VII

Herod stepped outside the military facility for what he knew would be the last time, and was greeted by the wankers in green. Everything was green in that damned place, 'innit? Standing behind Dr. Child's bony shoulders, he took a head count: 15 soldiers plus 1 Sergeant Dickface. Plenty in the magazine for ol' Rosie.

Herod wanted to give his American Thompson an American sounding name and landed on 'Rosie'. Rosie couldn't cook you a hot meal or suck your dick, but she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen without tits on the front. And she could sing too, Rosie. Sing you right to sleep, she could.

The soldiers trained their rifles on Herod, all except for Oswald, who stood behind his men, arms crossed. They scowled, fingers on the triggers. Luckily for Herod, it seemed Dr. Childs was important enough not to blast away on sight. Herod didn't want any stray bullets to rob him of the satisfaction of killing the decrepit bastard. Child’s constant wailing bit into Herod’s enhanced eardrums like a starving rodent. Time for him to go.

"Ello Sarge!" Herod yelled over Childs’ infantile moaning.

Oswald sucked his moustached lip into his teeth and furrowed his bushy brows. "Unit 17, you will lower your weapon and release the doctor immediately!"

No bargaining, no guarantees, and not even a proper threat? Oswald was probably a man used to having things his way. He said ‘jump’ and you said ‘how high’? But the sergeant wouldn’t get his way this time, not if Herod could help it.

He spat at Oswald, spraying a few drops of spittle on Childs' right earlobe, causing the doctor to flinch. "Start your watch, muppet! This won't take 30 seconds!"

Time to show the government dogs the power of the monster they created. Herod wanted to make Childs suffer to his last breath, but time was of the essence. Herod grabbed the weeping baby under the jaw and gave a quick, violent twist. The doctor's neck cracked and a guttural moan wheezed out of his mouth. Herod hurled his corpse at the military dogs, bowling one of them over. The soldiers fired at once. Terrible aim. They pumped shot after shot into the walls, ground, and thin air.

Beast-like instincts flared up, sharpening Herod’s senses to a razor's edge. Herod zigzagged towards the soldiers, dodging all but one bullet: a shot which plunged into his left shoulder. With Herod's adrenaline pumping hard, it barely slowed him down.

It was Rosie's turn to respond to the Lee-Enfields. Herod raised her barrel and squeezed the trigger. Rosie, with her typewriter-like roar, wrote a bloody and violent scene. Round after round hit their targets and eight of the soldiers were mowed down within seconds. They fell almost as easily as the cut-out Gerrys.

Oswald fumbled for his pistol with gritted teeth. Herod decided to save King Wanker for last. One brave soldier, red-faced and screaming like an Apache warrior, charged Herod with his bayonet. Like wrestling a lollipop away from a toddler, Herod yanked the gun from the lad, and held the soldier's arm under his armpit. Rosie, at point-blank range, punched right through the boy's chest.

She went click-click, informing Herod, “I’m empty, sugar.”

Herod eyed his replacement weapon in a moment: an Enfield no.2 six-shooter in the dead lad’s holster. And there was a nice, big, meat shield to go along with it. Discarding Rosie for the time being, he turned his attention towards the remaining soldiers.

Five wankers including Oswald. They pumped futile round after round into their former comrade's limp body until their clips ran dry.

Herod drew the revolver. “My turn!”

He aimed for headshots and if he was shooting a BB gun at a county fair gallery, he'd win the biggest teddy bear. With four rounds, shooting one-armed, and carrying a rather portly body shield, he had brained four. Only one enemy left, and he still had 2 in the chamber to work with.

Oswald, teary-eyed and quivering, pointed his own Enfield no. 2 at the monster before him. Herod dropped the boy’s corpse and the pistol and sauntered towards Oswald. The Sergeant attempted a shot, pouring all of his remaining courage into his right hand. Clang! The bullet ricocheted off of a dumpster behind Herod, well of the mark. Blubbering, Oswald squeezed the trigger once more, but produced no shot this time, only a click-click.

Oswald hit the butt-end of his pistol, as if that would magically reload it. "No! No!"

Herod sneered. "I think that's my personal best."

The vampire's shadow cast over Oswald's absurd face, which was gripped by the realization that there would be no morning roll call, no formation training, and no mess hall meal for him tomorrow. Herod grabbed and twisted King Wanker's head. Though his neck was far thicker than Dr. Childs', it also snapped easily.

The compound and surrounding forest turned serene. The flutter of fleeing sparrows and the mating calls of frogs replaced the gunfire’s echoes. Dusk turned to night and Herod breathed easy, even though his real fight had only begun. He rubbed his shoulder. The V-type blood was hard at work, coagulating at the wound, stopping the flow. Whistling, Herod walked back towards where Rosie lay and picked her up. His hand initially recoiled after touching her hot frame. From his belt pouch, Herod slapped another magazine into her. He hoped some of the soldiers at the base's perimeter carried Thompsons. Nearby, the plump corpse of the boy Herod had used as a shield lay sprawled out. A pool of blood formed on the gravel, dark, crimson, and delicious. Herod would have to replenish himself for the next fight; and for the ladies.