The Blood of Cowards

© 1997 Matt Cole
All rights reserved.

Georgia, 1865

Blood. The mountain air was saturated with the bewitching scent. Pleasantly and lightly intoxicated by the aroma, I closed my eyes and bathed my face in the oncoming wind, savoring its musky sweetness. Quickly the scent aggravated my thirst and I began to salivate as my fangs involuntarily transformed from canines with a delicious stab of pain.

Then, as the blood winds continued to kiss my face, a horrific vision exploded upon my mind with a blinding flash. The fighting had ceased and a wounded Yankee soldier lay sprawled out on his back in a large clearing. He had been paralyzed by his injuries and was unable to cry out, yet was very much alive and conscious. Scattered around him were other soldiers, both rebel and Union, some horribly disfigured, and still others crawling back toward their ranks, grimacing in agony. One confederate officer coughed up thick streams of blood as he desperately held together his abdomen. A gray haze of smoke from the thunderous cannon and rifle fire hung over them all.

Then it was gone as quickly as it came.

Selfishly, I envisioned myself caught up in a feeding frenzy, with stealth and graceful speed criss-crossing and dancing mischievously among a maze of ravaged limbs and torsos, draining the helpless wounded of both sides. Ah, but there would be no voracious feast, no matter how desperately I required it. The winds were from the northwest and I could not deviate from my course and jeopardize my greater quest.

I had been away from Atlanta for many months, prowling the Carolinas and the Virginia peninsula seeking adventure in the war-torn country. Yet, I had to quit my fiendish escapades when Sherman's advance into Georgia became a threat to my own home.

I had lost all confidence in the army of Tennessee, which was giving up ground as if there was no end to the Confederacy. Moreover, Sherman's reputation for devastation and plunder was quickly becoming notorious. If his army were to take Atlanta, which now seemed unavoidable, the king's ransom hidden within my lair would be vulnerable to their barbaric looting. And I would not stand for it. I would not have my lair raped by thieves!

So, there I was, brothers, descending the south side of the Appalachians, ahead of the Union army, in quest of liberating my fortune before my beloved Atlanta fell. What's more, I was sick from the thirst, for I had not fed in many nights and the fever and tedious muscle spasms that accompanied such a sustained fast had set in. And now this vision, the blood in these winds—I had to feed this night to maintain my composure and not let these mild symptoms escalate to madness.

I surveyed the sinking purple glow of the western horizon. Soon, I thought. Soon I would disappear over the sharp edge of the occidental skyline and across the Rocky Mountains, into the virgin territory of the west.

Strange, how isolated I felt at that moment. How alone I felt in these mountains.

I rode south toward Atlanta, the blood winds at my back. And as I did, time seemed to slow to a crawl. The sweet scent of the air became weaker, diluted by other perfumes of the wild night air, yet my thirst only worsened. Fits and chills raced under my skin like malicious demons at play. The muscle spasms became increasingly more violent and frequent; the bloody visions were sporadic and enticing. There were extraordinarily painful urges to turn back, to feed on those maimed and dying soldiers. But I would not; I would feed on my mare first. And I was not ready for that just yet.

Feverish, my mind wandering, I thought of my lair. It lay hidden beneath my estate and was of exceptional design. I had constructed the floor, walls, and ceiling of granite block. Two stone pillars stood on either side of the lair and supported the spacious ceiling while my coffin lay at one end atop a black Napoleonic escritoire. And like the ancient Egyptian pharaohs, my tomb was filled with treasure. Chests and crates, and even my former casket, were scattered about and stacked up against the walls, filled with gold and silver coinage and a variety of exquisite gems. Other receptacles overflowed with priceless bits of jewelry, various religious artifacts and other valuable trinkets I had amassed, as well as the paper scrip mortals were now using as currency. And draped among all these treasures were fabrics of fantastic colors, which, in the light of the candelabrum, added to the glow of the chamber.

