Everyone Dies in the End #48

Ramzke

Blood coated the kitchen tiles still. The blood Ramzke had spilled. The soldiers’ blood, and the blood of Nathan, his brother. Not blood brother, not in the sense that Katarina was his sister, his true sister, but rather a brother vampire. There were so few of his kind that he felt as if each and every one were brother and sister. Of course not all of his kin felt that way. Coven still fought coven. Insane wars fought for territory, fought for honor. No doubt, some of his brethren were fools. It mattered not to them that vampires lived among humans, a species that killed his kind on sight, would hunt them to extermination, if they understood the reality of vampires’ existence. No, none of that seemed to matter to the more power hungry of his species; they would willingly kill their fellow vampire further their own agenda.

It had been but a handful of days since his battle with the soldiers, yet little remained except dried blood, scraps of the humans’ clothes, and shreds of flesh. He had buried Nathan, unwilling to allow the sun’s scorching rays to burn his corpse, and severed both soldier’s heads, not wanting them to rise again.  Scavengers had picked the soldier’s flesh, and the remaining blood coating the tiles was dried and useless. Nevertheless, it served a purpose. Vader’s men, his helpers—more like his guards, Ramzke thought, didn’t like the kitchen—too much blood, too much rotten flesh. Ramzke smiled, blood and flesh, rotten or otherwise, were part of the grand circle. Still, their reluctance gave him room to think, to think without the noise of their thoughts bombarding his brain.

Ramzke had hoped the girl would return to the farmhouse, he had sensed it, but it didn’t happen, or if it did, it no longer mattered. Ramzke was old, 480 years old to be precise. He had never traveled in time, or at least had only traveled forward, maintaining the same, leisurely pace as everyone else, but you learn a lot in almost five centuries. You learn that things exist outside of your realm of experience, and you feel things. Things like human’s thoughts, human’s emotions. Ramzke could feel a change. He could feel the lingering presence of the woman called Cindy. She had been here in this house, in the basement below, he knew it. He could still sense scraps of thought, feel shreds of emotion. Guilt, grief, longing, and resolve.

A resolve to help, but also a resolve to complete a journey, find a friend. But a journey to where? It was right on the edge of his thoughts, as the human’s would say, on the tip of his tongue. Abruptly he rose and ran down the steps to the basement. Two of the three guards slept on mats on the floor, the third sat in a corner, reading by candlelight. He jumped to his feet when Ramzke rushed into the room.

“Wha…” the human began.

“Out,” Ramzke shouted. “Get them out.”

Now the two sleepers were waking, grabbing their weapons. Ramzke ignored them, speaking to the reader. “Get out of this room.” He made himself slow down. “Get those two,” he pointed at the two rising guards, “and wait outside, I need to be alone.” The reader nodded, eyes wide with fear.

He looked at the other two guards, “You heard him,” he hooked his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to the stairs, “Now!”

Ramzke watched as the three stumbled up the dark stairs. He walked to the corner of the room, blew out the reader’s candle, and sat in his chair. He was still, very still. Not so much concentrating as he was absorbing, accepting what the room offered, feeling its history, searching through its fabric for one thread. He could sense the stories; a fight between the farmer and his wife, children at play, hiding from each other, the entrance of himself, Nathan, and the girl, Cindy, her escape.

“Right here, she had been right here,” Ramzke whispered. He allowed that frustration to pass, he understood her abilities, knew how she had hidden from him. That no longer mattered, what he wanted was some trace of what she wanted, where she was going. He could feel her fear as she sat bound those many nights ago, but also something else. A hope, a desire. A man’s face, and a place. A place she must go to find him. The weave of stories had thinned to one thread, Cindy’s thread, Cindy’s purpose, and then he knew, knew as surely as he knew himself.

Calmly he rose, and walked the steps.

The guards were waiting outside. Each looked at him expectantly.

“Load the truck,” Ramzke said.

“Where are we headed?” queried the reader.

            “To get the girl,” Ramzke replied.