"Haelp" yelled a poor farmer in the middle of the night, his left arm ripped off, his scraggly white beard dripping blood. He tread heavily through the caked roads of his little village.
Zombies had attacked yet another small village on the highlands of Scotland. They trampled through the houses ravaging as they went by. Controlled by a lunatic from atop the high hills, he hissed angrily, commanding his wretched minions to eat to their content. It was his night. "Eat their flesh and let their blood run, for Daddy needs a drink!" he yelled joyously. And his slaves tore through flesh, their hunger and lust insatiable. The zombies slaughtered indiscriminately, man, woman, child or cattle. They came upon the village church. The mindless corpses hammered the door with their own bodies, piling against one another. The first wave crushed under the weight of the oncoming hordes. The large brown door finally gave way. It was a catholic church. One of the very few on the island. The dominantly protestant kingdom of great britian had very little tolerance for this kind of riff raff, they called them. The church stood proudly on the riverbank, a small river that divided the catholics from the rest of the majority of protestants. The remaining townsfolk had huddled at the altar. The zombies, unafraid of god, feasted on them.
The local priest stood amidst the chaos chanting in Gaelic. A few zombies dissipated as he continued, but more poured in. He took a few strips of paper and grabbed hold of one of the newly orphaned children and planted them on him. His barrier weakening, he prayed that this not be the end, that his saviour may come before all was lost. He glanced through the long windows to his left. Across the small river stood an army. The protestants had called for help with the impending doom on their village. And the British Royal Guard had been dispatched, complete with a bevy of healers and shamans. Even a few battle worn vampire hunters. They stood guard, hacking and destroying and zombies that strayed across. They did naught but watch as the village of despised catholics was hurled into the pits of hell.
A few days earlier, such reports and hearing of attack had come and they army stood guard. The children of the catholic village asked their parents about the soldiers and their parents explained. They were confused as to why their village had no soldiers and the parents told them God would protect them. The parents lied.
Bright white lights blinded the zombies as they rolled in circles. Three helicopters lowered near the church. Grey clothed men with guns and flamethrowers set ablaze the zombie hordes. Three men wearing gilded robes jumped off the central chopper. They walked calmly to the church, their hands behind them, murmuring in Latin.
Inside the church, after the firing stopped, the man in the middle threw off his hood. He sat hear the priest and talked to him. He apologized for being late. He blamed it on red-tape bureaucracy and blatant english disconcern for catholic Celts. He promised to give them their proper funeral right and cremate them. It was the least he could do, he said. The priest pointed to a huddled little boy in the corner, bleeding. He had been bit several times. The charms on his body withered. He was below a window overlooking the other village. With the man on his right the man in the middle went to where the boy was, saw the armies on the other side and grimaced and spat. The other man said, "We can't do anything for him. Should we kill him, put him pout of his misery, like a few of the other survivors. These people can't be saved." The middle man raised his right hand, silencing the other. "Their bodies cannot be saved." He said stiffly.
He sank to his knees and picked up the boy. Then he handed the boy to a grunt & asked to put him in a chopper. "The other man spoke "But he will never survive, father!" "Yes, He will." "But Vittorio" "NO! I, -small pause- have seen his soul. It has a will. He is special! His soul has a will to serve god, his will is greater than this" He said raising his hands to indicate all that had happened here "HE WILL BE ONE OF US!"
Silver bullets from a modified assault rifle shredded the vampire as over a dozen grey clad grunts drilled them through it. Then they dragged the blotchy carcass to the churchyard. The other had sown the village with bags of black powder they had brought with them. The child was taken in the central chopper and laid down. The dismissive robed man expressed his disbelief in the child's ability to survive a trip all the way to the Vatican. He was given the job of looking after this kid till a few grunts could relieve him. 2 of them came and he joined the other two in chanting incantations to cleanse the land of evil. When all the soldiers returned and gave the go ahead to return, the three robed men got into their chopper and Father Vittorio widened his eyes at the rate at which the little boy had healed. Not physically, but he knew he was correct, this boy was special. He was conscious. He touched the boys lips with a silver goblet filled with water, tipped it and the boy drank it. Blood dribbling from his lips into the goblet. Turning the water rosy red, he drank more, he bled more, he slurped the bloody water. A grunt signaled for Father Vittorio. He told the other two to heal him. He grabbed a few grenades from the grunt and ripped their pins out with his teeth. He leaned forward and stepped out onto the railings of the helicopter. He yelled in Latin as he made a giant cross with his hands, dropping the first grenade at the top, the second in the middle and third down below him, then the tossed one on each side, making a crucifix with the grenades. He laughed maniacally as the explosions went off, the black powder catching fire and he set ablaze the entire dead village. Wherever the special potions had been poured, it burned bright blue, the rest a dark yellow blaze. The fire reflected sinisterly in his eyes.
Father Vittorio leaned to the child and looked lovingly at him; he looked meekly at the man. "Tell me your name son." He said with his thick accent. "I . ui jj ayyayyy akk ….." the little boy couldn't speak. Father Vittorio stroked his little bloody head and told him he was safe. They were going to take him with them. "MUM-MUM?" he blubbered. Vittorio shook his head, and asked him his name. The child gulped and tears streamed down his grimy face. His lips quivered. His teeth chattered as he gathered the courage to speak. He gulped once more. "A-A-A-A-A- ….. Alexander Anderson !"