A shiver runs down my spine as the carriage lumbers to a halt before me. It’s black, as are the horses pulling it. I heard they would be. I heard all of the rumors and ran them over again and again in my mind. I will myself to relax.

“Nikolett!” There’s no mistaking the shrill, musical pitch of Panni’s voice from inside the carriage. Her blonde head pops into view through the window.

“Panni!” I call as a dwarf-sized man loads my trunk onto the back of the carriage.

He comes around, opens the door and assists my entrance into the carriage. Small arms instantly envelope me. Dear, sweet Panni, always smiling and smelling of lavender. She’s a source of comfort for my nerves. My icy insides begin to melt.

“Aren’t you excited?” she asks, blue eyes blazing.

“I’m ready for an adventure,” I manage to reply.

“Nikolett, you’re always reserved and proper. You’ll do well learning social etiquette. Countess Bathory has a challenge ahead of her with me I’m afraid.” She laughs her bird twitter of a laugh.

“Are we the only two going to the castle by carriage?” I ask, wondering why we’re the only two aboard.

“No, the dwarf says there will be six of us in all.”

I can’t help the feeling of foreboding crawling up my neck like spiders. Just rumors, I keep telling myself.

*

The six of us stand in a straight line. Our trunks have been taken somewhere inside the castle. We’re receiving uniforms. They are white sheaths. We’re told to let our hair loose and turn in all hair ties and pins. My palms sweat and itch where the nerve endings prickle and make bumps.

We strip out of our clothes, don the white frocks and line up once more. I’m in front with Panni behind me. A tall, thick woman leads us through the damp, frigid castle. “The Countess will greet you now,” she tells us. Piroska trips and falls on the stairs. Krisztina turns to help her. “Straight ahead!” the woman bellows. “Nobody will help you and you do not help one another.” Panni’s eyes widen. My lips go numb. Rebeka whimpers and becomes the first to die.

The tall woman turns on her and brings her fist down across Rebeka’s shoulder and neck. Rebeka falls to the stone stairs. The woman kicks her over and over in the head. Blood runs red and sticky, pooling before overflowing to the next step, then the next. When Rebeka no longer struggles and lays motionless the woman climbs back to the front of our line and leads us forward once more. We don’t speak or look back. I hear Szabina’s feet scuffle over Rebeka’s body.

The dwarf stands at the top of the stairs before a doorway. “Ficzko,” the tall woman says to him, “one of them lies on the stairs. Collect the blood for the Countess.”

The tall woman opens the door and motions for us to enter. My stomach churns.

A woman sits in the middle of the room in an intricate gold chair. Her long black hair hangs in curls on her shoulders and falls onto her white bosom. Her skin is ghostly. Her lips blood red. The Countess stands and takes two steps forward. The netting under her rich gold and red brocade dress scratches the floor as she walks. I’m frozen in place.

A large hand shoves me forward. “Bow to the Countess,” the tall woman orders.

“Thank you Dorka,” the Countess says. Her voice is deep and throaty. Dorka bows and leaves the room. Countess Bathory runs her eyes over us. “And then there were five,” she says. “Approach me one at a time.”

She steels her eyes on mine. I’m walking forward but can’t feel my feet moving. It’s a terrible dream. I say a silent prayer to wake up. I’m standing in front of her. She twirls her finger, indicating for me to turn before her. I rotate. The room becomes a blur.

She takes my arm and smells the inside of my wrist. Horrified, I fight to remain stiff as her tongue traces my vein and her eyes meet mine. She lets go of my arm and it falls limp at my side. “My new favorite,” she says.

I swallow the bile that slips up my throat. She runs a finger down my cheek, then bends my head to the side and examines my neck. I close my eyes and feel her lips trace my collarbone. “Dorka, this one to my chambers tonight,” she says.

*

In the dungeon of the Blood Countess, the chill and certainty of darkness seeps through the walls. Dorka leads me to the chamber of the Countess. She sits in a deep bath of blood. It ebbs with every movement and splashes over the side of the white porcelain onto the stone floor as she turns and smiles upon my arrival. The stench is horrific. I gag and brace myself against the wall.

She summons me forward with her finger, her tongue running over her lips. As I approach, the sitting room to my right comes into view. Several corpses of dead girls lie, discarded, their skin gashed and blood drained. I falter. The room spins and goes black.

Excruciating pain brings me back. I hear my voice screaming out. Gaining lucency, realization sets in. The Countess has my nude body pressed tightly against her own. Her teeth have torn a gaping hole in my breast. She’s smearing my blood onto her face, licking her fingers, humming. She smiles and kisses me.

I see the welcome blackness approaching, like the horses that draw the carriage of the damned, and run forward into its embrace.

