1914. The details of Harry Dickson’s service during the First World War are generally unknown. We know that he served in Flanders, where he met Belgian Engineer Gaston Troye, with whom he later crossed paths in the case of La Grande Ombre [The Great Shadow]. We also know that he did some shadowy work for British Intelligence. In the following story, Travis Hiltz helps fill in those blanks by sending Dickson and a fascinating squad of heroes into a deadly mission that, in its own way, will shape all their destinies...

 

Travis Hiltz: The Mark of the Red Leech

 

 

I hate to admit it, but I think we’re lost.

Captain Dickson won’t say it, but after we were driven off our route by the bombardment, I don’t think we are moving west anymore. There are no landmarks, unless you count mud and barbwire.

We were lucky last night; the American air squadron gave us the cover fire we needed to get away from the Huns, but we got separated from the main group. With every enemy encounter, the group gets smaller. It’s just the two captains, Pvt. Simpson’s squad and I…

 

“Working on your memoirs, Private Jones?”

Private Henry Jones Junior started and looked up, at the English Soldier.

“Sorry, Captain Dickson, just making some notes… They’re going to want a report if…um…when we get back and this…uh…helps,” Jones explained as he quickly closed his battered journal and tucked it back into his coat pocket.

“I see,” Dickson said, with a nod and a brief, dry smile.

The young soldier wasn’t sure what to make of his current commanding officer. Rumor had it that Dickson wasn’t actually a soldier, but rather some kind of “covert operative.” Despite him being only a few years older than Jones, Dickson reminded him more of a college professor, like his father, than a seasoned soldier or spy.

Col. Renwick had respected Dickson. Now that he was gone, Jones guessed he had to do what he could to help the Englishman with this increasingly strange and hopeless mission.

“We need to move,” Dickson told him. “Spencer and the others are back and think we’re nearly to our destination.

“Any sign of the other squads?” Jones asked, getting to his feet. “It didn’t look good for Captain Paxton’s squad.”

“I take no joy in saying it, but I doubt we will see Ulysses Paxton again in this world,” Dickson said sadly. “Perhaps the next.”

The two soldiers joined their comrades and made their way from the broken remains of a farmhouse and across a muddy field, now rutted with tire tracks and churned by hundreds of marching boots. They joined a squad of men, huddled amongst a dreary strand of skeletal trees. A thin man with a pale, anxious face gave Dickson a weary salute.

“How are we doing, Spencer?” Dickson asked.

“We’ve found it, sir,” the English captain said, in a low, tired voice. “Other side of these woods, there’s a road and that leads right to the trenches… It’s like a graveyard…fighting must have been…”

He trailed off and shook his head.

Dickson nodded in understanding and gave the other man what he hoped was a comforting pat on the shoulder.

“Lead on. We’ve got both German troops and a storm approaching, and I don’t want to be caught in the open by either one.”

The trio joined the other half-dozen soldiers and made their way through the war-ravaged woods. They came out of the trees and into a wide field of mud dotted with trenches, foxholes, craters and wreckage. Jones took out a much abused-looking map and he and the two Captains, Dickson and Spencer, studied it anxiously.

“There! That one!” Spencer said, his voice cracking slightly with the stress, as he pointed towards the muddy scar in the ground.

“Right,” Dickson nodded. “Jones, you’re with Spencer and I; we’ll investigate. I want the rest of you men to spread out, scout the area and then join us at the trench.”

The soldiers listlessly wandered off, and the remaining three men quickly made their way across the field to their destination. The trench was at least nine feet deep and nearly as many feet across, a corridor of dirt bolstered up with boards and crude wooden ladders. Climbing down, they spotted three small, cave-like doorways that must have lead to living quarters and a field hospital.

The trio stood in the open corridor area, looking around, Spencer and Jones anxiously, Dickson more thoughtful. In fact, while the other two had their guns out, Dickson holstered his pistol and took out his pipe.

“Um…sir?” Jones muttered.

“What?” Dickson asked, looking up at the young soldier, then down at his pipe. “Ah, this.”

He smiled and held the pipe out.

“Don’t worry, I won’t light it. It just helps me think.”

The dry pipe clenched between his teeth, Dickson began walking around the trench. The other two soldiers scouted around, in stressful contrast to the intent, thoughtful man.

“What are we looking for?” Private Jones asked. “There’s no one here.”

“That’s the point,” Dickson said, not looking away from the ladder he was studying. He ran a finger across a rung and then rubbed the mud between his finger and thumb. “There was a massive campaign here, roughly a fortnight ago. We sent the Huns running for the hills, so to speak. So, where is everyone?”

“Who was supposed to be here?”

“Three dozen allied troops,” Dickson explained, turning to face the young soldier. “Left here to secure the area while the main body continued the push back effort, all gone. No one is sure where.”

