Doctor Malcolm St. Graves felt out of his element. Blood soaked through his white suit; pain soaked through his skin. His breaths came in ragged gasps. He fought his way through the smoke, through the endless dark and realized he was lost.
The old man ran his hands through his bloody, sweaty hair. Damn! He had never seen his plans fall apart so rapidly. This was not how things were supposed to happen! He was Malcolm St. Graves, world-renown vampire hunter!
He blamed the witch. How had she not picked up on the fact their own guide was a shape shifter? And she had been the one so adamant that the thing lead them! Bah! Witches, especially FEMALE witches, could never be relied on.
St. Graves swung his pack off his shoulders and to his side, unzipped it and pulled out a penlight. He'd lost his flashlight in the scuffle; he'd also lost his panama hat which to St. Graves was almost as miserable a loss. The vampire hunter thumbed the switch. His breath caught in his throat.
The weak beam of light split the darkness just enough to illuminate the horde of pale-faced mutant children staring back at him. Their eyes glistened with hunger. One of them pointed a chubby, malformed finger and mewled.
The penlight faltered in his hand as St. Graves floundered backwards, breathing the words, "Good God!"
The creatures attacked in a wave of gnarled horror. They giggled infantile squeals of glee as if newborns with a new toy.
The penlight fell from St. Graves' grip, rolled on the ground and illuminated: clumsy pudgy arms stretching out to tiny clenching fists; tiny black mouths yawning open to show gleaming sharp teeth; unformed limbs staggering under fat naked bodies.
St. Graves shoved his hand into his pack to pull out a stake, a vial of Holy Water, anything that might be of some use. He was too slow. The creatures poured over him, and the helpless vampire hunter felt a thousand needles pierce his skin and begin to chew.
***
Bridget Briswell coughed and fought her way through the smoke, shooting her flashlight beam at the rocky ground of the mineshaft. One trip (including over her own two feet) could spell doom. Behind her the shrill cries of the unborn undead echoed towards her, chasing her sanity to the boundaries of Bridget's conscious. Images of tiny tooth-filled mouths flashed behind her eyes. Her heart felt like it might burst in her chest.
Panic drove her on with wild thoughts: Oh God, oh God, I am going to die!
Something caught her eye, a reflective gleam in the yellow light of the flashlight- THE GUN!
Bridget bent and snatched the weapon off the ground with trembling fingers. She held it before her eyes, mesmerized by its gleam, by the glimmer of hope that twitched in her heart.
Then a scream cut through the smoke, through the orange flickering darkness, a scream that sounded like Doctor St. Graves, and the thought of that polite gentlemanly old man making a sound of terror like the one that filled her ears chilled Bridget to the core. The noises that followed, snarls and the ripping of flesh, made her legs go weak under her.
She sobbed and her knees buckled; Bridget clung to the rocky wall of the mine as if it was the only thing keeping her on her feet. She gnashed her teeth and fought to reign in her sanity.
Eyes flickered out of the darkness, tiny glittering eyes like black marbles. Childish giggles twittered from the shadows.
Strength suddenly returned, and fueled by fear, Bridget turned and fled just as the first creature flew through the smoke and sunk its teeth in the meat of Bridget's left leg. She cried out, thrust the cold barrel of the pistol against the thing's bald white head and fired.
The creature's lumpy brains splattered Bridget with a torrent of black goo. She felt slime slide like thick mucus as if a family of slugs had just traveled the canvass of her face. Bridget staggered down the shaft, stabbing the darkness with her flashlight, pain and blood clinging to her legs, the pistol in her other hand, the things crawling and slithering and flopping up the floor behind her.
Hot, gasping breaths shuddered from her mouth; her lungs felt like fire. On and on, she ran, and she heard the creatures gaining on her. Their giggles tickled her ankles. She waited for the bite to come; it was only a matter of time.
Then cold blue moonlight filtered into the mine before her, and she saw stars and a sliver of new moon. An opening! She would have burst into relieved laughter if not for the horrible giggles closing in behind her. It struck her then, just for an instant, that the werewolf had changed and the moon had not been full.
The cave grew smaller as she approached the opening. She tucked the pistol and flashlight into her pants. Bridget hunched over and bent her knees. It was a tight fit. The ceiling closed in. Rock crumbled under her fingers. She went to her hands and knees and crawled. Something clutched her sneakers; she could feel teeth pressing against the rubber of her soles, poking through, nipping her toes. Bridget was on her belly, clawing her way forward, the cool night air so close she could feel it kiss her face.
The cave began to collapse.
Bridget screamed, found the rim of the opening with her hands and yanked, pulling her body out of the cave with a heave and a grunt just as rock trembled and fell behind her, sealing the opening and burying everything within it with a cloud of brown dust.
For the moment safe, she rolled over, stared up into the night sky and began to cry.
***
Morgan McMuffin stuck out her thumb and pointed her index finger like a five year old boy turning his hands to guns while playing cops-and-robbers. The difference was that Morgan's "hand-made" weapons shot very real and very hot showers of elemental flame. The baby-things surrounding her learned this lesson the hard way as they went to their doom in a rain of orange fire, horrible squeals and wails shrieking from their mouths. Morgan's hair blew around her head as if caught in a hard wind. She mimicked holstering guns with her hands, and her hair fluttered down around her shoulders.
Morgan turned and sauntered past the dying creatures and tried to figure out which way her friends might have fled. She sent mental feelers out in every direction, and in every direction, it seemed her friends had gone. During the attack, all sense of order, all hope of control had been lost. Panic had ruled the day, and Morgan couldn't blame them. This had been her first experience fighting the unborn undead, and she felt a bit unhinged by the sight of them. Of course, she had been around a long time and had seen worse things.
She sighed, shrugged and picked a direction.
"Morgan, help," a weak voice said from through the smoke. Morgan's eyes swept towards the sound. She saw a dark shape stagger through the clouds of orange flickering flame and take form.
"Alex?" Morgan said. Her eyes narrowed.
Alexandria collapsed at the witch's feet. She looked like a mess, covered in dark blood, her eyes glazed with shock. She held one arm close to her chest; rips of torn flesh streaked across her body where Morgan assumed the wolf clawed. Morgan helped her to her feet and placed a steady shoulder under Alexandria's arm, propping her up.
"Come with me," Morgan said. They started down the shaft in short, measured steps.
Morgan did not see the grim smile curling the corners of Alexandria Knight's lips.
***
Melvin opened his eyes and then tried to open them again. Panic rose up in his chest as Melvin began to think he had gone blind. Then he heard an audible click-
A bare bulb hung from the cellar ceiling and illuminated a thin, pale girl with murky yellow light. Her red hair blazed like flowing locks of flame, framing a face of skin so white it gleamed with a supernatural glow. Rags clung from her arms and body like moss from an oak. She look young but not too young, maybe eighteen or nineteen. But what drew Melvin's attention were the girl's eyes, two glittering green emeralds set in sockets at the sides of her aquiline nose.