It was as I ventured more southward into flatter, less treacherous terrain that I took the mare down an embankment of rock and pale dry earth in order to reach a body of water surrounded by a wealth of enormous trees. The lake stood calm and immaculate as the night sky: a smooth black tranquil gloss, shimming in the moonlight, reflecting the sparkle of the heavens. Not the smallest ripple of water could be seen under the night's radiance. One may have thought this inland sea a massive plate of polished onyx.

I dismounted and lead the mare to the water, where she hastily and most enthusiastically disrupted its calm to quench her thirst. I eyed her for a moment with an almost sibling envy. Then, feeling ridiculous for doing so, I turned away from the beast crouched down by the onyx lake and ran some of its cool water across my fevered brow, as I again took in the landscape.

An army of marvelous emerald peaks surrounded the black water like a titan guard. And spread out along the shoreline, reaching around the lake and creeping up upon me from both sides, was a multitude of flourishing growth, embellished with ripe red berries, brilliant white flowers, and tiny razor-sharp thorns. Fireflies danced in a lit circus just a few feet above the water, while crickets and other invisible creatures orchestrated their music. Overhead, the night sky was polished with a flawless dark sheen, which made the brilliance of the various constellations that more beautiful as they loomed overhead like tiny torchlights from Asgard. And there, in the eastern sky, was a large ivory sliver of moon, the rest of her rounded mass, shadowed but still visible against the ever-darkening rich blue canvas. And the air was mildly cool now, permeated with the soothing fragrances of the surrounding vegetation. It was all as if this wilderness were some sorceress's clever forgery of nature, overdone to perfection.

I should have reveled in this wondrous scene. It was if everything in the universe was in line for some spectacular event, like the birth of a king. Yet, all I felt was alone and sick from the gnawing thirst. But it was more than that, more than just a sense of solitude, an affliction beyond that of the miserable pains and fever of the thirst. It was loneliness, true loneliness.

Suddenly the muscles in my chest and limbs tensed with a sharp piercing pain, their blood vessels tightly constricting. I lost my balance and fell forward. My hands crashed into the black water and broke my fall as another flash vision of the battle forced its self upon me. It was as if I were right there amidst the carnage. Every tormenting image, every bloody cry—I saw and heard it all: the maddening angst clamor of the infantry, the great roar of hulking black cannon, the thundering hoofs of the calvry, and the gleam of a polished sword blade garnished in red-black Yankee blood.

An instant later the vision and pains dissipated. I knew they would soon return two- and fivefold, and I had all I was prepared to take.

Quickly I rose to my feet and turned on the mare, grasping the beast by the reins and the back of her mane. I took her down with one powerful move, the beast hitting the ground with a mammoth thud. Then, as my fangs emerged once more and I hovered over the mare, starring down at the superficial veins of the beast's neck, which protruded like great cables, I witnessed a tiny flickering glow of orange and yellow flame swiftly appear across the lake.

There were mortals here.

I felt a wide greedy smile quickly grow across my face as I glanced back down at the mare, grinning, as if she could comprehend my elation and her peculiar luck.

At once I doubled back into the dense woodlands and made my way around the onyx lake. When I was about parallel with the camp I left the mare safely secured and moved in on foot, silently and unseen.

From my position veiled by the edge of the forest, elevated perhaps fifteen feet on a sturdy oak branch, thirty, maybe forty feet back from their camp, I observed three rebel soldiers loitering by a fire.

I did not descend upon them right away. Yes, the thirst was strong now, but I was not yet at the point were I would fly down upon them like a crazed beast and make a hasty and sloppy kill. The fact that I had now found my prey had eased my anxiety enough to find the patience to play out the game.

With one hand firmly grasping the rough bark of the tree's trunk and the other clutching a slender branch slightly above and in front of me, I focused in on the rebel soldiers, my vampiric perception narrowing and strengthening. The rhythm of their blood crashing against the closed valves of the chambers of their hearts slowly seeped into my mind like the slow beat of tribal drums: lub dub, lud dub, lud dub, lud dub...

My fangs emerged and my mouth began to salivate.

Not yet, not yet.

