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dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night · 1 year

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Our Man Flint

TW: vampyrs, blood, various weapons (no firearms), Christianity, bugs, attempted murder, traditional methods of slaying a vampyr, brief manhandling, captivity, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

Note: The word vampyr is simply an archaic spelling of the modern vampire. This story utilizes traditional Slavic folklore, largely ignoring Hollywood inventions. Although I do throw in my own ideas as well.

Flint eagerly traversed the steep hillside road leading to an abandoned castle, where gossips swore up and down vampyrs resided. The recently concocted rumors, fuelled by illness and death in the small town bellow, itched to be proven.

To Flint, the idea of undead nocturnal creatures feasting on the life blood of humans seemed far more compelling than simple fever and hysteria.

Flint's bag hung heavy on his back, the leather strap digging into his left shoulder. Hawthorn stakes, cloves of garlic, silver blades, and bottles of holy water weighed him down far more than seemed possible.

Or perhaps the objects themselves simply combined with his second thoughts to slow his pace.

A lock of black hair fell over his face, jostled by his swift pace. He swept it behind his ear.

Grass had long since reclaimed large portions of the road. The late summer sun parched the earth and bleached the plants to sickly shades of yellow.

The incline grew, as did Flint's excitement. He was finally facing his first chance to win back the faded glory from his first slaying of a vampyr.

He had intended for it to be his only attempt at the gruesome sport, a simple bid of necessity in a dark time. But the glory had proven a potent drug to which he had quickly become addicted.

His fellow townsfolk had sung his praises like canaries saved from the cat. His family had bragged of his courage to all who would listen. Strangers had hung on every exaggerated word of his tale.

But time faded glory, as it did all things, and Flint needed to continue with his sport to stay under the spotlight.

He couldn't bear the horror of surviving a failure. Being slaughtered by a demon seemed a much better fate than admitting to folly or cowardice.

So, he told no one where he was going and took off at high noon, determined to come back with the head of a vampyr, or excuses for his absence and a few pleasant words on the walk he had taken.

The bright golden sun crept lower in the sky, far past noon, leaving few hours for Flint's quest.

He eventually came upon the front door, a monolithic thing of rotted wood and rusted iron hinges. It reeked of decay and the many bugs living within its heart wood.

Flint nearly threw out his back forcing it open, the hinges screeching from the pain of use.

Any vampyr would be fast asleep, and any other form of inhabitant seemed incredulous, so Flint made no effort to stay quiet as he set off exploring.

Webs stretched from wall to wall, playing host to spiders, swollen from feasting on flies and maggots. Bugs writhed in the webs serving as their death row prison cell, awaiting execution.

Dust coated the ground, jumping up with Flint's every footstep. He coughed and spluttered, trying to clear his lungs. He had never been a smoker, and the sensation of his lungs being filled with foreign elements proved unbearable.

Tattered moth eaten tapestries hung from the walls, or laid limply on the floor, long since fallen from their rusted nails. Their bleached colors betrayed no original design or intention.

Flint had no idea as to what conditions vampyr's prefered. This crumbling castle could very well be a perfect condition for the more civilized sort. He had exhumed his only prior traget from a graveyard, where it laid in a coffin buried six feet under. Rather shabby, when compared to a fortress of stone.

A door caught Flint's attention. The wood looked oddly smooth and glossy, kept free of decay. He twisted the gleaming doorknob. It slid open on its hinges with nary a creak.

The opened corridor was lit by torchlight. Unusual, for any nocturnal creature to want for light or fire. But Flint didn't question the suspicious blessing, instead scanning the corridor for any hints as to its upkeep.

Every door and closed window shutter was fashioned from polished rose wood. Rugs covered the ground, their dark black color concealing any stain of blood which could mar them.

Bugs camped out in corners and crevices, but the webs were far less prolific. They seemed to have been cleared out with the dust and grime.

Flint clutched the crucifix hanging from his throat. He knew it ought to grant him spiritual support, but all he felt was the cold kiss of metal against his palm.

He stopped, entranced by the grotesque classical paintings hanging from the walls.

Glorious battles, religious scenes, and disgusting murders hung side by side with no distinction between them made through positioning.

Some were near pornographic, showing beautiful nude bodies writhing in the flames of hell or brutalized men in ruined clothing revealing far too much flesh.

Flint tore his eyes away. His heart beat frantically, threatening to push through its cage and spill his crimson life blood onto the black wool carpet.

After a few minutes of deep breathing, his heart returned to its proper pace, keeping him well and truly alive.

On an impulse, Flint chose the third door from the entrance to search first. Very little light poured into the room from the open doorway, but after taking a moment for his eyes to adjust, he could just make out its interior.

His heart settled in his stomach, like the body of a child weighed down with stones drowning in a deep well.

On the lefthand side of the room, a pale casket laid, carved from birch or beechwood. Painted patterns of flowers and leaves adorned its tan sides.

On the righthand side of the room, a dark casket blended with the shadows, fashioned from ebony, unblemished by paint nor varnish.

Flint crossed himself.

Then, when no sense of protection nor blessing overcame him, he did it again.

If anything, he felt more chilled than before.

He sighed and dropped his bag on the floor. Jumping at the clatter, he quickly scanned the caskets, listening for any hint of movement from their occupants.

But, of course, there was no movement. It would take a noise much greater than his bag tumbling to the ground to wake the dead.

After assessing both caskets, he decided to open the one of pale wood, revealing a man laid to rest inside.

