MicroHorror

My senses inform me the extermination is almost complete. I have hunted down and destroyed nearly all the vampires on Earth. There is only one left, the big boy, the king of vampires. And he is close by. Really close.

The years have blurred together and I have long ago lost count of the number of vampires I have killed by various methods–stakes through the heart, exposure to sunlight, holy water baths, dismemberment, burning. What a gory undertaking it was, because contrary to the lies perpetrated by movies vampires don’t simply crumble into dust when they die. They die noisy. They die ugly. And no matter the overwhelming pain they happen to be in when a splintered wooden stake is pounded through their cold heart the only emotion that shows is rage, a terrifying primal rage that shakes you to your core.

But no more of that. Only one is left: me. Now I can start anew. I will raise my own army of the undead, a loyal army obedient only to me, the King of the Vampires.

Blakemoor turned at the sound of the door opening and closing. He tried to sound jovial. “How many tonight? Eh?”

Rakefield rubbed a crick out of his neck. “Two.”

Blakemoor was puzzled. “Only two?”

“Only two. Almost three.”

“Almost?”

“Almost. Well, maybe it was three after all.”

“What? You feeling all right, Rake? Coming down with a cold, maybe? This past week you’ve been averaging four point five a night. Now tonight you come back after two, or was it three?”

“Four point five. I wonder what point five of a vampire looks like?” He sat down heavily in the overstuffed armchair before the fire, hypnotized by the dancing flames.

Blakemoor shook his head with obvious disappointment. “Two,” he grumbled. “No, no. Maybe three.” His head wagged in disapproval as he turned to fix Rakefield a drink to chase away the chill and perhaps lift his spirits.

His shriek pierced the night as two inch-long fangs sank into his neck seeking and finding the left carotid artery. Blakemoor was overcome with pain and fear and tried to twist free but Rakefield held him impossibly tight.

A minute later the wet lips peeled back and the fangs pulled free, allowing the twin crimson streams to splash noisily on the rough wooden floor. Through Blakemoor’s screaming Rakefield whispered into his ear, “That third one got a piece of me, turned me, before I killed him. Funny thing, I felt sad afterwards. Like I’d killed my brother. You see, now I understand. And you, my friend, will understand. But I must hurry. It will be dawn soon.”

Rakefield sucked hungrily on the wrecked artery. Blakemoor screamed.