"Damn officers! Why they all have to have such puny feet, I don't know," a large fat one blurted out as he struggled off one of his boots, leaning back against a large rock in front of the fire. He was filthy and his uniform was tattered, the yellow sergeant stripes on his coat sleeve losing their stitching. His big round face shone under a film of sweat and dirt. Moreover, he spoke with a brash demeanor commonly inherent in the most heinous of scoundrels.

I disliked him immediately.

"Well 'ol Boyce, you might do better to steal your next pair of shoes off a dead corporal rather than a major, then," said a much leaner man sitting on a rotted stump on the fat man's left.

"Russel, you show me a corporal who's issued such fine boots and I'll have 'em off his feet before he draws his last breath," Boyce responded, holding up one of the slain officer's boots. "Long as he's got bigger feet than my sister."

The thin man smiled.

"I don't doubt you," he said stroking his goatee with his fingertips. He was not as unkempt as the bulging sergeant and appeared much taller, even seated. He wore no coat and his red suspenders held tight his soiled, once white shirt, revealing little more than skin and bone.

"Hey boy, what's wrong with you now?" Boyce suddenly and coarsely addressed a third soldier who sat across the flames from him, hunched up against a log. His elbows rested on his knees and he sat face down and silent.

When the young soldier glanced up at Boyce, I immediately noticed how elegant his face was, not handsome like that of an older gentleman, but boyishly pretty with almost feminine features. His pale blue eyes rested above high cheekbones like delicate jewels, while his skin was unblemished and marvelously bronzed by the sun. His mouth revealed glimpses, here and there, of a progression of flawless brilliant teeth, enveloped by full lucious lips. And his disheveled golden blonde hair fell to shoulder length, adding to and framing his beauty.

The boy could not have been twenty, although he possessed a powerful frame that would be the envy of most mortal men. He was tall, six feet perhaps, and his broad shoulders complemented a Herculean chest and lean muscular arms.

Yet, this boy was not at all comfortable with his physical stature, for now his pale eyes were clearly intimidated by the hulking figure that now glared down at him through the flames. Desperately searching for some support, he shifted his eyes to the one called Russel.

"I think...I think we should go back."

The thin man quickly turned to Boyce, anticipating a violent response and completely abandoning the boy.

Boyce abruptly stood up and leaned over the flames.

"Go back? Go back! We'll if you're so keen to be hanged boy, Russel and I will string you up right here and save you the journey. You're a deserter now! You can't go back." The boy again dropped his gaze to the dirt between his feet.

"Maybe..." he began.

"Maybe nothing! They'd hang you, boy, as sure as I'm standing here. We're deserters!" Boyce fell back against his rock and gestured to the thin man. "Ain't that right, Russel?"

The boy peered up at Russel, who refused to meet his gaze and instead stared into the flames as he poked at its embers with a thin stick.

"They'd hang us" he said coolly, without Boyce's violent emotion.

Ah, I thought, so it was the blood of cowards that I was to feast on. Instantly I read the boy's thoughts and found that the desertion did not sit well with him. It had not from the beginning. He had a sense of duty and honor instilled in him that now wrestled with what he had done. It had been his youth and the sheer terror of the circumstances that had led him in that frantic instant to make the unwise decision to follow his despicable companions away from the battle. Now, here he sat before the flames of a campfire, a fugitive and a coward, and blistering in the heat of self-loathing.

The thought that he could never go home again was most prominent in his mind, and it disturbed him deeply. He was dead to all he ever knew now.

The events of the battle and desertion unfolded in much the same manner in the fat sergeant's mind, though there was no guilt or regret attached to the act. Rather, he was delighted he had survived the slaughter, and not just so he could die in the following day's combat. No, he had grand designs of prosperity, yet the job of killing and dying for that prosperity was best left up to others.

Deeper in his mind was a literal web of past deception and treachery. He had used, cheated, and stolen from the ones he called friends. Envy had led the fat man to slander and ruin the reputations of better, honest men. There were vivid memories of repeated ruthless molestations of a young cousin. And yes, even now he desired the boy soldier and awaited an opportunity.

