*
They came single-file, like an army marching. But this was not their training. The beast that led was gored and headless and very dead; it dripped translucent red blood as it was carried by one of its kin. The soldiers opened fine immediately and the dead beast was further torn apart, until its body provided no more cover and it was cast aside. Unshielded, the others broke apart and came at the soldiers with deadly intent.
Oliver had been ready with his flame-flower before Sarge had ordered him to put it away. Firing up a hot jungle was bad news. But in his despair, Oliver cared not. Fire raced out of the thrower’s muzzle like orange liquid and embraced the leading three vampires. Their bat-like wings went up with a sizzle as of frying bacon and down they crashed, the membranes that kept them aloft totally burned away. Bony wings beat and scraped at the earth as the vampires crashed into a single screeching heap.
Nero sprayed the heap with bullets, and he was laughing, and he was without fear, but he did not see another vampire swoop low towards him.
Davidson cast his own weapon in Nero’s direction, ready to save his friend with a rain of fire, but as he stepped that way, the vampire flicked him a glance and a grin, and sailed high over Nero’s head. Distracted, Davidson did not see two other beasts boring down on him. He was lifted neatly off the jungle floor and carried up and out of the trees, high, so high his screams faded into nothing. Like two birds fighting over a worm, the vampires tore into the solider, seeking his intestines. His blood rained on his comrades. His body, opened like a red rose in bloom, crumpled to the ground seconds later.
And then it was over. The vampires had gone.
Nero and Oliver were silent. Oliver panted like a Marathon runner; Nero took slow breaths, his eyes closed and head bowed. The fingers of his injured hand closed and opened a fist slowly and ceaselessly.
But Sarge was dancing around the three fallen vampires who still smouldered. They huddled together with their backs touching, wings flapping before them defensively. They knew they were caught. What noises they made might have been a prayer or a cry for mercy, or just noises.
“Didn’t fucking expect the good old US Marines, did you?” he cawed, bouncing around the vampires like a lithe boxer taunting his foe. He held his gun as if displaying it. “American hardware, my friends. You ran outtalk gooks and straight into trouble, ha!” Then he stopped. He just stared.
“What the fuck are you things?” He sighted along his weapon, which he pointed at a bald and veiny head. But the beast did not respond any differently. Obviously it did not recognise that the item was a threat.
He wiped blood off his head and flicked his fingers. The blood splattered the beast’s face.
“Jesus,” he croaked as the beast flicked out a long white tongue and licked its own face. The other vampires seemed to smell the blood and tried also to lick at their ally’s skin.
Sarge plucked a grenade off his belt and rubbed it against his raw cheek, covering it in blood. “Away,” he ordered his men. Oliver got moving quickly. Nero needed telling again before he snapped out of his reverie. The duo backed off out of the village and into the jungle.
“Bon appetite,” Sarge said with a grin. Then he tossed the grenade to the vampires. One caught it; all three fought over it.
Sarge dropped the pin and ran, and he was laughing.