“All of them?” Jones muttered, looking around. “Could they… Could they have…?”

“Deserted?” Dickson prompted with a grim smile. “You can say the word, Private, lightning won’t strike you. It has been considered. There have been mass desertions before, no one likes to talk about it, but that doesn’t magically make it go away.”

“So, did they all…uh… desert?” Jones asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Dickson said, going back to studying his surroundings. “Messages were sent, informing command of missing men. By the time I was contacted, nearly a dozen soldiers were gone and several others were reported dead.”

“So, we get here,” Private Jones said, gripping his rifle tighter as he looked around, “and everybody is gone. I got a bad feeling about this…!”

“Captain Dickson!” Spencer shouted, from one of the doorways. “I’ve found something!”

The former detective and the young soldier went into the narrow, dirt-walled room. It tunneled back into the earth roughly twenty feet. The walls were lined with crude wooden bunks draped with thin, rumpled grey blankets. One set of bunks had been converted into shelves littered with a disarray of medical instruments, empty bottles and extra blankets.

“Field hospital,” Dickson nodded, squeezing past Spencer.

“Yes,” the English Captain muttered. “In the back, on the left.”

Dickson made his way to the back. The last two bunks were occupied with the contorted bodies of two English soldiers.

“What happened?” Jones asked, peering over Dickson’s shoulder. “What killed them?”

“Not entirely sure,” Dickson said, past his pipe, as he examined the closest body. “No bullet marks or stab wounds, aside from what looks to be a shaving cut, this fellow shows no sign of violence. I wonder…?”

“What?” Jones asked his earlier anxiety pushed aside by interest in the current mystery and Dickson’s methods.

“They are both quite pale, even given the unhealthy conditions of trench living. It’s possible, they died from some illness.”

“What kind of…illness would wipe out several dozen men scattered across several trenches…?” Jones asked.

“Good question,” Dickson said, pausing from his investigation to give Jones a thoughtful, appraising glance. “Shows you’re thinking. There is unfortunately no plague that could wipe out that many men and then hide the bodies.”

“These two were the last to get sick and buried the other men?” Jones suggested.

“Possibly,” Dickson said, before taking a step away from the bodies and towards the doorway. “Captain Spencer, get the men’s attention, see if they’ve seen any sign of graves. Then maybe you could see about starting a fire. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could use a brief rest and a cup of that miserable coffee Simpson makes before getting to work.”

“Yes, I’ll get on it,” the thin English Captain said in a distracted tone before leaving the room.

“Um…is he OK?” Jones asked, hesitantly.

“Captain Spencer?” Dickson replied, absently. “Yes and no. He’s a good man, good soldier, but the war, I believe, is starting to take its toll. I was hoping he’d be of some help in this investigation, but now, I… don’t know. Captain Spencer is looking for answers and I worry where that search will lead him… That wasn’t much of answer, was it?”

“No, it …told me…something, I think.” Jones shrugged and exhaled. “So, not meaning any disrespect, but what are we doing here?”

Dickson favored Jones with another of his small, dry smiles and toyed with his pipe thoughtfully.

“I like you, Jones. You remind me of a friend of mine,” Dickson said, sitting on one of the empty bunks. “You’ve obviously traveled a bit, despite your youth, and the way you react to things… I’d say your father was either in some form of law enforcement or an academic… sorry, like the pipe, it’s force of habit.”

“My father is Professor Henry Jones Senior and he met your famous mentor, so I know enough about you, Captain Dickson, to worry about what’s going on here.”

“What do you think is going on here?” Dickson asked.

“More than I’ve been told.”

“Really, that’s a shocking change for the military,” Dickson chuckled.

“Even before we were attacked, behind the lines and in places where the fighting hasn’t touched,” Jones shrugged, “this assignment has always seemed strange, then you and Col. Renwick show up. You both have reputations…”

“And not ones for dealing with a simple desertion problem,” Dickson interrupted. “Very good. You’re right; this ‘incident’ is not the only time these strange disappearances have occurred. This is the third that we know of, details are vague…bit hard to be a detective in the middle of a war.”

“Men are disappearing from the trenches?” Jones asked.

“Yes. This is the largest count,” Dickson nodded, standing up. “But, it is also giving us a clue.”

He gestured for the younger soldier to join him and then, when they were standing back at one of the dead soldier’s body, Dickson pulled back the corpse’s collar. There was a strange mark across the side of its neck, a dark red thumb-sized mark with a trail of lighter red liquid trailing off it.

Jones frowned and turned a bit pale. He stepped back from the corpse.

“What is that?” he asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Dickson sighed, pulling the tattered blanket back over the dead soldier. “But it reminds me of something mentioned in my mentor’s files: The red leech.”

