Still can't reply to reviews on this fic :( so please accept my thanks for all of them. Considering how unsure I was of it, I am thrilled that so many of you seem to be enjoying it - it makes the frustration worth while!
Mitchell's first attempt at "being human" in this section, with Herrick lurking in the background to reclaim him when it goes pear-shaped.
Herrick didn't feed me any one liners for this bit - sorry. ;-)
Mitchell holed up for what remained of the night, only venturing out as the sun started to come up. More by luck than judgement he eventually found himself back at the site of the skirmish, where the burial party had arrived to complete the job started by Mitchell's men the day before. They were wary: curious about a man who stumbled out of the mists alone and unarmed, covered in blood and mud and disorientated and confused. There was a John Mitchell listed among the dead - his identification had been taken from him by what remained of his platoon yesterday – so they had to be convinced that it was indeed him, left for dead the previous day and miraculously come to among a heap of bodies. Convinced they were though, eventually, his return from the dead a matter for good cheer among the relentless despondency of their job.
"Get yourself back to the aid post," said the captain, "I'm not sure how much of that blood is yours, but it's worth getting it looked at." Mitchell was sent back with one of the party accompanying him, and on the way back he managed to convince his companion that he was fine, that he wouldn't need to be checked by the medics, that he just wanted to rejoin his platoon. He wasn't sure what the medics would find, but he was sure they'd realise pretty quickly that he hadn't just had a lucky escape. He just wanted to hide, conceal himself amongst the living; keep his head down and try to get through this as best he could.
At first Mitchell could delude himself that all was well: that he could live as he had, but before many days had passed the hunger started to creep up on him. The blood that Herrick had fed him lasted him a while, and sheer force of will kept the cravings at bay for a little longer, through the remainder of his spell in the front line trenches and back into the reserves. His men had started to talk amongst themselves, he knew they had; their once gregarious platoon leader was becoming more and more withdrawn, keeping himself to himself. They muttered about shell shock, remarking that they had never thought to see Mitchell affected, cocky sod like him, but that waking up in a pile of bodies like that must have left him touched in the head.
On their precious rest days after reserve duty he would usually have been in the forefront of the group, doing his best to relax over a few glasses of the watery liquid that passed for beer in what was left of the nearby village and helping his men to unwind and keep morale as high as possible. Not this time: this time he sat alone, staring morosely into his glass and trying determinedly to block out the hammering of their hearts and the rush of the blood in their veins. Before long he snatched his jacket from the back of the chair and went to stand in the cool night air, lighting his next cigarette from the butt of the previous one. He was dimly aware of someone standing across the street, partly illuminated by a lamp. It was Herrick, the light casting strange shadows across his face. He raised two fingers to the peak of his forage cap in a mocking salute. No more than that: no attempt to talk to him, just letting Mitchell know that he was there, that he knew where Mitchell was, that he hadn't given up on him.
The knowledge sent chills down Mitchell's spine.
He went into his next rotation grimly single-minded. It was getting tougher: the hunger was setting in and he was finding it harder and harder to resist. The pulse of heartbeats had become a thundering in his ears and the smell of blood was like rose attar in his nostrils, sweet and cloying.
For the first time, Mitchell was glad of the conditions in which they lived. The stink of death and unwashed bodies and the acrid smell of cordite on the wind all served to mask the smell that was such a temptation, making his mouth water and his teeth ache and his eyes strain to turn vampire black.
His withdrawal had been remarked upon at higher levels now. His captain came to talk to him; he'd noticed that Mitchell was struggling since his experiences the last time in the front line. If he didn't snap out of it he'd have to refer him to the field hospital for evaluation, but in the meantime he should report to the regimental aid post: see if there was anything they could do for him. Mitchell tried to shake himself out of his torpor for a while after that, catching up on news from his men, finding out that there had been news of a home leave baby come through a week before that he had not heard about yet. That shook him; his only chance of clinging to his humanity was by mixing with people, doing human things with them, yet how could he when every conversation saw him holding onto his self control by his nail ends, desperately resisting the urge to savage and destroy his friends and comrades?
