"...find the great Un-Dead, and cut off his head and burn his heart or drive a stake through it, so that the world may rest from him."
-Professor Abraham Van Helsing, Bram Stoker's Dracula
THWUMP THWUMP THWUP
I drove the stake still deeper until it would go no further. I stopped only briefly to wipe the sweat from my brow.
VRRRRRRRRRRRR!! The chainsaw roared to life. This was the gross part.
"Thy will be done" I plunged into the gory work. The head came off clean enough, but I was still covered in the Un-Dead's blood. I quickly filled the mouth and throat with garlic, said a prayer and left a small cross on the body. This one went quietly. I hurried out of the grave, lest anyone come searching for the source of the chainsaw.
There's nothing glamorous about vampire hunting, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. It requires nerves of steel, a strong stomach, fast reflexes, and indifference toward salvation and damnation. You must be prepared to carry out horrific and abhorrent acts. Ripping open the dead, impaling, burning, decapitating. And don't even get me started on the shit that goes down when they're actually awake.
I put a hole in the wing of the butterfly. The bug falls out of the air, and splatters into a shadow on the ground. As the shadow collects itself and rises in a more humanoid form, I say
"Bit out of season for butterflies."
He scowls through the oncoming blizzard at me, fangs dull yellow and red tipped, the eyes a bright red, brilliant against the snow.
"Damn Americans, you all talk too much."
He soars through the whipping wind and swirling snow, but I'm ready. I hit the deck and guide him over me with my foot. Hard. But he's like a cat, this one, hits the ground on all fours, already starting his next charge. I'm too slow getting up.
The vamp hits me like an artillery shell. He claws my chest, luckily only making it through few layers of clothing. The various trinkets and relics I wear fly into the air, exposed, some glittering in the blizzard, which is still building its strength.
He catches one of them, a cross. "A Holy man?" I'd say no but I'm too busy being scared shitless. "It's because of people like you," He spits, his breathe stinks of blood and vomit "that I'm still here!"
"And you think we talk to much?" I'm reaching for a special weapon. I can tell this guy's affected by holy items, his skin is smoldering under the cross. "Why does every fucking dead guy with a blood fetish have to tell me his life story?" That was hard to get out. This guy isn't too big, but he's heavy as a coffin.
"The priests..." He's sobbing now. It's getting even colder, his tears seem to be freezing as they fall "They excommunicated me! Because I was sick! I spoke to myself, whispered... Blasphemies! They couldn't heal me so they cast me o-o-out..." He's full on crying now. "I was so... Alone I-I- I couldn't help it! I couldn't go on living as an outcast, I had to die!" Like a give a shit. I pull my revolver and put a blessed bullet in him. He's flung from me, taking the cross with him. He slides several yards, staining the snowy ground with black blood, old blood. He's thirsty, but sane. Amazing self-control. He gets back up, the hole is in his stomach. It's gaping. Suddenly, it gets some how colder, and my vision is impared by something besides snow. Fog. This is it, no more talk, he's going for the kill, I have to get him now, this must be the final blow. I need to pierce the heart, but my stakes are too far in my jacket.
He's nearly upon me. All I can reach is a flask... It's so cold though...
And that was it. There he was, his face contorted in rage, suspended over me, his skin hissing and steaming around the long, pointed, chuck of frozen holy water that I had plunged through his chest. It was his own power that made it cold enough for the instant freeze. I push him off and plunge the icicle as far into the snow a I can. There isn't much data on stabbing someone with holy water, but I'm betting it killed him once and for all. But, just in case, I left a scythe blade in the ground hovering above his neck so he'll cut off his own head if he gets up. Finally, I took the cross from his him, where it had left its image, burned into his hand. I placed it upon his lips and crossed myself. If his face is anything to go by, I think he found peace.
That's more than can be said for me.