Once A Hunter...

Prolouge

“The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war.”

- Douglas MacArthur

***

Tuscaloosa, Alabama
1837

Elizabeth Hastings watched the guards drag the hunter to his feet, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. She felt nothing but sympathy for the man who had led the small stand in hunter defiance. In the organisation called the Government, defiance was not tolerated.

She had refused to participate in the revolt, but not for the reasons she wished. The ringleader was a good man, but he didn’t have the strength, the knowledge or the numbers to do what was needed.

Besides which, the revolt had only made matters worse.

Another band of hunters was messaged – one whose captain, a generation one, enjoyed witnessing the colours of blood. The manor had been raided and its five occupants purged, leaving Elizabeth with a stomach weighed with stones.

She had not participated. Peterson, the Government guard and her escort, had ordered her innocence. The team had not been so lucky.

Heavy shackles were clasped around their feet and wrists in an attempt to diminish their genetically enhanced capabilities. The metal, rough and bloodied, had already rubbed their skin raw.

It took five Government guards to put each of them in the cart. Four guards held the man’s head, arms and legs. The last opened the wagon before sliding the wooden cover into place. Once the man’s hands were tied to iron rings on the outside of the wagon, the cover was locked into place so that no one but the guards could remove it. They were pinned.

One of the guards prodded the condemned ringleader with his sword, then retreated, skittish, at his soft hiss of anger. The others laughed and one unsheathed his own sword to sample the blood of the man.

“Leave him be,” Elizabeth said hoarsely, hugging her torso tighter. She did not wish to witness this, but she had been ordered to stay put until the vampiric bodies had been removed. It was torment; to want to help them, these hunters who, like her, had seen the injustice of their actions – yet plagued with the knowledge that to do so would be treachery.

One by one, the guards turned to face her, but many averted their gazes. Unlike the other hunters, this one was favoured by the Government. The guard with the sword was undoubtedly unaware as he scowled at her with a mixture of disgust and irritation.

“What’d you say, girlie?”

“This man’s crimes will be met with punishment. But until then you are required to guarantee his safety.” Elizabeth gestured to the shackled ringleader. “You cannot do so if he is bleeding to death.”

The guard sneered, raising his sword. “Can’t I?”

“Elizabeth.” Peterson rounded the wagon, his sharp eyes jumping from her to the guard. His eyes narrowed and he bellowed, “You, what do you think you are doing?”

“Nothing sir,” the guard stood rigid, loosening his hold on his sword.

The other guards followed suit, their posture firm and their faces passive, in order to acknowledge the higher authority. Peterson raked his eyes over the man and scowled.

“If you touch my prisoners again, then by God, you will replace them.”

The men didn’t know what happened to those – whether hunter or human – who disobeyed the government. However, the rumours that followed their punishment was enough to make any seasoned military man’s stomach clench in horror.