“Can’t say I like the sound of that.” Jones muttered.

“No, no, you shouldn’t,” Dickson said, in a low, concerned tone. “There was a reason my mentor’s biographer never published that case… All I can say is, I hope I’m wrong, as I can’t imagine anything worse having happened to these men.”

The detective sighed, put his pipe back in his overcoat pocket, and turned back to his young companion.

“Don’t know if I can learn anymore from these fellows,” he said, heading for the narrow doorway. “Let’s see if the others have returned, or if Spencer has got the fire going.”

Private Jones peered at the two blanket-draped forms for another couple moments, then shrugged and followed Dickson.

In the main part of the trench, they found a small fire smoking weakly, no sign of Simpson’s squad and Captain Spencer standing nearby, staring intently at a section of the trench wall.

“So, tea ready yet?” Dickson asked, with forced cheer. When this failed to get the other soldier’s attention, he stepped up till they were standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder. “Captain Spencer…Eliot, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“The wall,” the other soldier eventually muttered, not moving to look at Dickson. “What’s wrong with it?”

“You sure it’s something wrong with the wall?” Jones asked, under his breath, as he joined them.

Dickson gestured for the young soldier to be quiet.

“Eliot, what’s wrong with the wall?” Dickson asked intently.

“I… don’t know,” Spencer replied, his tone quiet, but tight with frustration. ‘There’s… less wooden supports and it looks…off…wrong somehow…I don’t…”

“Just tell me what you think,” Dickson soothed.

“The shape is wrong,” Spencer said.

Dickson followed Spencer’s gaze and then noticed the narrow doorway. His forehead furrowed in thought and he placed a hand on the pale soldier’s shoulder.

“Eliot, move away,” Dickson whispered intently. “Jones, find the others.”

“But…” Jones started.

The argument had no chance to progress further as the dirt wall in question burst open and a figure came leaping out at the trio. Who--or what—it was, they were given no time to guess, as their attacker was but a dirt and rag-clad blur.

Dickson pushed Spencer out of the way, taking the full brunt of the attack. He hit the ground hard enough to drive the breath from his body and leave him too disoriented to do more than put up a weak, token struggle.

“Death to the death-dealers!”

The attacker grabbed the detective by the coat lapels and slammed him back against the packed earth floor.

Spencer recovered from his stumble and, still dazed and wide-eyed, fumbled for his pistol. Jones pointed his rifle at the attacker, then quickly spun it around and clubbed him over the head with the stock.

In his frenzied state, the blow barely stunned the creature, but it was enough to allow Dickson to shove him away. Jones raised his rifle for another blow when the gunshot rang out. In the desolation of the trench, it sounded like a thunderclap, and the young private felt the heat of it passing as it sped past and struck the dirt-covered stranger.

He clutched a hand to a filthy, torn sleeve and blood trickled between his fingers.

Jones moved in and shoved their attacker with his gun butt. He quickly reversed the gun to cover the grotesque form.

“Stay down,” he said through teeth gritted as he fought to keep his voice steady.

“Kill the monster!” Spencer shouted, his eyes wide his hand holding the revolver shaking.

“No!” Dickson protested in a weak gasp, as he struggled to sit up. “Keep… uhh… him alive.”

“But he’s a monster!” Spencer exclaimed, his finger tightening on the rigger.

“He’s… uh… he’s our only witness!” Dickson said. “Look at his sleeve!”

Whether there was something there, or if it was only meant to distract the wild-eyed Spencer, Jones didn’t know, but when the detective staggered to his feet, he rushed forward to grapple with his fellow soldier, rather than their attacker. This left the young private with the daunting task of deciding the dirt-crusted form’s fate.

He glanced over at the two captains struggling for possession of the revolver, and then caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye.

The strange figure was struggling to get up, still clutching its wounded shoulder, its eyes still glinting with murderous rage.

“Murderers will be killed,” it muttered hoarsely. “Thieves will be robbed…!”

It was a man, Jones realized. Somewhere under the tattered rags, mud and blood was a man; a man quite intent and capable of killing the young soldier with his bare hands if he got to his feet.

“Look…just…stay down…please,” Jones muttered, his knuckles going white as he gripped his gun. Anxious sweat ran into his eyes and he knew he had seconds to make a choice. He took in the ragged, feral form and then caught a glimpse of a marking on the attacker’s sleeve.

“You better be worth it,” he muttered before striking the other man between the eyes with his rifle butt. The other dropped like a bag of mud.

“Nicely done,” Dickson said, coming up to the young soldier. He was leaning on a frowning Spencer for support.

“I still don’t see…?” the young soldier muttered.

“Yes, well you can’t let your anxiety get in the way of your otherwise sharp mind,” Dickson told him, hobbling up to the prone form. He lifted the attacker’s arm and brushed away the top layer of dirt. “There!”

