II

A warm woman pumped her hips up and down on top of Herod. Slick muscles clenched his manhood. He lunged at her bouncing tits, catching one with his mouth and biting the nipple.

"Greg, you're...ah, that's...! It hurts, Greg! It hu-- "

Herod woke up and, for the first time since the accident, sat up in bed. It seemed as if a prankster had invaded the control room to his brain and was cranking each sensory dial to the maximum. He was alive and ravenously horny. A twitching erection pitched a miniature tent with the thin bed sheet. Hair on Herod's arm stood on end around an IV tube. Cold sweat beaded off gooseflesh.

His senses were ablaze: he could taste the salty saline drip-drip-dripping into his veins, smell the chlorine of the solution used on the floor, and hear the steady hum of the lights outside of his room. More than anything, though, he felt a sledgehammer of a migraine. It was a bad hangover multiplied by ten.

Clutching his forehead, Herod checked his surroundings, his sight vibrating with every pulse of his headache. He was in some sort of hospital, though not a civilian one. The door resembled a bank vault’s. Otherwise, his room was plain: green walls with a small, wooden end table and a steel-framed bed. The midday sun squeezed through the curtains on a nearby window. Thick, iron bars underneath the curtains prevented him from escaping.

Herod stretched for the center of the curtains and, with a feeble grip, pulled them aside. A supernova of light seared his eyes and a hiss escaped his mouth. He swiftly drew the curtains shut and scrunched his searing eyes.

The dream woman's voice returned. Was she howling in pleasure or pain? Her voice was like that bird’s, Nancy-- or was it Nicki, from Liverpool. He’d connived her into a one night stand during R&R, claiming he was shoving off in the morning. No guarantee he'd come back in one piece. A stupid proposition for an even stupider bird. He couldn’t believe she actually went in for it.

But he really did shove off the next morning and he really didn’t come back in one piece, thanks to that cocksucker of a parachute, so the joke was on him. All the king's horses and all the king's men… had they really put him back together again? Herod clenched his fists. Couldn’t do that before. He wiggled his toes. Everything moved as if the accident never happened.

Hesitant, he stuck his thumb into his mouth. Deadly sharp canines pricked it. The familiar, metallic taste of blood had been replaced by a tart, yet sweet taste not unlike wine. Before long, Herod found himself sucking on his thumb like an infant. There was no mistaking it now, he was a bloodsucker.

As the anesthetic-induced grogginess wore off, Herod recalled the little poindexter, Frank Murnau, who had come to his bedside in the Air Force infirmary offering the chance at a new life. Herod had overheard whispers of the V-Program, a scandalous operation by the Allied governments. It turned cripples into vampiric soldiers to fight the krauts. Life as a lab bat for the suits. He'd never met someone he wanted to sock in the face so bad as Murnau. He was preying on Herod at the lowest point in his life.

Nevertheless, the rotten pencil pusher had pushed his pencil into Greg's mouth. When he scribbled his chicken scratch name on the dotted line, he knew instantly he’d put himself at science's mercy. He was their bitch.

To his left on the end table, lay a leaflet with the national coat of arms stamped on it. Herod reached for it.

HITLER TIGHTENING HIS GRIP ON EUROPE. BRITAIN NEEDS YOU!

A second world war is upon us. Obsessed with eugenics, Adolf Hitler intends to create a German master race. Under him, the Wehrmacht cleanses their lands of any peoples they deem "impure" and mobilizes their forces for an all-out assault on the free world. Can we allow him onto our sovereign shores? Shall we invite him to raid our cities and slaughter our citizens? NO! We will become that which frightens him! We will fight back, even at the cost of our own humanity!

The V-Program salutes you, loyal soldier, for your great sacrifice in this desperate hour.

Director of His Majesty’s Vampiric Division, Staff Sergeant Francis Murnau

What was this supposed to be? Motivation? Herod flipped the paper aside, but to his disappointment, it floated gently to the floor. He licked his lips and considered the arduous task of getting out of bed. The main deterrent to standing was not his legs, but his migraine. Still recovering from the trauma of seeing the sun for the first time, his eyes watered. Every photon of light was a dagger. Even small movements threw him like a ride on a roller-coaster. The urge to vomit crept up his esophagus, but Herod held it down and swung his feet across the bed. He was more hesitant to drop from it’s edge than from an airplane at 3000 meters.