Lines of fire blazed all over her body. Agatha slumped on the examination table while the corpsman cleaned several cuts. In the heat of the battle, she had not noticed the claws that had torn through the kevlar Interceptor vest; ballistic cloth made to resist pistol bullets and shrapnel had been shredded to pieces. Even the metal SAPI plate that protected her chest had been dented by the creature's blows. The corpsman clucked while he stitched up her many wounds. On another table, a doctor with captain's bars examined Capelli's pupils with a penlight. His skull had been spared a fracture. His ribs had not been so lucky. Bandages wound tight around his lower body.
Dixie lay on a table. A heart monitor beeped beside the IV pole hung with several bags of blood. So pale, Agatha thought. One more minute and she would have bled to death in the dust. Or Moran-- She pushed away the memory of his last agonized cry. Of the impossibility of a burly Ranger dissolving into nothingness. Waving away the attendant, she limped over to her friend's bedside. She took the comatose woman's hand in her own. Another corpsman helped Capelli over to them. Neither spoke. Eventually, the sick bay personnel retreated to give the pair some privacy with their injured comrade. Taking her friend's hand, Agatha stroked the knuckles.
"Ahhh," Dixie groaned, hand going to the huge bandage on her neck. "Aggs, Capelli, where--"
"Don't worry," Agatha said. "You're okay. Dumbass!"
"Um, is not traditional," Dixie ventured, "that fallen warriors awake to sympathy?"
"No, they get up to an asskicking," Agatha grumped. "Are you crazy, going in there without back up? Sure, I might have laughed if you'd said that you thought Moran was a--uh,--a--"
There was a brief moment of silence around Dixie's bed.
"Vampire," Capelli said. "Come on, don't look at me like that. He was a fricking vampire!"
"Perhaps there is rational explanation." Dixie winced as she touched the gauze covering her wounds. "During training, there were lessons on catalepsy. Bee stings. Paralysis."
"Pay up, Lance-Corporal." Capelli held out an open palm. "I called it, one minute before she said that. Why do they always say that?"
"They're real," Agatha replied. "You knew, right off, didn't you, private?"
"Ever see my footlocker?" Capelli said. "Entire run of Fangoria. Hell, back when I was running with both the Nerd Herd and the football team in Plainsboro, we'd all get together and do horror movie marathons. Kick back and blaze up. Er, I mean blaze up some popcorn in the microwave."
"Don't ask, don't tell," Agatha said.
"Used to run a homebrew roleplaying campaign," Capelli continued. "We'd work out exactly what to do when the Zombie Apocalypse came. Although holy crap, Moran had a shitload more hit dice than I expected for a new riser."
"It was not Moran." Dixie shuddered. "He-- I know him a little bit. Nice man, quiet, family in Montana. When he rise-- I try to fight, little bit of hapkido uncle taught me. He just threw me down. Said awful things. Say I tease, mama-san, sucky sucky for one--"
"He's gone," Agatha told her. "Gone and dust."
"But not the one who made him!" Dixie barely kept her voice to a stage whisper. "Is not how it is in movies? How I suspected, two little holes in neck, like woman in the village. She had those just above the cut. Before he rise, I see little bit of blood in his mouth. Never expect to be real, had to be sure-- "
"Woman?" Capelli asked. He gasped when told of the mutilated corpse Dawson had seen. "Classic way of preventing a vampire rising. Chop off the head, cut out the heart. Same legends talk about using garlic or holy water. Although, weird, stakes are only used to pin a corpse inside its coffin. And traditionally, vamps are black or red from being bloated with blood."
"They hop." Dixie shrugged at the puzzled glances from her comrades. She fished out a handful of rice from her utilites "Old legends, the gangshi. Hopping ghosts. You toss rice before them, they have to count each grain. That work not so well, I think, with Christians. Moran said thanks for providing side dish."
"Cross worked better." Capelli clutched his ribs. "Not that well, though. Ow. I don't know if it was the garlic or the holy water I scammed from the padre that did the melty thing."
"What's gonna work better," Agatha said, "is siccing an ANGLICO on it and letting the gun bunnies take care of it."
"You're going to tell the brass?" Capelli gulped. "I mean, I'll back you up. But look at how Dixie reacted when we said 'vampire' even when she saw Moran had been turned. Or those idiots in Sunnydale. I bet the entire town was a Salem's Lot and nobody admitted it. Skipper'll think we've all gone high and right."
