UNDEAD REQUIEM

The old wooden church had seen better days. The paint on its warped cladding was peeling like the skin on a careless sunbather while moss grew on its roof like an angry rash, its surface pockmarked by missing shingles. Like many churches its windows were stained, not as those others with bejewelled segments of lead-bound glass but with the accumulated crud of long neglect. Bird crap smears, resembling the semen on a cheep whore’s bed sheets, vied with blackened streaks born of dust laden rain, akin to the mascara infused tears of unrequited love. Darker still, in meaning rather than tone, were the rust coloured splashes of barely dried blood.

Its interior was little better. The straight lines of the spiders’ webs festooning the ceiling were in stark contrast to the softly contoured dust piles which had slowly built up in the corners where walls and floor embraced. The floor itself was scuffed and dirty while the once varnished pews were peeling in passable imitation of the exterior walls. The prayer cushions, where there were any, were frayed and filthy, their surfaces permanently indented by the knees of countless supplicants.

Despite giving the appearance of being long abandoned the sorry looking church was still very much in use, for the time being at least. Father Pat Mackay had been the town’s priest for twenty-seven years and today, as on so many days past, he was addressing the faithful. In better days the town had only boasted a population of around two hundred, less and less of who were regular church goers, so his congregations had never been much to write home about. Now, with the town brought to the verge of extinction, the best he could muster was a paltry seventeen worshippers, most of whom were currently scattered amongst the tired pews listening to him speak.

Much like his church Father Mackay looked past his best. His greying hair was straggly, his chin was unshaven and his vestments, like the cushions, were frayed. His voice though was strong and his eyes gleamed with a youthful fervour at odds with both his age and his dishevelled appearance. It was the strength of his voice that held his congregation, keeping all of them firmly in the moment. Being Wednesday this was no regular service; instead it was a requiem for seven of the town’s inhabitants, the same seven people responsible for the town’s near annihilation.

That’s right, annihilation. This had been no gradual decline over a span of years, indeed just six weeks ago the town had been strong, all its houses were inhabited, its shops were thriving, the diner was busy and the liquor at Tansy Bar, the town’s single watering hole, was in full flow. Then Henry Fremont came to town, driving up Main Street late one night with nary a care in the world. If only he’d kept on driving, but Main Street was a dead end, only one road connected the town to the outside world. The residents liked it that way.

In this world of the global economy and instant communication the town was truly a backwater, keeping itself to itself. Mayor Capshaw made the laws, Sheriff Johnstone enforced them, Judge Perkins punished those who transgressed. The rest of civilisation could do what it liked.

That was one reason Henry Fremont’s visit was no coincidence; the town’s spiritual decline, as evidenced by the state of Father Mackay’s church, was the other. The reason he came a calling in the middle of the night was simple: Henry Fremont was a vampire. By sunrise he was gone, his work completed; he’d had a busy night. Laurie Watkins never saw that dawn; Fremont had drunk her dry to sustain him on his journey. In his stead seven more vampires had been brought into existence, seven people drained of blood virtually to the point of death only to be rejuvenated, indeed reborn, by a draught of Fremont’s own blood. Mayor Capshaw, Sheriff Johnstone and Judge Perkins were among them and it was of these seven unfortunates that the priest now spoke; it was a requiem for the undead.

Father Mackay had decided it was time to abandon the town and head for the nearest city, taking his followers with him. His was the voice they listened to, his the vision they would follow. He could not leave, however, without first saying mass for the undead vampires Henry Fremont had created. After all, they had not asked for it to happen, they were but innocent victims devoid of choice. Yes they had conducted the killing spree which followed but that was for food and food alone. The lion that kills the gazelle is not evil; he kills because it is his nature. The farmer who kills a pig to provide a meal for his family is not damned; he kills because it is his “right”. So it is with the vampires they’d become; it is their nature and their right.

As for their victims, their bodies had been buried, their lives had been eulogised, their souls had been blessed. When at some future time the seven vampires likewise perished, be it Holly Brooks the school teacher, Tansy Price the owner of Tansy Bar, town doctor George Waite or any of the others, there would be no such remembrance. And perish one day they would, be it by fire, the merciless rays of the sun or a stake through the heart. For the people they once were, for the kindnesses they had bestowed, for the love they had shared, for the good things they had achieved, Father Mackay would remember them now.

‘And so it is we remember them, Amen.’

For a moment he stood in silence, his head bowed. In the distance the clock on the old schoolhouse chimed midnight.

‘So begins the final day in our beloved town. Yet, before we say goodbye to our homes for the final time there is one last task to complete.’

Even as he spoke there was sudden movement at the back of the church. Sheriff Johnstone and Doctor Waite stepped from the shadows either side of the doors and dropped a heavy wooden bar securely in place. At the same time Mayor Capshaw and Judge Perkins slipped from behind the curtain that led to the vestry while Holly Brooks and Tansy Price jumped effortlessly down from the high ceiling beam on which they had latterly observed their own requiem. The screams began immediately.

The mortal congregation, all that remained of the town’s population, were easy prey, trapped as they were in the one place they’d thought they’d be safe. Just seven years old, having just seen her mother slain right before her eyes, Molly Carpenter ran screaming to the front of the hall.

'Save me Father,' she cried hysterically, falling into the priest’s open arms.

He held her for a few seconds, a brief window of calm in the deadly maelstrom enveloping the church. Gently he soothed her, rubbing his hand on her arm, kissing her forehead, pushing her long blonde tresses back behind her ears.

‘There, there sweetheart; it will soon all be over.’

Casting his gaze briefly toward heaven, he plunged his fangs into her throat.

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COPYRIGHT DM PAMMENT 12th APRIL 2010