And in the back of his mind was Herrick: always Herrick. He jumped at shadows and saw him everywhere until he thought he was losing his mind. Whatever he said he wondered if Herrick was overhearing him; whatever he did he wondered if Herrick was watching. He began to dread his next rest days – would Herrick be there again, watching from under the lamp, waiting for his control to fail?
He had begun to accept that it would fail for his strength was ebbing away. Every morning was torture to get himself up and moving and it was only a matter of time before he fell asleep at his post with the associated dire consequences. If he was to fail he would do it his own way in his own time, not with a loss of control but with careful planning and the possibility of covering his tracks. He had always had an eye for the main chance – a seizer of opportunities – and he capitalised on that. He began to prepare, going daily to the aid post for tincture of valerian to treat what had become accepted as his shell shock. While he was there he slipped whatever drugs he could lay his hands on into his pocket – a little each day to try to avoid calling attention to himself. Often he didn't know what they were or what they were for, but where possible he targeted pain killers and sedatives: when he picked his victim they were what he would need. He chased the valerian with his daily ration of porter: the two combined seemed to have more of an effect than either of them separately, and they helped dull the hunger somewhat - most of the time.
The anticipated meeting happened on Mitchell's next rest leave. He'd gone into the bar, such as it was, with the men from his platoon. As they got more raucous heartbeats grew raised, temperatures elevated and Mitchell got more and more uncomfortable in their presence, so he slunk away to a seat at a table near the door by himself. A man slipped quietly from behind a table in an alcove where he had been sitting unobserved and approached Mitchell's table.
"I thought you'd turn up here soon," Herrick eased into a chair opposite Mitchell and slid a watery beer across the table towards him. "Your rotation has been pretty easy to guess, thankfully – a day or two here and there. Drink up. It's not laced with anything."
Mitchell looked sharply up at Herrick. "What do you mean by that?" Did he know of his plans? How could he?
"Nothing. Should I?" A hint of a smile flickered around Herrick's lips at the younger man's discomfiture.
Mitchell licked his lips and gulped several mouthfuls of the beer down. With a shaking hand he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, raised it to his lips, lit it and inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes and savoured the feeling. He wanted Herrick to go away and leave him alone. He wanted to talk to him more than anything.
"I must say you're more communicative than I was expecting. I've been asking around. Shell shock, they said: almost mute; waking up screaming. You're a mess, Mitchell. That's what you get for running out on me and trying to handle this by yourself."
"I'm all right," mumbled Mitchell, closing his eyes and exhaling a chestful of smoke.
"You're far from all right. You were pasty even when I recruited you – you look a thousand times worse now. Your eyes are sunken and you look like you're about to keel over. Have you really not fed yet?"
Mitchell glowered into his glass.
"Jesus Christ, Mitchell. Not many vampires could go this long without feeding, far less a new recruit. I'm impressed. But I still think you are mad. Let me see if I can tempt you." Herrick pushed a balaclava across the table towards him. It was dark and redolent with blood. "He tasted good, this chap. I thought you might like a sample."
Mitchell drew in a deep shuddering breath, inhaling the potent scent. His lips parted and he inhaled again, drawing the breath across his tongue, tasting the blood in the air. "Ah, Jesus," he breathed, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes. He bit so hard on his lip that he could taste his own blood mingled with the flavour of the other.
Herrick smirked, his eyes glittering, knowing without seeing that behind the lids Mitchell's eyes were jet black and the tightly compressed mouth concealed a pair of fangs. "You want it, Mitchell, you know you do. You'll have to give in to it eventually." Mitchell jumped to his feet, flinging his chair back so vigorously that it fell to the ground with a crash that silenced the bar, and strode for the door. "You signed up for this, Mitchell. You can't get out of it this easily," called Herrick after him, fully aware that the others in the room were taking his words as an officer reprimanding someone suspected of cowardice. A long slow smile crossed his face. Yes, Mitchell would be back, and sooner rather than later.