Oh, this one was as cunning, cunning as Iago, but a coward just the same.

"Where...where we will go then?" the bony one cautiously asked Boyce after a long silence around the campfire. He too was at ease with abandoning the battle under that daring Union charge, which had collapsed their right flank and overrun their cannon. Yet, he was not as inherently menacing as Boyce. He was merely weak-minded, more sheep than man, nothing more than the fat man's lackey. And he would no doubt follow Boyce to the ends of the earth and commit any act he was told to along the way.

"Texas, by way of Louisiana."

"Texas is an arid loathsome wasteland!" I cried out from the growth, "—hotter than all Hell and home to the most wretched cutthroats and bone-snatching thieves!"

Alarmed, the men jumped to their feet; the fat man quickly produced an infantry rifle and blindly waved it at the edge of the titan guard shielding me.

"Who goes there?" he solicited the mammoth trees. "Show yourselves!"

The one called Russel stood tall, grasping a large stick carved to a sharp point at one end; the boy had retrieved a bayonet stuck in the log behind him.

"Lazarus Kalon, at your service, gentlemen" I greeted them, emerging from the foliage. The thin man shared a bewildered look with the boy, unsure whether to be threatened.

"You alone, mister?" Boyce demanded from behind the rifle, eyes burning. "Where's your mount?"

"Oh, yes, quite alone" I said walking forward into the light of the fire, a priceless and deadly poniard concealed within my coat sleeve. "And quite unarmed."

"Stand fast, mister."

Still the bewildered looks. How I must of appeared to them, like some strange plague carrier with my pale alabaster skin damp from fever, my long black tight curls resting on my shoulders, drawing out unnatural dark sapphire eyes.

"Where did you—"

All at once I advanced and with blinding speed my blade stroked the thin man's throat. Silently, his hands rose to the running wound. Then, before he could react—before the other had even dropped to the ground—I sank the blade deep into the hulking chest of the fat sergeant. He dropped his weapon and staggered backward, terror and amazement both in his eyes, a hollow faint sound, not quite a moan, passing his lips. I pounced at him, taking him to the ground and breaking open his throat.

"Devil!" I heard the boy scream. And with that I swiftly rose, turned round, and struck the charging soldier. He flew backward, clutching his bayonet in his right hand.

"Run, boy!" I screamed at him, my fangs bared and my mouth and chin a crimson beard, my eyes now wild and black. "Run for your life!"

The boy vanished into the trees. And for what seemed a long time I stared at the hole in the brush that he had escaped into, heard the last choking raspy breath struggle out of the thin man's face. Then I took after the boy.

I moved through the dense woodlands with the agility and silent pace of a great cat, leaping over fallen trees and the colossal rocks sheathed in moss, calling out to my prey.

"I'm coming, boy!"

I could not physically see the boy: the thicket was dark, with only the occasional sharp shard of moonlight breaking through the trees tops. However, his scent led me along his path excellently.

At a wide muddy ravine I finally caught sight of the boy. He had slid down one side, crossed and was now ascending the other, which was steep and caked in mud and leaves.

"Was it the carnage, boy?" I cried out from the other side of the ravine. "Was it the steel and thunder of the Union cavalry that had you run?"

The boy, appalled, hastened his climb, slipping once, then again, sliding back down several feet.

My eyes narrowed as I summoned my most taxing power and focused in on the patch of earth at the top of the ravine, which the boy was scrambling to reach. In a fleeting preternatural impulse I teleported myself to that very spot.

At once I reached into the ravine and grasped one of the boy's wrists. And as I did so, he looked up into my ebon eyes, expecting to see the face of his savior, and froze—horrified. And at that intimate moment, I hurled him up and over me, the boy soldier falling hard and awkwardly onto a mound of earth and rock some thirty feet behind me. Seriously wounded, he rose to his feet, slow and crudely.

"Who—what are you?" he screamed, blood seeping from his scalp and down his left temple and ear, his torso folded to his right and one arm tight against his rips.