“Military insignia…!” Jones breathed. “He’s one of us… well, me, as that looks like what’s left of an American uniform.”

‘Well spotted, Jones,” Dickson said, straightening up. “I believe this fellow is a Major. Jones, go see if you can gather up the other men. Spencer, see if you can find something we can use to restrain him.”

“You sure about this?” Jones asked.

“Yes, maybe, but just be quick.”

Jones slung his rifle over his shoulder and scrambled up the ladder. The trenches lined a field of mud. The rare patch of limp, brown foliage gave a vague hint of what used to grow there. Night had fallen and the sky hung overhead, heavy, dark and threatening. There were few stars able to break through, so the young soldier was forced to tentatively shuffle along, looking for hints of the trenches besides tumbling into one in the dark.

Jones stopped, gazing off into the distance, flickers of light, followed by distant booms, like fireflies and a coming thunderstorm, but he recognized the far distant frontline.

After a particularly prolonged barrage, Jones caught a glimpse of the nearest trench and crept towards it. He climbed down and made his way along.

“Anyone here?” he called, in a nervous voice. “Simpson? Collins? Aspen? Anyone…?”

He stumbled on a pile of discarded clothes and equipment, when it snored and he realized it was one of his fellow soldiers.

“D’oh…?” the fellow muttered, sitting up. “My turn at watch already…?”

“Simpson?”

“Huh… Jones…?” the other man muttered, getting to his feet. “What’s going on?”

“Where are the others?” Jones asked the disheveled soldier.

“They’re right… um… around here… somewhere…?” Simpson said, running a hand through his thinning hair and adjusting his glasses.

“OK, stay here, by the ladder. I’ll go look around.”

The trench, though no different in layout than the one he’d just left, gave Jones a feeling of foreboding. Each shadow hid a threat and each doorway lead into a trap.

Several nerve-wracking minutes later, he was back by his comrade.

“You sure they were going to stay here?” Jones asked Simpson. “Not check out the others?”

“Uh… no, they checked them already,” The disoriented soldier replied. “They said we should set up a guard post here, in this one.”

“Great,” Jones muttered. “Come on, let’s get back to Captain Dickson.”

When they returned, the fire was going strong and the three men were seated around it, Captain Spencer nervously holding a rifle, the mysterious major in rags bound with belts taken off the dead soldiers’ uniforms slumped senseless. Captain Dickson, stirring a tin cup of tea with his pipe stem, sat on a short wooden stool across from the bound man. He glanced up at Jones then returned to studying their prisoner.

“More good news, I assume?” the detective asked, sipping his tea.

“The other men are gone… there’s only Simpson…”

“Well, that’s comforting. Come; get warm… Simpson go get some sleep. There are empty bunks to your left… your other left.”

“If it’s any comfort,” Jones said, pulling up a small wooden box to use as a seat. “It looks like the others deserted, rather than met a grisly fate.”

“Small comfort,” Spencer muttered.

“Well…there’s Simpson,” Jones shrugged.

“Simpson’s an idiot,” Spencer said. ‘Which means he’ll most likely survive this war, go find a wife and bring yet another idiot into the world.”

“As you can see, the mood is not overly optimistic here,” Dickson said, pouring Jones a mug of watery tea. “I’m hoping, once the Major decides to stop feigning unconsciousness, we can get some answers.”

“He is…?” Jones asked, startled.

The ragged soldier raised his head and peered intently at Dickson, who returned his gaze while chewing his pipe thoughtfully.

“Tea?” Dickson asked after several minutes.

“I am thirsty,” the other man said, nodding.

“Um… can we trust him, unbound?” Spencer asked, anxiously fingering his rifle.

“I think we may need to,” Dickson said, dumping out the dregs of his tea and pouring a fresh cup. He nodded for Jones to set the major free.

Once the belts were undone, he rubbed his wrists and then held out a dirty hand to take the tin cup.

“Your name, Major?” Dickson asked.

“Wentworth, Richard Wentworth.”

Dickson nodded and then went around the circle, introducing the others. Each man nodded a hesitant greeting. Wentworth gave each a grim, studying look in return, before putting his gaze back upon the detective.

“What happened here?” Spencer asked. “Where are your men?”

“Dead,” Wentworth muttered. “Or running for their lives.”

“What killed them?” Jones asked. “Was it illness or…?”

Dickson gestured to silence the young soldier. He leaned forward, his unlit pipe between his teeth.

“You saw what killed your men?” He asked, quietly.

Wentworth shook his head.