"Not if I show them." Agatha made a fist. "Figure juggling a couple engine blocks should get them aboard right quick."
"And cue the mysterious government agency," Capelli intoned. "And there's always one showing up. You'll end up on a slab at Area 51 or something."
"I agree," Dixie said. "There are stories of bad days before democracy in Korea, from my father and mother. Governments can do evil things."
What am I going to do? Agatha thought. Marines don't lie. They just don't. Diddybob, maybe. Lollygag when they could. Lying, especially to a superior officer, was a sin just below supporting Army over Navy. Might be some wiggle room. Didn't get a clear look at the haji in the storm. Face all screwed up like he was on drugs. Heh. Maybe I can say he got away like dust in the-- She snapped to attention. Gunny Reyes and Captain Snyder had strode into the sick bay. The senior officer and NCO in her command motioned for her to come with them. Report time. No time. No time. What do I do?
Agatha squared her shoulders.
I am a Marine.
Marines don't lie.
And I'm gonna need a crowbar for this.
The line of soldiers and Marines stretched on other side of her. Two men from the Force Recon platoon flanked her, with Gunny Powell himself pacing behind, on the modified FOD Walk drill. Everyone kept their gazes trained to the ground. Every so often, the line would stop before what might be a section of disturbed earth. Retreating a place, EOD men would carefully probe with wire and bayonet the sight of the "suspected mine". Or what might be the daylight haven of a vampire burrowed away from the sun. Wandering close, Agatha concentrated for the spiders-and-chills sensation she had got both times encountering the vampires. A hand was always close to the stake concealed in the waist of her utilities, in the small of her back. Slowly, the search line swept the length of Camp Iwo.
Agatha produced a probe of twisted commo wire in the shape of a Y when she and Powell ducked behind the firing range backstop. Nothing, not a twitch that she had seen when the water witches back home had gone dowsing for wells. Grunting, Powell dismissed her two guards. The lance-corporal and her gunner-sergeant escort performed one final sweep of the hooches and buildings for any sign of the supernatural. Outside the wire, Capelli helped a group pounding new aiming stakes for the perimeter. They appeared suspiciously like crucifixes. The wire was already strung with tiny crosses formed from scrap metal from the motor pool and machine shop. No one said anything. No one had to. As one, the camp obeyed both orders and their guts.
Force Recon had their own small camp set slightly apart from the rest of the base. Sandbags heaped head high, topped with concertina wire, kept curious onlookers at bay. Within, the quarters were far more spartan than that of the line company. Two large tents with covered slit trenches behind them for shelter during mortar and rocket attacks provided accomodations. The twenty-odd members of the platoon paused in the midst of a PT routine when Agatha came through the gate. Recon was among the last bastions of all-male units in the Corps. A Molly Marine, especially a pogue, was unusual within the hallowed confines of their quarters. Being personally escorted by their gunny was even stranger. Powell ignored the incredulous looks darted their way. Leading her into one tent, he went to a corner set apart by blankets hung from the supports. Within was a tiny office--a folding desk, two chairs for himself and visitors, a rack just to the side.
"At ease," Powell rumbled. He fished a small silver flask and two shot glasses from his foot locker, pouring a small measure in each. "Medicinal, of course. Had the corpsmen sign off."
"Yut!" Agatha sipped the bourbon. "Smooth, gunny. Almost as good as the 'shine my uncle Harper brews up."
"Ask him to send a keg of it over." Powell lifted up the solid tool-steel crowbar on his desk, twisted into a pretzel. "Most hilarious thing I ever saw. Thought I heard a sonic boom when your skipper sucked his skivvies up his ass."
"Only way, gunny,"Agatha explained. "He didn't believe, more chance for that thing to get back in the wire."
"You took a risk." Powell polished off the shot with one swallow.
"I can't let another Marine die," Agatha said. "I know I might end up underneath Eighth and I wired up like a lab rat, but-- Are Capelli and Dixie clear?"
"All squared away." Powell peered past the blankets, ensuring their privacy. "You and the private fought off the haji, and we're keeping the lack of Moran's body quiet. Let's just say the morgue trailer's going to 'accidentally' get hit by a stray Taliban mortar round tonight before the choppers come."
"Recon's very sneaky." Agatha managed a faint grin. "So, guess I'm on night watch duty from now to hell-and-gone. Don't worry, it won't get back in, gunny."
"That's because we're going to hunt down and kill it. Congrats, Lance-Corporal. You just made Recon."
