The Division of the Damned
A Novel by Richard Rhys Jones
Copyright © 2011 Richard Rhys Jones
"Assyria knew the vampire long ago, and he lurked amid the primeval forests of Mexico before Cortes came. He is feared by the Chinese, by the Indian and the Malay alike; whilst Arabian story tells us again and again of the ghouls who haunt ill-omened sepulchres and lonely cross-ways to attack and devour the unhappy traveller.”
The Vampyre, His Kith and Kin, Montague Summers, 1928
Prologue
Russia 1944
They flew from tree to tree, as silent and cold as the churning snow around them. Armed only with blade and tooth, they darted through the night with supernatural grace. The dark held no secrets for them as the day held no mercy and slick and practised, they spread into formation as the quarry neared.
On a densely wooded hill five miles away from the German lines, a lone Russian guard stamped his feet to ward off the cold. It was the dead man’s stag, two till three, and he was bone tired. They had driven all day before halting to set up the communications post, then he had serviced his wagon, set up the tented area for the officers and helped position the radio masts. Now, after only three hours sleep, he was back on guard duty and he couldn’t see further than his dire need of a cigarette.
The war would soon be over he reckoned. A couple more months and then he could go back to his hometown. There he would find a wife, start a family and work on a farm or in a factory. He would be a hero and on family gatherings, he would regale them all with stories of how he single-handedly took on the might of the Fascist army and conquered them.
Like pouncing arachnids, they dropped from the trees on the unsuspecting camp. The lone Russian’s last sensation was the warm gush of blood spurting from his now lacerated throat and the voracious teeth that greedily violated the wound. As the blackness of death dimmed his sight, he heard the first screams of the officers and men he had been guarding as the enemy wreaked carnage and death.
With steel and fang, they killed and fed the way they had always done.
No mercy, only butchery and then gorging on the blood of the fallen.
Chapter 1
Berlin Early 1944
Newly promoted Standartenführer Von Struck marvelled at the pretentious grandeur of his surroundings. After three years of virtually constant fighting, three years of mud, horror and atrocity, he felt almost affronted by the luxurious opulence of the building he was in. The marble flooring and collection of busts and statues were a world apart from the stark and unforgiving hell of the Eastern Front.
Chic young secretaries walked briskly up and down the spotless corridors, themselves dressed in uniforms so smart and clean that they could have been hospital whites. The hours he had spent pressing his tailor made uniform and polishing his boots counted for nothing in their eyes, and they treated him with the polite disdain office personnel affect when dealing with the blue-collar soldiers of the front.
Even the Iron Cross pinned to his tunic was just one of many. "How does a desk jockey get an Iron Cross?” He wondered idly.
Opposite him, a tall, effeminate looking Luftwaffe officer flirted with a giggling, young secretary. The same giggling secretary he had asked a quarter of an hour before where he was to report to. He had waited long enough and decided to ask again. The Luftwaffe officer whispered something quickly into the girl’s ear as Von Struck approached and the secretary tittered again before looking up.