___
©2009 Jamie Blair
www.jamieblair.blogspot.com

Running was easy; it was the catching that was hard. It was a gibbous moon, with little cloud cover, which helped tremendously with visibility.  Jada was happy for that.  Anything that gave an edge.  Being hungry didn’t help.

The runners caught a scent, and were off to the races, never gibbering as they chased down their prey.  Gibbering was a waste of breath.  The runners were fast and silent.  Sometimes, it was only the collective rumble of feet slapping pavement in an all out sprint that let you know you were in danger.  Sounds didn’t set them off often, but the scent of something living would set them racing with no heed of their safety.  It was only their almost unquenchable hunger that kept them going.  There were times when it seemed the hungrier they were, the faster they became.  Jada almost felt sorry for whomever it was they chased.  Then again, she needed to get to them first.

She knew the city pretty well.  The survivor must have been out scavanging, hoping that the darkness would be enough cover.  There were fewer places to scavenge now, with most of the stores stripped. She didn’t know where they hid, but she knew where they went for food.

An easy lope took her across several city streets.  She was only a little behind the runners, but on a possible angle to their prey.  She only prayed that she heard no gunshots or gibbering.  A gunshot meant that the runners were extremely close, and gibbering meant that they were already eating.  Either outcome meant that her chase was over for the night.

Neither outcome was acceptable.

A crash sounded ahead and to the right.  Jada changed her angle of pursuit to match.  She needed not to just catch the survivor, she needed to be ahead of them, and thus, the runners.  Difficult at times, to be sure.  Her own gait was whisper quiet as she moved, one of the few advantages she had over the zombies.  They had numbers, but she had stealth, and used it to the best of her ability.

Jada pushed herself, hurtling down an alley and cutting across a car- and trash- choked street, the only tale of her passage being a slight sigh as she cut the air.  She heard a muttered curse, and knew she was close.  The excitement of being so close pulsed in her veins, and she moved faster.  She had to get ahead of them all.

Down another alley, and knew she was ahead of the runner’s prey.  She heard their rumble a few blocks away, somewhat off the trail.  Better and better.  The closest sound to her now was the padding of rubber on asphalt.  This survivor learned, at least.  Boots are good for some things, but for stealth, it was either barefoot or sneakers.  It sounded like this survivor wore the latter, and Jada didn’t blame them.  Who wanted to go out barefoot in the dark, not knowing what could be stepped on?

The cushioned footsteps drew closer, and Jada could now make out a form in the moonlight: dark colors, and the hunch could only be a backpack.  A skullcap fit snugly on their head, cutting down on any wind resistance.  Their gait was long and self-assured, the pace of one used to running.  Upon closer inspection, Jada saw that it was a woman.  If the swell of her hips didn’t give it away, the small breasts would have.

And she was getting closer.

“Hssst,” Jada said, getting the woman’s attention.  She faltered only for a moment before pounding her way towards Jada, who was motioning her over.

The woman would have been pretty if it wasn’t for the tiredness that seemed to limn every line of her face.  A little gaunt, but that was to be expected.  Haunted eyes.  Eyes that had seen too much carnage, too much death.  How many loved ones had those eyes seen go the way of a horrible, indecent demise?  How many new loved ones went the same way?

“Who are you,” the woman asked, sotto voce, barely winded.

“A survivor, like you” Jada replied.  “I know a safe place.”

“Me, too, but it’s the other way.  I was leading the runners way from the rest.”

“Smart,” Jada said.  “Come on.  It’s just around a few turns here. You can stay until the runners disperse, and then go back to your friends.”

Jada could almost smell the tiredness coming off the woman, and the eagerness to rest, if even for a short while.  Everyone was like that, these days.  Safety and rest were more important than comfort.  In today’s world, comfort was a hot meal and a shower.

Worse, or better, true comfort was relief from terror.

At the woman’s silent acquiescence, Jada led her back into the alley, away from any prying eyes and away from the runners.  As always, this would be a private affair.  Long, easy strides took them both deeper and deeper into a warren where the homeless used to live.  When she had deemed it close enough, Jada struck.

The savagery was something to behold, lips curled back into a snarl, elongated incisors ready to sink deeply into the warm flesh of the woman, drawing out her very lifeblood.  She never had a chance.

There was no tearing, no ripping, no struggle after the initial wave of terror.  This wasn’t gluttony, it was survival, for humans were getting more and more scarce to find, what with the runners chasing them down and tearing at them.  Every drop was precious and life-giving.

Repast over, Jada beheaded her victim.  No sense in making more vampires when food was scarce as it is.  Competition was too fierce in this new world.

Sated for the first time in weeks, Jada moved back into the alleys, eyes always searching for another survivor, or the omnipresent runners.

___

© 2008 Steven D. Forbes

Steven Forbes is a comic book editor, writer, and columnist. His column, Bolts & Nuts, is updated every Tuesday at Project Fanboy