Volume 5 Number 3 | MYTHOLOG | Summer 2007 |
He moved through the night like a shadow. Unseen, unheard. His
black clothing helped him blend in with the darkness. The night had a
voice,and he listened to it whispering all of its sinister secrets.
The monsters were on the prowl tonight, stalking the unsuspecting,
feasting on the weak and vulnerable. Hunters in search of prey. Only
tonight the hunters were being hunted, even if they didn't yet know it.
He had a name, but his name wasn't important. He was a Warrior,
dedicated to battling the monsters and sending them back to whatever
hell they had crawled out of. It was his duty, and he would not fail.
The night was the dominion of the monsters. By necessity, he had become
a creature of the night as well. He slept through the daylight
hours,rising at nightfall to hunt the monsters and destroy them. As
long as they haunted the night in search of innocent blood, he would
never rest.
He came armed with all the weapons he would need. Crosses, garlic, holy
water, stakes whittled to lethal points. The tools of his trade, the
accoutrements of a true Warrior. He nightly put his own life in
jeopardy for the sake of others, but he considered himself no hero. He
was merely doing what had to be done. He had to take a stand to stave
off the wave of darkness that threatened to overtake the world.
Even now, as he crouched behind a copse of shrubbery, scanning the
deserted park, one of the monsters approached, shambling down the
bicycle path. It did not notice him, the blood-lust in its eyes
blinding it to his presence. Saliva dripped from its glistening fangs,
and its eyes burned the dull red of smoldering coals. It was an
abomination, an animated corpse driven by unholy fury, its only
instinct to maim and kill. But he was ready for it.
He waited until the monster was only a foot away, its ghostly pale skin
highlighted by a nearby street lamp, then he pounced. He moved quickly,
his movements fluid and graceful. Grabbing the monster around the neck,
he pulled it to the ground and straddled it, pinning it down with his
body. The monster had once been female, perhaps even beautiful, but its
features had been twisted and deformed into an inhuman mask of rage and
hatred. It hissed and clawed at him, trying to dislodge him and
attempting to squirm free. At one point, he thought he was going to
lose the struggle and be toppled, leaving himself vulnerable to
attack,but then he kneed the monster in the pelvis, temporarily
subduing it,and made his move. He pulled his stake, a baseball bat
carved into a wicked spike, and went in for the kill.
It wasn't as effortless as it was in the movies and on silly television
shows like Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The stake
didn't slide in smoothly like a knife through butter, easily finding
the heart. The breastbone was a tough shell to penetrate, but he had
spent years developing his arm muscles,accumulating the necessary
upper-body strength to get the job done. Still, it took more than one
strike. He had to thrust the stake repeatedly into the monster's chest
before finally breaching the bone and plunging the wood into its heart.
The monster stopped moving, the smoldering-ember glow dying from its
eyes. Another victory, another monster destroyed before it could harm
anyone else.
An unearthly screaming filled the air, and he looked up to find several
monsters rushing him. Had he allowed himself to be led into a trap?
They were encircling him, spitting curses at him, cutting off all means
of escape. He took a vial of holy water and tossed it at a few of
them,hoping to open enough of a gap to slip through, but the water had
no effect on them. Was this a new, stronger breed?
His stake was still embedded in the dead monster's chest. He grabbed
it, placing afoot on the monster's head, and yanked the weapon free. He
lunged for the nearest of his attackers, but several hands grabbed him.
He tried to reach the cross he wore around his neck, but they shackled
his hands behind him, dragging him toward one of their hellish
chariots, all screaming sirens and flashing lights. He struggled
valiantly, but there were too many of them, and he was afraid his fight
had finally come to an end.
BIO: Mark Allan Gunnells is thirty-two years old and holds a degree in English and psychology. He has sold over fifty of his short stories to various markets. A small town boy at heart, he still lives in his hometown of Gaffney, SC, with his lover of five years.