“It… came in the night,” Wentworth said, in an unemotional voice. “We’d sometimes think we heard someone…something moving or smell something…and then when we’d search the next morning, someone would be missing. Later, we tried hunting…it, we’d find a body with that mark… As our numbers dwindled we sent messengers for help, we set traps and eventually I dug into the walls of the trench, feeling that if I could not win, but I could survive… I could warn others… ”

“The Red Leech…” Jones breathed.

“The what?” Wentworth snapped, glaring at Jones. “Do you know what it is? What killed my men?”

“We have theories, not answers” Dickson replied. “The attacks have similarities to an incident in the past, but things have been happening and we’ve not been given enough time to think. Aspects of what has happened here match what happened during the infamous ‘red leech’ murders: several prominent men killed in London, with marks on them like those on the bodies of your men.”

Dickson paused to gesture towards the doorway where the bodies were stored, with his pipe.

“Rumors were rampant as to what was causing the deaths: everything from exotic poisons, to an actual red leech, to blaming the deaths on vampires and witchcraft. My mentor was able to trace the deaths to a mundane, human murderer, and, while I am still unsure of the cause of death, things seem to point to there also being a human agent behind them…”

All three of the other men spoke up, in a variety of tones from disbelief to anger.

“If you think I…!” Wentworth snarled.

“But, then who…?” asked Jones.

“A man would do something like that to his fellow man…?” Spencer muttered, bleakly.

“Gentlemen,” Dickson said, his tone just sharp enough to catch their attention, and cut short any further distractions. “We are in a bit of a dire situation. There are a mere handful of us to deal with a very cunning and dangerous enemy.”

“Do you know who… uh… what has been killing these men?” Spencer asked.

“No, but I have some ideas,” Dickson said. “Whatever we are facing seems to rely on using fear to achieve its goals. We need to keep our wits about us, we need to think.”

“Think…?” Spencer muttered in a faint tone, equal parts thoughtful and fearful. “You believe that we’ll find answers amidst all this death and horror…?”

“I do,” Dickson nodded. “But, I also believe, we must stay alive to warn the high command and we are currently in a precarious position for that.”

“We can’t go wandering around in the dark,” Jones said. “Even if the… whatever it is, isn’t out there, between the dark, the coming storm and the shifts in the front line, I wouldn’t give anybody good odds of getting a message through.”

“We don’t seem to be much safer if we stay here,” Spencer commented, bleakly.

“We are dead if we stay here,” Wentworth growled. “Better to die by a bullet…”

“Actually,” Dickson interrupted, “I find it better to use your brain and not die at all. Why don’t we try that plan?”

“That plan gets my vote,” Jones nodded.

“I’m not saying we should just lie down and give up,” Wentworth snapped. “Just that I know something about the horror we are facing and you need to be aware…”

“We have all seen our share of horror, Major,” Spencer said, quietly, yet fiercely. “And we are painfully aware that we will see more, most likely, before the night is through. Captain Dickson is correct in that we would be better served dealing with it than wallowing.”

“So, besides setting up a watch and getting as many guns together that we can, what can we do?” Jones asked. “I’m willing to stand and fight, but how do we plan when we aren’t sure what we are fighting? Do we dig more holes in the walls and just try to stay safe till morning?”

“I was not the only one that hid,” Wentworth explained. “Some did it to stay safe, others of us, in the hope of catching the killer. As you can see, it did little to improve our chances of survival. We must fight.”

“So, what next?” Jones asked. “If this is being done by the Huns, then all we need to do is stay on guard. A smaller group like this makes it harder for them to get at us.”

“But, if this isn’t the Huns…?” Spencer asked.

“Then we have fewer options,” Dickson nodded thoughtfully. “Spencer, you should see what we have for medical supplies. If this is merely a poison or plague…”

“I’m going to check on Simpson,” Jones said, getting to his feet, at the same time as the British captain. “I’m also going to see if I can find anything to eat. Don’t know about the rest of you, but I could go for a sandwich.”

“The boy has the makings of a soldier,” Wentworth nodded, before downing the rest of his tea. “Can we count on Spencer?”

“Since we don’t have a choice, I am going to say yes,” Dickson told him, poking at the fire with a stick. He then tossed a few more pieces of scrap wood on it.

“We might want to extinguish that,” Wentworth suggested.

“Yes, wouldn’t want a bright target that our enemy would head right to, now would we?” Dickson said.

“You just may be as smart as people claim you are,” Wentworth said, after a pause. He then got to his feet. “I hope you are.”

“So do I,” Dickson replied.

“Just in case, you aren’t, I’ll get my guns.

The others went about their tasks, working to be prepared for whatever may come, as well as distracting themselves from the fear and worry they felt,

Harry Dickson sat by the fire, finally giving in and lighting his pipe. As he slowly puffed, his mind raced, fitting together the few crumbs of information they had managed to gather, hoping he had enough clues to allow him solve the puzzle. He had ideas, but without enough information, he was unsure how to plan. Dickson was doing all he could to keep the others focused and their spirits up, but with so little to work with, even he wondered at their chances of seeing the sunrise.

