Everyone Dies in the End #10 (Part 2)

Ramzke

It didn’t work out that way. The first night they had tried. The guards had relaxed, or seemed to, playing cards in the corner of the cavernous mess hall where the vampires were kept. Thedorus attacked, leaping on an unwary guard who was more concerned with a paper-back book than the vampires. In a flash, he had ripped the man’s head from his shoulders. Yet before Thedorus dropped the dripping orb of bone and brains, a boom rocked the chamber and Thedorus collapsed, dark, black blood spilling from the cavity that had once been his face. The remaining guards leapt to their feet, leveling their guns at the vampires, and a sniper, long-barreled rifle casually cradled in his arms, appeared from a dark corner of the mess hall. The captain of the guards—a short, bushy-haired man, spoke, “Try it again and we’ll kill two.”

Ramzke’s clan didn’t commit that particular transgression again, but old habits die hard.

The following night Vinnie and Stephen went on a job for their new boss. Against Stephen’s advice, Vinnie, the younger, killed and drank blood. The two returned and reported to Vader in the Cathedral, of course leaving out the part about the killing. After his report, the woman leaned close to Vader, eyes never leaving the two vampires, a smile playing across her sensual lips. The two exchanged a whisper.

Vader dismissed Stephen with a smile, handing him the key to the pen. “Good work, Stephen, drink your fill. I’ve been told that there are several fat ones.”

Stephen took the key without expression. When he was gone, Vader spoke to the other. “I said no hunting. Wasn’t I clear?”

Vinnie was brash enough to throw the words back at Vader, stupid enough to miss the danger hanging like an unspoken thought. “I can’t remember,” he replied. His leer making it obvious that he did, in fact, remember.

Vader placed his elbows on his knees, and steepled his fingers, the face unseen behind the plastic helmet. “Mbande, perhaps you could talk to,” Vader paused, “I’m sorry, what is your name?”  

Ramzke saw Vinnie’s mouth move, but no sound came out. Vinnie was looking at the woman. So her name is Mbande, thought Ramzke. She smiled and the irises churned feverishly, gold, brown and yellow flecks flashing in a sea of blue. Ramzke saw death in that sea, a death by drowning, a death of insufferable pressure, unbearable pain, a death he willingly accepted, a death…No!.. Ramzke tore his eyes from the woman. He knew how to project thoughts, four hundred years taught one how to read another, how to use portion of one’s mind which previously lay dormant. Given time, or given surprise, Ramzke could control another’s mind, but what he was capable of was child’s play when compared to this woman. She didn’t control, she owned. It took all Ramzke’s will to turn his face away, banish the thoughts of death from his mind. Stephen wasn’t so lucky.

In his mind he saw the woman approach Vinnie. It was as if she was playing the scene for him, playing it for his enjoyment. No, but it wasn’t for his enjoyment, it was for his instruction, his lesson. As if hovering above the gilded throne, Ramzke saw her walk—perhaps float would be a better word—to Vinnie. Vinnie stood, mouth furiously working, like a fish out of water.

Mbande glided from Vader’s side to Vinnie’s. Gently she reached for his face, caressing his cheek with one hand, while the other pulled the scimitar from the scabbard. The curved sword hissed. Vinnie seemed not to notice. He was calm now, consumed with the black woman and the hand on his face. Gently she placed a kiss on his lips. A lingering kiss, then she stepped back.

Run screamed a voice in Ramzke’s head, but he was as powerless to speak as Vinnie was to move. With detached curiosity Ramzke saw himself standing behind Vinnie, an idiot’s smile on his face. The woman stepped back, raising the scimitar with both hands. Ramzke cared only for the delicious curve of her mouth. Vinnie smiled.

Mbande spun, the scimitar whistled, and Ramzke noted that Vinnie’s blood sprayed brightly across his own body, as well as the woman’s loose-cut dress, but he didn’t care, the woman’s arms were magnificent, beautiful, slim, yet strong.  The thing that was Vinnie fell to the floor, the suggestion of a smile tugging the lips of his detached skull.