"Why, I'm the Devil's servant," I said, smiling at him and stepping forward with my arms open, "here to collect the souls of cowards."

"No!" he cried. "You lie!" The boy quickly grasped a rock close to his feet and lunged at me, raising the rock high above his shoulder, then suddenly stumbling sideways and away from me, then back. His hand, clutching the stone, fell forward, striking nothing but air. At once I struck one powerful, vicious blow, driving him to the ground.

I dropped to my knees and seized the boy by his hair, pulling his head back so the skin of his neck was as tight as a drum. The cartilage of his larynx bobbed up and down in his throat as his eyes remained fixed on me, aghast. He was exhausted and did not resist. I smiled again, embracing him. Then, leaning over the boy, I whispered in his ear ever so softly.

"You are right, boy. I am no one's servant and you no coward; tonight you die well." Then there was a second that seemed to linger, I dare say for us both, in which nothing was said; neither of us struggled. And although he did not outwardly exhibit any expression of recognition, in his thoughts he knew himself wholly in that moment—that he did have valor—and was well for it.

My teeth broke the tight skin of his throat with a cool ease and the boy let out a short, tense cry as a warm steady flow of blood began to spill into my mouth. I felt his hands reach up and grasp my shoulders and try to push me away, but his strength was gone and I was not to be opposed.

In seconds all I could see was red—the blood-red curtain that cloaked my mind when I fed. It came on with fierce tenacity, like a wave of red paint crashing against my brain. I was oblivious to everything else around me. I was at my most vicious, untamed self, teetering on that fine line between ecstasy and madness; no doubt I would have horribly mutilated any creature that would have interfered then.

Then, as the warmth of boy's rich blood washed over my tongue and radiated throughout my flesh, a premonition—a voice of sorts—one which I had not heard in ages, emerged from the very core of my vampiric being: This one is special, give him the blood, turn him. Astonished, my mind was still ablaze and I continued to draw large mouthfuls of the boy's life force from his throat. Still the voice persisted, quickly demoralizing my intent. He is the one, turn him, turn him now.

Anxious and utterly bewildered, I immediately broke from the boy's throat.

Over the centuries there had been a number of companions, all perfectly gorgeous and vibrant immortals. Yet they had all eventually vexed me in one unforgivable way or another, and I had destroyed them. It seemed that I was an appalling judge of character when it came to granting the gift of immortality, and after the first handful of failures I became hesitant to make another again. And for an eternity I had not.

Now, with this young soldier before me, I was again tortured by this instinct that had for so long been dormant, that this mortal was somehow exceptional and must be granted the legacy of immortality. And oh, how I wanted to do it. Every fiber in my being said, he is unique, this one, turn him, give him the blood. Yet, was he?

I pulled the boy upright. He was conscious, pale, and clammy; the luster of his eyes had faded.

"Murderer! Murderer!" he screamed in my face, lost in a mad state of delirium. Then abruptly his chest heaved as he gasped for breath. His head fell backward as if dangling by a thread. His heart was racing, but the strength of the rhythm was fatiguing quickly. Blood still flowed from his throat.

I held him tight by the lapels of his jacket, pulled him close, and slipped passed his clouded eyes, infiltrating his mind, desperately searching for some clue to sway me. Yet I could detect nothing, nothing but that compelling voice: turn him, turn him now, quickly!

Would he be able to endure time and revel in it with me, or would time ruin him like the others? I so wanted to know. If only I had not been betrayed... What adventures we would have roaming the pages of history! Damn! Damn this foreboding all to hell! How could I trust myself now?

No, I suddenly realized, I could not do this thing. The timing—it was all wrong. Ahead of me I had the task of liberating my fortune, which was no small endeavor under the circumstances. And my move west—no. This was no time to have an inept, hungry immortal at my side. I could not chance it.