Wentworth and Jones rejoined Dickson by the fire, while Spencer remained in the questionable shelter of the trench sick quarters. No one even considered waking up Private Simpson. His snores mixed with the sounds of distant thunder and bombing.

Wentworth had assembled an impressive collection of guns and ammunition, which he loaded and checked over as they talked and waited. Jones alternated between bites from his sandwich and loading his rifle. He had brought out several other guns, tucking a couple pistols into his belt as well as offering some to Dickson. The detective took a second pistol and then suggested offering the others to Spencer.

The trio went quietly about their tasks, keeping talk to a minimum, while every new sound grabbed their attention.

Jones moved away from the fire and, with his back against the packed dirt wall, used his coat as a blanket and tried to get some rest.

“Have you solved the mystery yet?” Wentworth asked, not looking up from his gun.

“Solved… no,” Dickson replied, also not looking up from his task. “But I have narrowed it down to the most likely few theories and am preparing accordingly.”

He tucked his pistol in his coat pocket and held up a freshly sharpened wooden stake, which he then added to what the other soldier had mistakenly thought was a pile of kindling.

 

Jones awoke with a start and was prevented from calling out by a hand clamped over his mouth. As his eyes adjusted, he saw Wentworth huddled close to him.

“Keep still,” he breathed into Jones’ ear. “There’s something here!”

He cautiously moved his hand away from the younger soldier’s mouth. Both men strained their eyes and ears trying to catch a hint of what was moving out in the night. Jones was about to protest that there was nothing there, when he caught a glimpse of… something. It was the faintest hint, a shadow against the night sky, there one second, gone the next, as it moved about between the trenches.

Staying pressed against the dirt wall, Wentworth and Jones picked up their guns and got slowly to their feet. Wentworth nudged the other soldier and gestured for him to move back down the wall, towards the hole that led into the narrow storage chamber.

Jones’ eyes darted about, searching for any hope that he could get Dickson’s attention while avoiding that of their mysterious visitor. No route presented itself. Jones gritted his teeth and cocked his rifle as slowly and quietly as he could. He was anxious that every movement, every breath, would set something off. He wasn’t sure what would happen, but his imagination didn’t seem able to come up with any good options.

In comparison, Wentworth was like a statue. Jones kept glancing at him, hoping for a sign of what he planned, what their next move was, but the young soldier was having his doubts that Wentworth was blinking or even breathing.

Whatever was up there, moving amongst the trenches wafted about, like some kind of predatory will o’ the wisp.

Jones’ mind was still racing, trying to figure out what either the detective or the ragged soldier were planning, and how he could help, or at least not get in the way, and still manage to stay alive.

He felt Wentworth’s shoulder touch his and they sank back into the shadowy depths of the narrow room.

Something drifted down into the trench. It did not leap or climb down, but rather fluttered, like a discarded cloak or a shadow. Yet, when it touched down within the muddy trench, it was obviously a solid form, no ghost but someone or something that walked the Earth.

Jones tightened his grip on his rifle, unsure if bullets would have any effect against this apparition.

Once it reached the floor of the trench, it moved like a man, tall and dark, as it stepped closer to the sleeping form of Harry Dickson, yet seeming to be no more than a darker patch of night come amongst them. It crept closer to the detective until it stood, towering over him.

Dickson blinked and looked up sleepily at the dark wraith.

“Ah,” he nodded. “Shame. I was hoping it wasn’t you.”

He flung something in the intruder’s face, which caused it to stagger backwards a step. As soon as Dickson had thrown himself away from it, Wentworth moved forward and began firing. He emptied both pistols into the intruder’s back, then dropped them and brought up his rifle.

The intruder spun. He was a tall man, well over six feet. His hair and beard were black as the midnight sky, hanging limply around his bone-white face. His eyes were blood-red and Jones could swear they almost seemed to glow in the weak moonlight.

Despite the amount of lead he had absorbed, the creature seemed more annoyed than in pain.

His thin, blood-smeared lips parted slightly, revealing a pair of oversized canines that glinted like polished marble.

“Goddamn,” Jones breathed, bring his rifle up to his shoulder. “What is he?”

He and Wentworth fired. The tall creature staggered, but never seemed more than inconvenienced by the hail of bullets. Jones was struggling to keep steady and his shots only seemed to be winging the cloaked wraith. Wentworth, for all his rage, was focused and controlled. His shots were placed with rapid precision.

The tall man’s head snapped back and when he straightened, his left eye was a bloody hole. Another shot and he fell to one knee.