"What?" Agatha gaped. "Pardon, gunny, that's impossible. Rules are rules. No woman's allowed out into combat."
"World's changed," Powell explained. "Now, your skipper, he agreed with you. Keep you inside, on alert. Our own ginger-haired guard dog. Only that keeps the vampire--and hell's frozen over when I can say that without laughing--inside our OODA loop. Marines don't do defensive. We assault, attack, and over-goddamn-come."
"So how can I work with you?" Agatha asked.
"Searcher," Powell said. "We've been getting a lot of flak from the hippies stateside. 'Violating culture' when our raid teams corner women with the men. New program, training women to act as guards to handle female prisoners and detainees. Officially, you will be on secondary duty as a searcher, training with my boys and the Marine Special Purpose platoon in the line company."
"Capelli and Dixie, too, gunny, when they've healed up," Agatha added. "Only others who've seen a vamp. They'll know what to look for, too."
"Good idea." Powell stowed the flask and glasses away. "Unofficially, if we get an idea of where the 'Victor' is hiding, you'll come out with Captain Barrow and me on a very quiet night patrol. Hopefully we can dump a load of Willy Pete on its ass from a Harrier, but we need you along to sniff it out."
"Aye aye, gunny!" Combat. Actual combat!
"Understand this," Powell growled. "This is close-hold. The half-bird in charge of this base or God forbid an embed gets wind of us chasing ghosts and ghouls, this entire operation will be shut down. We also can't afford a panic if the 'jokes' about monsters floating around camp seem real."
"Lips are dogged tight, gunny." Agatha sprang up. "When do we start?"
"Now," Powell barked. "Grab your deuce gear and a new M4 from our platoon armorer. Dismiss!"
Exultant, Agatha hurried out to her hooch. Dust spiralled up as she allowed a little of her newfound strength to show. This was why she was here. This was her purpose. She didn't know where her powers had come from. She didn't know why she was chosen. But here and now, for once in a long time, she understood exactly what she was and exactly what she had to do. Find the enemy. Destroy it. Don't let her Marines down. She glanced out at the mountains looming over the camp. Somewhere out there might be a creature from hell, buried in the earth. A terror that thought it could come into my camp, my home. Kill my people. No. Hell no. I'll get you.
Get you if it's the last thing I ever do.
Muzahir studied, puzzled, the actions of the American soldiers far below. He had come here while tracking the ghul. Its attacks brought the pattern of its path close by this base, striking at village after village from where it had been sired. He did not dare come too close to the base, of course. Afghanis who got close to the foreign invaders often ended up kneeling, bound and blindfolded, at Bagram for a trip across the seas. Traitors within the umma would sell out even a man innocent of any contact with the jihadi for money or the chance to avenge a feud in the name of "badal". It was why he traveled alone. One man alone might be left alone. Two or three Rakib travelling together might bring fire and death from the planes that roamed Afghanistan's skies.
Grief clutched his heart. He was alone, no matter what. The last of the Rakib, the Watchers of the Faithful, left in this land. Perhaps the last left alive in the world. All the women gone-- Damn Iblis and its sightless abominations. Unlike the other sheiks of the Jirga Rakib, he had had no adopted daughters from whom the Sayadatoo 'l-Ghul might be chosen by Allah. The last potential he had trained, who he had married as custom when she passed the age of Calling, had died of fever during the chaos when the mujahedin had sparred among each other before the Taliban's rise. He had not the heart to become father or husband to another. He had taught, of course. Pursued his duties as both scholar of the Ulemma and hunter of afrit. It had been a long, fulfilling life far different than he had ever imagined before his father had packed him off to the Madrassa in Quetta.
Now all his friends and the girls they taught according to the secret Hadith of the Prophet were dead. Slaughtered, leaving an old grey-haired scholar to bury them according to the rites of the Faith.
No matter. Muzahir spurred You Little Bastard, his donkey, down the path to the next village. He was Rakib, pledged to Watch the faithful. A curved pulwar of fine steel forged in the time of the Mughals swung from his saddle. A Lee-Enfield loaded with silver bullets was slung across his back. Wooden stakes were tucked into a bandolier fashioned from surplus Russian webbing. In his saddebags were charms and the few books of lore he had managed to save from the rampaging Harbingers of Shaitan. There was a ghul, a devil feigning the flesh of a living being, to find. It would die by his hand.
He would destroy it if it was the last thing he would ever do.