Again I seized the soldier by the hair, pulling his head back. He gave out a delicate moan and made a hurried, feeble attempt strike me with his right fist, but I quickly restrained the limb with my free hand and crushed his wrist. He whimpered ailingly—half dead. Then I was on him once more. Deeper into his throat I drove, rupturing the carotid artery. At once a violent surge of blood shot into my mouth, and again and again the violent surges came, becoming more and more rapid. The enticing voice was now silent, muted by the rapture of the red curtain. Then as I sensed the surges of blood starting to wane, I sunk into the opposite side of the boy's throat, bursting into fresh vessels. Desperately, I pulled the boy tightly against me as I tumbled backward onto the earth, the soldier atop of me. Supine, clutching the boy with an unyielding and compressing grip, I milked the last gush of the liquid ambrosia from him. Then, quickly as it began, the flow tapered to a slow seepage, and then stopped altogether.

Euphoric, I rolled upright onto my knees and let the limp corpse fall backward onto the small rocks and twigs blanketing the earth. The life of his flesh had vanished. He was now cold and gray as his uniform, save his lips, which were blue. Blood immersed his chest and his throat glistened in the lucid dome of the night, bejeweled in the wet slippery fluid. Some blood still trickled from the jagged tears of his wounds. His mouth was left slightly ajar and his eyes—his eyes remained open, dilated and frozen, locked in a haunting gaze. Curious how they still appeared fixed on me, as if the soul of the soldier had not yet fled its expired shell.

Then, without warning, as I stared at the boy's dead gaze, an overwhelming sense of dread came over me—that I had made a horrible mistake. The warmth of the euphoria quickly vanished as if it were never there. Immediately I felt weak, ravaged by the cold touch of despair. A burning sting quickly attacked my eyes and my vision blurred as the blood tears flooded into my orbits. I trembled violently as I stooped over the boy, striving to focus as I swept the blood from my caustic eyes.

What had I done? Slain the one who would be my eternal accomplice and companion?

Frantically, I tore into my left wrist, then pressed the bloody mass against the boy's azure lips, shuddering as I lifted the back of his head. But it was too late, his heart had stopped beating long ago, or so it seemed now. He would not take the immortal blood.

I roared at the sky, cradling the boy, still pressing my bleeding wrist to the corpse's mouth, now utterly blinded by my tears, my cries tearing through the woodlands.

For how long I wailed, hunched up over the boy, sobbing like a mortal child, I cannot say. I only regained my rationale and again took notice of my surroundings when my vampiric cells stirred within me, sensing the approaching dawn. Seek your lair, they urged, constricting the capillaries of my flesh. Instinctively, I looked to the sky and already felt the sense of urgency. The day's blue light was once again eating away at the black cloak of the night.

Seek your lair—dawn approaches.

I shivered, still vanquished by the ruthless lash of despair. He would have been an immortal of unprecedented caliber, an audacious chameleonlike vampire, able to persevere through the millennia with that uncanny certitude that only a select few of us in the world possess. I knew this now.

Miserable and anxious about the impending dawn, I feebly rose to my feet. The boy's blood as well as my own blood tears had dried upon my cheeks, lips, and chin, making my skin feel snug and too small for my face. The caustic sting still loitered in my eyes, though now my vision was clearing. My strength was restoring itself as well, streaming back into my flesh. And the wound on my wrist had nearly healed now, with little evidence that it was ever there.

Seek your lair—dawn approaches.

I eyed the boy for the last time. His body had now stiffened, his right knee and elbow bent flat upon the ground, his head unnaturally contorted, showcasing the wounds on his throat. Yet his facial features were entirely unscathed and he still appeared the beautiful young soldier that idled in guilt before the campfire not so long ago. Though now he was more statuelike: cold, gray, and unflinching, like Michelangelo's David.

Immediately I fled into the woodlands. There was little time left, and no time to be discriminating about a lair. I just wanted to escape this night, forget it all—sleep.

As I quickened my pace, moving deeper into the thicket, I could feel the boy soldier's dead eyes upon me. And I had unsettling prophetic sense that his frozen gaze would be lurking in my consciousness for centuries to come, haunting me long after the pale blue, almost gray eyes themselves had rotted away and turned to dust.

Back to top of page