Unnamed Journal Volume 3, Issue 1 - Page 22

Drunk Vampire Hunter coming, and a good puke sometimes helped clear the baffles on an enochthia binge. “ Okay, Bowdler,” said another voice “You’ve driven the goddamn goat into the desert. Now let’s figure out how the fuck we deal with this.” His voice sounded handsome, and when I was done wiping the semi absorbed liquor and spittle from my face, I could verify that he was. Handsome and chin-dimpled and everything I was not. I rather hated him but felt he might need deserve my attention. Which is to say, the flaming Arch of knotted knuckles that he was looking at, then rising screaming from the ground, rather deserved my attention. It looked like rock that was halfway between solid and magma, and it looked like it had come to awareness to know only pain. Which it probably had. Beasts of the Fire are like that - ashen souls that know only a few moments of perfect misery before oblivion takes them again. Either that or they all just wake up in poopy moods. “That’s a ….” I said, but the word would not come to me. “GORGOLEM!” They shouted, as the thing let loose a howl from beyond that seemed to split your very mind in two. “Right, that.” I said, quivering to the earth like a small child. I thought about throwing up again. It seemed the only useful thing to do. But somehow I had forgotten how. It was probably the screams of the Gorgolem, howling and smashing out of the helldoor with its wild limbs flailing in all directions at once. The brain can’t properly process things like that sober. Even the reptilian core that releases bowels at moments like this freezes up. Nothing is going in or out in such moments. Then again, the Hospitallers with their black crosses emblazoned on their slightly-darker-black combat gear were rushing to engage the thing, so this might just have been the pain of my hangover talking. Who knows. The screams inside my head matched the screams of their futile attempts to contain a nether-beast marked with earth, so let’s call it even. That I happened to rain my head and spot something between the lurid glow of the sky and the rank weedy blackness of the earth is something I shall never explain. But I saw it: a red L.L Bean jacket hiding amid the gravestones. This piqued my interest, as I had not recalled such earlier, and the Hospitallers did not wear that sort of thing. And sure enough, the L.L. Bean jacket moved. Because someone was wearing it. Someone who was watching the proceedings. Someone who began slinking away. There’s always a Renfield. I stood up amid the tiny apocalypse behind me, the unholy roar of the hell-beast and the bloody screams of men and I chased the sneak in the red jacket. I had no clear idea in my mind of what later became obvious - and indeed, should have been obvious then - but I locked into the fact that this was a Renfield, a vampire’s living familiar and slave, and who therefore knew something I did not know about what I had just stumbled onto. I needed to know what the Renfield knew more than I needed to help fight the Gorgolem. The Renfield had seen me, of course. That’s why the chase was happening. They’re fearful little rodents, Renfields are. But also, usually clumsy and ill-equipped for physical activity. Vampires usually choose the