running up the hill, higher into the forest. Abandoning Raul to his death in
order that he may live a few minutes longer.

Minutes longer.

Only minutes.

Paul followed at Nealla’s pace but could see that his
nemesis was no physical match for him. Nealla was a smoker of cigarettes and
that smoking was costing him now. He was barely halfway up the hill and he was
gasping for breath. Paul kept him within twenty yards without feeling it
necessary to breathe. He was feeling hot though, and his muscles seemed to have
grown or swollen further on attacking Raul. His shirt was feeling tight around
the armpits and biceps. Ahead of him Nealla fell forward into the snow,
struggling with exertion. Paul used the opportunity to unfasten the remaining
buttons and slip off his shirt. He dropped it on the footprints to be sure he
could find it on the way back. Nealla was knelt in the snow looking back over
his shoulder. He looked on worriedly, rolling himself to sit his ass in the
snow whilst he tried to regain his breath. He had something in his hand that
Paul assumed was the razor, but the blade was still folded inside the handle.

As Paul dropped his shirt he noticed how the snow
touched the skin around his ankles. He wasn’t wearing socks and the cold freeze
felt good, empowering, so he kicked off his shoes also. The moment he stepped a
bare foot into the snow he knew he had to be naked.

Nealla was still sitting in the snow trying to catch
his breath, but as he saw Paul slipping off his jeans whilst holding the
kitchen knife that had killed Raul, the true horror of the situation sunk in.
Nealla called out some things in Romanian that Paul ignored. They sounded like
pleadings, not threats.

Perhaps Raul had told Nealla the truth about the
confrontation earlier. Perhaps they had felt the same way as Boy, that Paul was
a vampire. Did they believe it? Would Nealla have believed?

It didn’t really matter what he thought. All that
mattered was what happened now.

Paul was naked, standing in falling snow. One man was
dead or would be very soon. The other was sitting in a state of realisation
that he had no options left. It was fight or flight against a vampire and his
flight was no match to the thing stood before him.

The cool air felt sensational against his skin. The
snow underfoot charged him like an electric current. The knife in his hand
would bring a calming justice to the scene.

Paul began walking uphill.

Nealla stood and backed away. He looked so utterly
helpless and terrified that Paul couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps he was
mirroring Nealla’s shit-eating grin. It made him feel amazing to be naked
against the cold and he knew he looked amazing. His athletic physique was
pumped and swollen, his muscles bulging and primed.

“English... Sorry English... I always like!” Nealla
screeched out like a desperate little girl. It seemed he could speak a little
of the language after all.

Paul continued his calm uphill climb.

Nealla backed away for a few more steps then seemed to
realise he didn’t have any options. He yelled a threat of some kind and
unfolded his razor. He gripped it in his fist and adopted a fighting stance. He
had made the decision to fight, he had the higher ground, he had the strength
and a slight height advantage, but he had lost before he even began. He’d lost
because he didn’t want to fight, he’d lost because what he really wanted to do
was flee and he’d lost because there was no way he could move as quickly as a
vampire.

As Paul stepped to within striking distance Nealla
made a move that was part retreat and part a defence swing with the razor.

Paul’s counter move was lightening fast, dodging the
razor with a swing of his arm to keep balance. He ducked to the side simply,
effortlessly. It was all so easy to do. His reflexes were faster than ever, his
muscles more powerful than ever. Nealla and Raul looked slow and sluggish, they
looked like they were fighting through syrup. Nealla tried another attacking
swing of the blade and again Paul found it pathetic. So easy to dodge, so easy
to anticipate. In response, Paul rebounded like he was shot from a cannon to
plant the kitchen knife deep into Nealla’s flank. He pulled the knife back out
just as fast.

Nealla stumbled backwards into the snow on the impact
but scrambled upright to regain his footing. The wound was nowhere near as
dramatic as Raul’s but it made Nealla scream when he looked down to see blood
spreading out across his clothing.

“Please, English. Please,” Nealla lowered onto one
knee and held the razor ahead of him as a defence. “Please... Please.”

Nealla had seemed to give up. He didn’t want to fight
anymore. He was clutching his side, on his knees, begging for mercy.

Paul approached and lowered his own blade. Nealla kept
his razor held at the full extent of his arm. There was no way for him to
attack from here, he was kneeling, his arm was fully extended. Paul reached
forward and took the razor out of Nealla’s hand. It was capitulation. Nealla just
gave it up, just gave away his only means of defence. Foolish boy. Paul folded
the razor carefully then casually tossed it aside to become lost in the snow.

“Please English, I sorry.”

Paul looked into Nealla’s terrified eyes. They were
streaming with tears, either with pain or with fear. When Nealla looked back at
Paul’s eyes, he took a sudden intake of breath as the real horror registered.
Nealla saw what Paul imagined he saw. A naked man with marble white skin and
glassy red eyes.

The knife slammed into Nealla’s ribcage, came out, and
slammed in again. Nealla screamed with intensity but surprisingly little
volume. Nor did Nealla defend himself very well. Paul knocked him onto his back
and stood over him stabbing the knife repeatedly into his chest and abdomen.
Blood spat from his mouth as he pleaded for what Paul assumed was forgiveness.
But although he thrashed around, he never really lifted up his hands to defend
himself; he just lay there making a bloody snow-angel as the vampire repeatedly
stabbed him and sliced him and eviscerated him and spilled every last drop of
blood until all movement from Nealla stopped.

----- X -----

There
was a strange moment of neutrality as Paul sat in the snow beside his clothes.
He had walked away from Nealla and followed the footprints downhill to find his
shirt, jeans and shoes. Although content and truly afraid of nothing, he knew
it would be unwise to return to the apartment whilst covered in blood. It was
all over him, his chest, torso, genitals; mostly it was his hands and arms, his
forearms in particular were heavily stained. He sat in the snow trying to rub
it off his skin before dressing. He left the knife behind, he wouldn’t need it
again. Nor did he look back at Nealla, or what was left of him. He’d stabbed him
so many times in the abdomen that parts of his intestines had begun spilling to
the point where he looked as though he’d turned inside out.

The snow was still falling which was a good thing. The
bodies would be covered soon.

Paul walked downhill to discover that Raul wasn’t
entirely dead. He’d lost all movement apart from the shallowest breathing that
was mostly registered by a bubble of blood that blew from his right nostril
with each exhalation. One of his eyes was widely dilated and the other had a pinprick
pupil with a colourless iris. Paul looked into his eyes hoping Raul’s brain was
still alive enough to see him. Two or three minutes later there was a barely
perceptible yet striking change as Raul’s skin seemed to slacken and the bloody
bubbles stopped forming on his nostril. Death. The exact moment registered.

What now?

It would be nice to go and see Ildico but somehow his
cognition was telling him that it wouldn’t be a good idea. He needed to go now.
He needed to return to the apartment, take his passport and an overnight bag
and disappear. London would be the best option, he could vanish and disappear
in London. There were many things to think about and do. He would have to
vanish before somebody discovered the bodies and called the police.