Captain Spencer stood in the other doorway, peppering the intruder with bullets as well, and the cloaked figure soon sank to its knees, hissing like an angry cat.

“What the Hell is that?” Jones snapped.

“That,” Dickson said, shouting a bit, as the barrage of gunfire was deafening, “is the late Sir Francis Varney.”

“You know this… creature?” Wentworth snarled, as he reloaded.

“The word you are looking for is vampyre,” Dickson said, moving to join them. “And yes, I’ve encountered several and Sir Francis and I crossed paths many years back.”

“Wait… vampires are real?” Jones exclaimed, staring at the form on the muddy floor of the trench. “Like…like Dracula?”

“Not really,” Dickson said. “Not to say that Dracula isn’t real. Unfortunately, he’s far too real, but Varney here is unique, even among vampires.”

All four soldiers paused, watching with stunned horror as Varney struggled to stand up.

“How… how can he still be…?” Spencer muttered, frantically reloading.

“A bullet is not going to stop him,” Dickson advised, patting his pockets thoughtfully. “I doubt we have enough ammunition to stop such a creature as Varney.”

“Let’s find out,” Wentworth muttered, stepping forward.

As he raised his rifle, Varney surged to his feet. He made no sound, no rush of breath, and no flutter of fabric. It made him seem all the more unreal and frightening.

When he came at them, the vampire didn’t seem to run, or even hurry, it was almost as though he floated without his feet leaving the ground. He was amongst the soldiers before they could do more than fire a few shots. With a backhanded slap, Varney sent Jones staggering back against the dirt wall.

Wentworth continued to fire his rifle, even as the towering vampire grabbed him by the shirtfront and shook him like a rag doll. He hurled the dirty soldier away and advanced on the detective.

Harry Dickson struggled to look nonplused. He emptied his revolver into Varney’s chest, which only caused the aristocratic monster to stumble. In that brief moment, he dropped his gun and reached into his coat and came out with two vials of liquid. As Varney reached for him, Dickson brought his hands together, clapping the vampire on either side of the head. The vials cracked, spilling the clear liquid across Varney’s face. The vampire snarled in pain and flinched back, his skin burning where the liquid touched it.

Jones and Spencer raced forward and struggled with Varney, attempting to grab his arms and bind them. With an almost casual shrug, Varney flung them away. One hand rubbed at his face, while the other groped about blindly for Dickson.

Keeping an eye on the vampire, the detective rummaged through his pockets, coming out with a small cloth bag, which he untied and then also tossed into Varney’s face.

The vampire made a gagging sound, deep in his throat. Dickson intently watched and hoped that he had stopped the blood-thirsty creature. Dickson was caught a glancing blow by Varney’s bone-white fist and dropped to his knees, stunned.

Jones struggled to raise his head. He’d had the wind knocked out of him and there was a dull throbbing in his right arm. He struggled to sit up and find his weapon, any weapon. The others were scattered, sprawled and senseless about the trench and Varney, bloody but unbowed, his mouth opened hungrily, was still advancing on the helpless detective.

Scrabbling in the mud, Jones grabbed a pistol and, wincing in pain, raised it.

Before he could fire, a second figure leapt down into the trench, towering over the vampire, standing at least seven feet tall. He sported a beard that reached down nearly to his waist, while his clothes had last been in fashion in the late 1700s. He held a wooden staff, nearly as tall as he was.

The bearded man spun the staff, so that one end gently nudged Jones back, while the other end, which was sharpened, was driven through Varney’s back.

The vampire arched his back, his grotesque mouth moving in a silent scream. The bearded man yanked the staff free then swung it, catching Varney behind the knees.

The vampire toppled over, landing on his back in the mud.

The old man planted a worn boot heel on the vampire’s chest to keep him down and then raised his staff.

Jones scrambled away till his back was against the dirt wall, he grabbed hold of another pistol, while trying to fight through the daze he was in, to figure out some way to help his comrades, or this newcomer, or even make sense of what was going on. He glanced around frantically, but the others all seemed to still be unconscious. Jones glanced up and saw, standing on the edge of the trench a ghostly figure.

A little girl, dressed like the bearded man, in clothes from days gone by. Her gaze rested upon the young soldier and she gave him a little wave.

Confused and feeling light-headed, Jones waved back. The ghostly child smiled at him and then gestured for him to stay where he was.

Jones nodded and then found his attention grabbed when the bearded man spoke.

“I have spent some time following your trail,” he told the vampire, in a stern, sad voice. “And I warned you what would happen if you ever returned to your bloody ways…”

He raised his staff and drove it into the vampire’s chest. Varney flailed and retched, as his ribs cracked like dry sticks and his pale flesh tore. Jones could see that the wooden staff had passed through the vampire’s body and now held him staked to the ground.

