IV

Herod stood before a phony platoon of cartoon-ish Nazi targets printed on particle board. An American, Thompson submachine dangled from his shoulder; a sleek, little bullet hose. The Yanks weren't good for much, but boy, did they know firearms. While paralyzed, Herod had missed the thrill of carrying a gun, let alone as fine of a tool as a Tommy gun. However, ruining the moment were countless camouflaged wankers surrounding the training course. Wankers who would blow his ass away if he decided to run, or get creative with his new toy.

He imagined taking his Tommy and mowing down the entire lot of them. They'd sure be a lot more fun to shoot at than a bunch of cut-outs. He'd have to give his gun a name; one much better than ‘V-Unit 17’.

With his acute hearing, the calls of the denizens of the snowy woods seemed endless. The sweet aroma of blood drifted in from every direction. The soldiers smelled far more delectable than the critters. Herod hoped for the doctors’ sake that more blood bags waited for him back at the compound. Otherwise, he might just have to ambush a straggling soldier or two to satisfy his quickly growing appetite.

It was dark out in the middle of God-knows-where, England, but to Herod, the forest was vividly detailed. His vista had broadened the moment he stepped outside the facility into the cold, night air. This was a vampire’s domain.

The square-headed, square-mustached king of the wankers, Drill Sergeant Oswald, stood behind Herod atop a grassy hill, overseeing the exercise.

“Unit 17, you have exactly 30 seconds!” Oswald shouted, agonizing Herod’s eardrums. “At my mark, you will enter the obstacle course and commence firing! All targets must be destroyed before time is stopped! Understood?”

“Yessir!”

“Put on your protective gear and get to the starting area! Move out!”

Herod plugged his ears with the yellow bastards with pleasure and strapped the flash-resistant goggles over his face on the way to the course.

Oswald signaled for Herod to begin the exercise and started his stopwatch. Herod envisioned Oswald's dopey, fat face on the nearest Nazi. He exploded over the wall of sandbags and launched his fist into the wooden Gerry's cheek, twisting its head an almost perfect 360 degrees. It dangled backwards, hanging by a few neck splinters.

After months of shitting in bedpans and being spoon fed by butt-ugly nurses, Herod grinned through every moment, sprinting and leaping through the course. Even if tonight was another stupid boot drill, being outside and using all of his agility made him warm and fuzzy on the inside.

He bounded into the faux bunker's doorway spraying. The sight of the Thompson was unnecessary for him. Firing from the hip, the gun felt like an extension of his index fingers. As easy as he could point to the three targets, Herod blasted them with each with dozens of rounds.

Behind the bunker, foxholes full of wooden Gerrys pointed their oversized rifles his way. Herod adopted a full on berserker tactic, emptying his entire clip. When the magazine was dry, he balled up his fists and smashed the remaining cut-outs.

Oswald covered his mouth and whispered into his comm. radio. Herod didn’t realize the loudmouth cunt was even capable of whispering. "HQ, this is Sergeant Oswald. Results of V-Unit Seven's marksmanship test are exceptional."

Wearing a smug grin, Herod marched to the grassy hill where Oswald awaited him. The sergeant shoved his stopwatch in Herod's face.

"32 and a half seconds! That's a fail, 17! No ride back to quarters tonight, I'm afraid! Get moving, slowpoke!"

The Sergeant signaled some of his men to keep an eye on Herod, got in his green land rover, and drove off. Herod released a feline hiss and bore his lethal fangs in disgust. Someday, somehow, he’d make the sergeant pay for that.

V

COTSWOLDS, ENGLAND, APRIL 1940

After three months of the same nightmare, Herod already knew what would befall the dream girl caressing him.

"Greg, you're so...ahhh...ohhh, stop it," she giggled as he gripped her breast. They were always so care-free at the start of it. "Seriously, stop it! Stop it, Greg!" Her laughter gave way to genuine concern as he began to grab her tighter, breathe heavier. His tongue traced her jugular vein, salty sweat wetting his appetite. The main course would follow.

"No, stop it! Stop!"

Herod’s eyes shot open, bloodshot red. He had not had a decent day's sleep in weeks. The recurring nightmare had him drenched in sweat. His dick stood rock hard under the sheets. There was no peace for him in this hell hole of a boot camp; not even in his dreams.

Herod tried to remember what it was like to have a human dream. Perhaps something similar to how his vampire torture sessions started out: soft, nubile girls. One he missed the chance to be with in real life. There was the buxom, curly haired waitress, Francine from Benny's Pub, or maybe the freckled redhead from high school, Darlene Stone. Often, he woke up unsatisfied, not finishing inside his object of lust. But she’d be in one piece at least.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

His brain boiled and stomach churned. Herod scrambled to his bin and threw up, another daily occurrence. A dark, acidic, maroon-colored sludge sprayed from his mouth and burned his nostrils.

"Enough," he spat, and punched his wall.

He needed to get out of the facility. It didn't matter how, he had to get out. Had to escape, be free under the fresh, cool, night sky. More than anything, he had to have a woman before he went bat-shit crazy. Hell, he already was. His amplified senses cursed him more than they blessed him. He knew it just by sniffing his surroundings: there were no women around for miles.