Ramzke blinked and the woman was again at Vader’s side, unconcerned with the blood on her dress, her face, and her lips. He blinked again, and he returned to his own body. She allowed me to return, he thought, but that didn’t matter now. On the floor lay Vinnie’s beheaded corpse. Rage filled him. Or perhaps Mbande is filling your mind with the rage, whispered a faint voice. He charged.

Charged fast, blurringly fast. It was a speed that should have, would have, disoriented his prey. A normal prey. But Vader wasn’t normal, at least not normal in the sense of the hapless prey on which Ramzke was accustomed to feeding. Ramzke was a blur, and then he was by Vader’s side, and then Mbande’s scimitar was under his chin, the cold blade final, uncompromising, and focusing. Vader spoke one word, “Don’t.”

Ramzke wasn’t sure if the command was directed at him or Mbande, but  nevertheless he stopped, his eyes flicking to Vader’s men, who now stood, weapons aimed at Ramzke and the four remaining vampires of his clan. Worse still Ramzke knew that they weren’t the only weapons, the hidden snipers, snipers like the one who had turned Thedorus into a headless corpse, would also have their weapons trained. And what else? His gaze shifted, unwillingly shifted to that beautiful, copper-brown face, inches from his own, blood spots like beauty marks on the lips, the swirling irises calling him. Calling him to death. She held his gaze, and Vader leaned close. Ramzke could smell his breath, clean, sweet, as if he had brushed his teeth just for the occasion. The voice was anything but.

“You think you’re bad,” hissed Vader.  “You think sucking blood makes you a monster, makes you bad? You don’t know bad, you aren’t even in the same ball park as bad. Hell, Count Dracula, you aren’t even in the same city that the bad ballpark was built.”

Vader stepped back, smiling. “Now, me and my men, we’re bad. Bad enough to kill you and your clan right now. We were just fine before the apocalypse, before we found you, and we’ll be just fine without you. When we found you there were eight. Now there are five.” Vader paused, the silence filling the mess hall. Whether the pause was for effect or a genuine moment of consideration, Ramzke didn’t know.

“Let me review the terms of our alliance. They are really quit simple. We work together or you and the members of your clan die. Is that clear?”

Ramzke could not have nodded if he had wished. Mbande’s sword was hard against the underside of his jaw. Nodding would have sent it into his jaw. His eyes blazed red, blazed furious, but Ramzke knew it was an impotent fury, and the thought only further fueled the fire. There was no choice, there was only one word to utter.

“Yes.” The world dripped from his mouth like spit. “It’s clear.”

“Mbande?” Vader questioned the woman.

Ramzke’s eyes flitted to her face. Flitted despite his will. Her eyes swirled, the lips were parted slightly, one drop of blood ran down her cheek. He had never wanted anything more in his life. And then she was gone. One beat of his heart she had been next to him, the part of the scimitar hard against throat, irises swirling, lips inviting. The next she stood next to Vader, sword sheathed. She spoke.

“He lies,” her voice was as rich as her copper skin, husky, yet entirely feminine, the accent Caribbean, or maybe African.  “He will kill you the first chance he gets.”

Vader laughed, the sound scratchy and loud, amplified by the helmet’s cheap, toy store, speakers. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, but that isn’t a lie, Mbande. The bloodsucker Ramzke didn’t say he wouldn’t kill me, but merely that he understood our deal. That’s good enough for me.”

Mbande nodded, the smile returned to her face.

Vader sat. “Guys, lower the guns. We have a deal here, a real deal.”

That was weeks ago. Now Ramzke once again stood in front of the chair, his loathing for the helmeted man raising the hair on the back of his neck, his desire for the coffee-skinned Mbande stirring his pale flesh.

“Yes?” questioned Vader. “Where is she?”

Ramzke took a deep breath. “She…” he hesitated… not afraid, he didn’t know fear, but certainly wary. “She escaped.”