The bearded man stood over the still form of Varney for several moments in sad contemplation, and then shook his head and wiped his hands. He turned away from the vampire, taking an ancient looking flask from a satchel that hung at his side. He took a healthy drink then moved over and kneeled before Jones.

“Drink, it’ll help your wounds,” he said.

The young soldier nodded dumbly and took a sip. He thought the liquid was wine, but smoother and fruitier than anything he’d tasted since coming to France. His aches melted away as warmth filled his body.

“Good lad,” the old man said, a small smile fighting its way through his voluminous beard. He left the flask with Jones. “Give some to your friends when they wake. They should all live to see the coming dawn.”

He got to his feet and walked back to Varney’s body. He tugged the staff free from the vampire’s heart and then, with little visible effort, hefted the wretched, gruesome body over his shoulder. He made his way carefully to the edge of the trench, passed his staff up to the ghostly little girl and then shifting his grotesque burden climbed the ladder.

At the top of the trench, he turned and looked down at the battered soldiers.

“Keep that flask well,” he nodded at Jones. “I will want it back, the next time we meet.”

He then extended his free hand to the ghostly little girl and they turned and walked away.

Jones slumped, his body and nerves having reached their limit.

 

He came out of the darkness to feel a light breeze on his face, smell something cooking and feeling pretty good for someone who had spent the night in a muddy trench after being pummeled by a vampire.

Dickson sat before the fire, thoughtfully poking at something in a battered frying pan, his pipe clenched between his teeth. Wentworth sat, sprawled on the ground, cleaning and reloading his arsenal from last night.

“Morning,” Dickson said. “Care for some breakfast?”

Jones nodded and moved over to sit by the small makeshift cooking fire.

“What happened?” he asked, gratefully accepting a tin mug of weak tea.

“That is the question,” Dickson nodded. “We’re all alive, there are traces about that show Sir Francis left here wounded, but none of us have any idea what saved us… I’d like to take credit, but my precautions did little more than cause him to pause slightly.”

“Where’s Captain Spencer?” Jones asked, not sure what happened last night or how to articulate it to his comrades without sounding crazy.

“We sent him out with a message,” Dickson explained. “Private Simpson went, to keep him ‘safe.’ I thought having a task would help.”

“Which one?” Jones asked.

“I fear Private Simpson is beyond our help, so I hope this will distract Spencer from the questions that plague him before he starts down a dark path,” Dickson shrugged. “But, we all must deal with adversity in our own way. I think Major Wentworth has found his in a very different, and dangerous direction…”

“There is evil in the world,” Wentworth said, not looking up from his task. “You can hide from it, but I prefer to meet it face to face.”

Dickson shrugged and sipped his tea.

“What about you, private Jones?” he asked.

“I’ve got questions,” Jones said, hesitantly. “Maybe I’ll get some answers.”

“One can only ask and hope,” Dickson said, absently.

“So, Captain Dickson,” Jones said. “How much did you know about what we were walking into?”

Dickson brought his attention to the young soldier and gave him a brief smile.

“Still thinking…good,” the detective said. “Unfortunately, as you saw, I didn’t know near enough.”

“So, there are vampires and they work for the Germans…?” Jones muttered. “How do you fight that?”

“There are only a few vampires allied with the Hun,” Dickson explained. “Few on our side as well, now that I think about it…but, to deal with them, and similar threats, the high command has gathered together myself and a variety of people like myself, with…um…specialized skills and experience, for when incidents like this occur. We didn’t know what was taking the men from the trenches, so there were various groups investigating; Colonel Renwick’s’ was one, Colonel Wyndham-Price is in another. Unfortunately, the mark on the dead men’s throats was so similar to the one described in the Red Leech case, it clouded my thinking and I didn’t see the real threat in time.”

“So, you guys have specialized skills, but still have to rely on luck, like the rest of us,” Jones nodded. “Lucky your friend with the beard showed up when he did then.”

“My friend with the beard…?” Dickson muttered, looking quizzically at the young soldier.

“Yeah, tall guy, old fashioned clothes…had someone with him, a little girl…what?” Jones said questioningly. “Was he one of ‘our’ vampires’?”

“No,” Dickson said. “Isaac is in fact, so much more. Interesting that he interacted with you, but none of the rest of us. You might be just the kind of person the group I work with could use.”

“Nothing personal, Mr. Dickson, but I don’t think so,” Jones shrugged. “I think I’d rather do my best to just survive this war, go back home and, if my father is still speaking to me and hasn’t changed the locks, maybe see about going back to school. This mission has shown me that I have an interest in history and investigating, but that I will happily go the rest of my life without crossing paths with the supernatural, ever again.”

“You’ll have to let me know how that works out for you,” Dickson nodded, lighting his pipe.