A thrill ran up Flint's spine as he took in the vampyr's appearance. So youthful, as though a corpse bloated on embalming fluids, kept young by the work of a mortician having no idea as to their unholiness of their work.

Long blonde hair laid smoothly over the vampyr's shoulders, well combed and perfectly clean. Tight leather clothing and strange piercings gave the body a look far too human for Flint's taste. From his limited experience, he prefered vampyrs dressed in burial shrouds fit for the dead.

He didn't bother looking in the ebony casket. Whatever was laid to rest inside could wait until its brethren had been dealt with.

The sharpened hawthorn stake and stone headed hammer fit well in Flint's hand.

Placing the point directly over the vampyr's heart and bracing the hammer over the spike came naturally to him.

This was in spite of the unnatural being of the vampyr, a demon formed of human flesh, feeding on human blood to retain its eternal, ethereal youth.

An unholy mockery to all things faithful.

The killing of a vampyr was a disgusting act. The horrid crack of breaking ribs, great spurts of crimson blood coating both the vampyr and its hunter, and the terrible screams all combined to create an act more gruesome than the murder of a human could be.

Flint hadn't expected screaming on his first hunt, and the sound had made his blood run rancid. The only comforting aspect of the following decapitation had been the noise ceasing.

Flint braced himself.

One heavy blow of the hammer sent the spike through the vampyr's rib cage.

Flint's grasp nearly slipped from the blood slicked stake and hammer, but he tightened his grip and continued.

Another blow drove it into the thing's slowly beating heart.

The shrieking proved worse than Flint's memories had forewarned him, perhaps due to the closed quarters. Nothing earthly could compare. Not the anguish of any battlefield, nor the screams forged by tortured prisoners.

One final blow nailed the vampyr to the earth of its casket, despite its agonized thrashing.

Flint swiftly riffled through his bag for his silver dagger, loudly cursing himself for forgetting to pull it out prior to the attempted slaying.

The lid of the ebony casket openen, its owner awakened by the sound of its companion's pain.

Flint dropped his bag and made his break for the door. Despite his overconfidence in matters of vampyr hunting, he wasn't owned by the folly necessary to face a conscious vampyr.

The awakened vampyr ignored its prey in favor of aiding its companion. Flint accepted this as miraculous and slammed the wood door closed behind him.

The screaming suddenly cut off as the vampyr freed the stake and its companion.

Flint sprinted down the corridor, desperately trying to remember the path to the front door. He turned sharply at a fork, choked by a cloud of dust kicked up by his frantic pace.

The daylight outside would be his salvation, if he could only make it through the front door.

A cold hand gripped the back of his neck, as though a mother cat seizing her kit.

"And where do you think you're going?" a low voice hissed in his ear.

"Let go of me," Flint ordered shrilly.

He kicked backward at the vampyr, twisting to escape its grasp.

When this proved fruitless, he pulled his legs up in an attempt to force the vampyr to drop him, thrashing wildly.

His efforts were met with harsh laughter and sharp nails gripping his throat.

He put his feet firmly back on the ground, as not to seem so pathetic.

"What do you want?" Flint asked, knowing damn well what the answer would be.

"Depends what Ambrose thinks of your little stunt when he awakens tonight. He's recovering now, hence why I was the one to catch you."

"I've killed your kind before. I'm not fucking afraid of you." Flint's voice in its terrible high pitch betrayed his lie.

The vampyr laughed again, out of some sadistic sense of amusement.

Inspiration struck Flint. He pulled the crucifix from under his shirt collar in a desperate attempt to ward off the demon intent on preying on his life blood.

The vampyr swiftly took ahold of the silver chain, yanking it from Flint's neck with a snap of metal.

It hissed at the burns blooming on its hand, and cast the weapon aside, where it hit the wall and feel limply to the ground.

"I really don't appreciate that," the vampyr said, in a mocking tone meant to conceal its pain.

It dragged Flint down the hall, its claws digging into his neck.

A warm trickle of blood ran under Flint's collar.

Flint tried to support his own weight as he was pulled down a stone staircase, but stumbled trying to match the vampyr's pace.

The vampyr gave its prey's struggling no heed, other than a few sighs of annoyance, which were perhaps invented by Flint's own mind.

"Where are you taking me?" Flint demanded.

His captor ignored his useless questioning, instead yanking a door open. It shoved Flint inside, knocking him the ground with remarkable ease.

"We will deal with you when Ambrose has recovered," it said. "Try to escape, and see where it gets you."

It stormed out and slammed the door, before locking it with a key kept in the pocket of its cloak.

Flint rose to his feet, seething. How could he have been so stupid?

Of course that was the point of the screaming, to attract any vampyric allies. There simply hadn't been anyone to answer the call of the first vampyr he had slain, and he had a folly riddled habit of not questioning things which did not pique his interest.

He was trapped in a vampyr's stronghold, destined to meet some gorey fate at the hands of his would-be victims.

Faced with the actual possibility of it occurring, Flint no longer found the prospect of an honorable heroic death at the clawed hands of a vampyr anywhere near as desirable.

Heroism always seemed that way. Perfectly beautiful from an outside perspective, but bloody and impractical from the inside.

Flint leaned against the wall, trying not to breathe in any dust. The filthy rats and creeping bugs were hard to ignore, but Flint wasn't going to show his squeamishness. Not when his captor could be listening.

If he could make it through tonight, he would escape come the following dawn. He had nothing to do but wait.

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