Chapter 2: Wanderlust

I

HOLY NAZARETH MILITARY ACADEMY, OUTSKIRTS OF LONDON, ENGLAND, APRIL 1940

The door stood like an onyx monolith in hall C of the Holy Nazareth Military Academy. Officers and other personnel quickened their pace walking by, or more commonly, circumvented it entirely. Staff Sergeant Francis Murnau walked towards it. Behind that ominous, black door resided the most notorious man in the compound, perhaps the entire army. A veteran of countless wars, rich as an oil baron, and completely up his own arse. Sir James Carpenter, Britain’s legendary vampire warrior.

“Have you ever met this Carpenter fellow?” Murnau asked his friend, Lang, a one-eyed captain of the airborne division, who accompanied him for the walk. He wore a simple, black eyepatch over a ghastly wound he received against in Afghanistan.

Lang scratched his phantom eye. “No, but I’ve heard the stories.”

“And?”

Lang laughed, bringing on a coughing fit. He pressed a handkerchief to his mouth. They couldn’t be that bad.

Murnau cleared his throat. “Care to enlighten me?”

“The one I keep ‘earing,” Lang giggled, then calmed himself, “He escaped the compound. Proper disappeared, right? Some privates in Paris on R&R spot the bastard a week later; piss drunk at a burlesque parlour.”

“Disgusting behaviour, for a knight no less.”

Lang dropped to a whisper. “Well, that’s not what the judges thought. Pardoned.”

“The brass likes him, I suppose.”

“Well, they certainly like his work. And the only way to keep him out of trouble…”

Murnau snickered. “Drop him into more.”

Lang nodded, wearing a shit-eating grin. “That’s where you come in, Frankie, my lucky boy! He’s all yours now.”

Murnau felt the energy drain from his face. “This lucky boy may be on his hands and knees by the end of the day. This is brass’ way of humiliating me.”

Murnau looked skywards, hoping that one of the ceiling lights was an alien beam, ready to abduct him away from his duties. That slimy-cocksucker-sonofabitch, Herod. It was all his fault. How was Murnau supposed to know the bastard had a screw or three loose?

Murau glared at Lang. Was this some sort of comedy routine for him, or did he not understand the gravity of what was going on? Perhaps levity his way of caring.

Lang smiled, and Murnau couldn’t help but notice the way the folds of his cheek fat lifted the eyepatch as he did so. “But hey, the reports... bastard comes back from the dead each time.” Lang broke into a chuckle. “He’s an artist.”

“I don’t want an artist. I want a soldier. Someone who actually follows orders would be nice.”

“Like Herod? He was a real soldier.”

That was a low blow. And not just a random shot either. If emotions had testicles, those words were like a calculated, pin-point kick to them.

He slumped against the wall. “I mean... I just don’t think he and I can see eye to eye.”

Lang's face turned grim and he pointed to the patch.

“Sorry, old chap! That was...”

Lang bent over, wheezing and slapped his leg. This really had turned into a blasted comedy routine, at his expense, no less. Meanwhile, the terrifying, dark tower that served as Sir Carpenter's chamber door loomed.

Lang picked Murnau up and straightened his back. “Well, here we are. Good luck. If it doesn’t work out with the vampires, I’m shipping out with the S.A.S.. Czechoslovakia. Could use a good recruiter. I’ll recommend you.”

Murnau saluted the captain. “Cheers, I may just take you up on that.”

Lang saluted back and left him to the vampire king’s portal. He adjusted his spectacles in order to look at the scene of requiem carved into the front of the door: horned demons with bat-like wings covered a lightning-cracked sky. They carried halberds and pitchforks, some of them with screaming people skewered on them. A naked succubus brandished a long saber dripping with the blood of her enemies, her hollowed eyes devoid of mercy. He ran his fingers over the morbid yet beautiful figure. Reading too much into Sir Carpenter’s aesthetic tastes was probably a bad idea... not that he could help it.

Murnau gulped and gave a courteous knock. A minute passed without a sound. Was he there?

He knocked a second time, louder and more urgent. “Hello?”

After a few seconds, a long and pained moan came from inside like a soldier hit in the gut by gunfire. “What a dreadful hour to wake a vampire. Do you know who I am?”

Murnau's stomach turned and his skin crawled. “Uh, yessir, Sir Carpenter! I’ve been sent by high command in regards to an upcoming operation!”

“And who on earth are you?” the vampire asked. His voice was deep, smooth, and haunting.

Murnau puffed his chest out. “Staff Sergeant Francis Murnau, newly appointed head of the Nosferatu Division.”

A resentful tone crept into Sir James’ voice. “Ah, so I do know who you are.”

“Really? I-- I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

A heavy, black, iron bolt slid open and the thick door swung inwards with a screech like the brakes of a steam engine. A gust of grey, moist, ice-cold vapor flowed out of the door crack, making Murnau shiver. Rapid footsteps approached on the ceramic floor.

The door opened and the largest St. Bernard Murnau had ever seen reared up on his haunches and placed his giant front paws on Murnau’s chest. The dog’s crazed metronome of a tail wagged back and forth as he licked Murnau’s palm, slobbering all over the folder containing the mission documents. Murnau gingerly patted the panting dog’s head and the St. Bernard nudged his hand with its nose, asking for more attention.

“Ebby, down,” Sir Carpenter said, calm but stern, “Come here, boy.”

A vampire with an extensively-embroidered, crimson and gold housecoat stood in the doorway, a velvet sleeping mask hanging around his neck. He stood tall and upright, especially for an old man, his chest stuck out proudly. His face was weathered and sleepy, but devilishly handsome, clean-shaven with long, flowing grey hair, which parted on either side of his face. And despite his age, he showed no signs of balding or wrinkles. He fit Murnau’s preconceived image of a vampire almost too perfectly.

The St. Bernard quickly obeyed its master and returned to the elder vampire’s heels. It sat on its haunches, a wet tongue dangling happily out of its mouth.

“Ebenezer gets a bit excited when guests come by. Shall we speak outside?” the vampire asked.

“C-certainly. Goodbye, Ebenezer.”

With a yawn, Sir Carpenter stretched, slipped a pair of loafers on his feet, and followed Murnau into the hallway. Ebenezer whimpered as Sir Carpenter shut the door behind him.

“Orders from His Majesty,” said Murnau, presenting the classified envelope.

Sir Carpenter glanced at it and walked straight past Murnau to the window. Murnau was stunned. That was no way to treat a fellow soldier, let alone a superior. He’d had it now.

“You are about to be briefed. Dress yourself, and be ready by 14:00.”

“Very well, very well.”

Sir Carpenter hesitated before drawing back one of the window curtains. Once the sunlight touched his face, he hissed like a snake, and with serpentine speed, shut it again.

“This had better be important.”