Pilatus the Damned

He wakes in a cemetery in front of a white marble gravestone that marks his resting place for the past three centuries. Although the letters are faded, he adopts the name Pilatus from the weathered stone façade. He realizes he is dead-alive and embraces the newfound power his undead existence allows. The consumption of blood increases his strength, and so, he is the first of his kind: vampire.He soon begins to question: Who was I before I awakened to become this creature? Who made me and why? So begins a two thousand year journey in Pilatus's search for truth, fueled by horrific recurring nightmares. He travels far and wide in search of answers, making the acquaintance of both Bram Stoker and Charles Dickens. He even makes an enemy of the Roman Catholic Church, who pursues him relentlessly.Pilatus eventually meets Phaedra, who becomes the partner he seeks. Although he feels love is out of the question, he allows her to guide him through his search for identity from Constantinople to Europe and all the way to New York City. The question remains: why did Pilatus awaken from his centuries-long sleep? And who is the deviant mind that would create an immortal monster who feeds on blood to survive?

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Pilatus the DamnedBy R. D. AmundsoniUniverseCopyright © 2015 R.D. AmundsonAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4917-6287-5CHAPTER 1The man sat stone still on the marble bench at the top of the sloped and moon-bathed cemetery. He was easy enough to see in the moonlight, and it was easy enough to see he had a befuddled look on what once was a face, but now looked more like a skull with leathery skin stretched tight over the prominent cheekbones. He stood up, stiff and creaky, nothing more than bones covered with taut skin, and approached a grave marker ten feet away. Like a rusted hinge he bent at the waist to read the name on it, but time had weathered away some letters. It read:P us ilatHe ran a bony finger across the text but felt nothing to give him more clues. The puzzled look remained on his face. It was apparent to him that the grave had been his for centuries, considering the faded name once chiseled into hard white marble.A vulgar memory dropped into his perplexed mind. He watched himself fall on a sword, his bowels like a nest of red-coiled serpents spilling out onto the dry barren ground. He reeled backwards from the jolt of the shock. A misted memory of being mortal and dying flashed across his mind."Why would I do such a thing?" he asked himself. He did not know who he had been or who he now was. He did not know what he was. He felt as though he had awakened from a dream only to enter a nightmare, a paradox, a puzzle that perhaps was beyond solving.Down the sloped hill, randomly scattered grave markers sat upright. Off to his right a whitened sepulcher stood bleached and stark against the night sky.He pondered.He reached down with a hand of bone covered in leather to feel his shroud. Grasping a piece of the once white cloth, he lifted it up and let it flutter in the newborn breeze. He looked left, then right, then straight ahead and over the tops of the grave markers to the hundreds of twinkling lights at the foot of the hill where a village nestled in apparent peace and safety.A sudden furnace of rage, fueled by his confusion, shook him from head to foot. He stood up with remarkable swiftness, tore his grave marker from the earth, lifted it over his head, and hurled it against the trunk of a nearby stout tree.That satisfied his burning rage and his mind returned to near rational as he looked at his arms which, like the rest of him, were nothing but skin and bones.A live healthy strong man could not have torn that marker from its spot and hurled it against that tree, he thought with amazement. The very idea that he did filled him with vigor. He ran the fingers of his left hand over his right palm, and then ran the fingers of his right hand over the palm of his left, and felt no calluses. These were not the hands of a working man, but of perhaps an artisan or an official of some sort, he thought.Whatever he was, it seemed he had no choice in the matter.He walked with less stiffness through the velvety darkness of the night over to the door of the sepulcher perched silent off to the right of his grave. He grasped the bronze handle and gave it a mild tug only to find it locked. He gave a mighty pull, breaking the lock and opening the door. He stepped inside the dank and musty tomb. Three long narrow vertical windows allowed enough moonlight for him to see a coffin set upon a stone foundation. The top came to his waist. He paused a moment considering what to do next, and then with one hand tore the lid off the coffin, flipped it over and let it crash to the floor with a dull thud that rebounded off the walls as it raised a puff of dust that drifted like lazy smoke upwards to the top of the opened coffin.Inside of it he found what he was looking for, a dressed skeleton. His face broke into a twisted version of a smile, revealing strong white teeth, all in place and perfectly aligned.He took the black hat off the skull and placed it on his head, a perfect fit. Then he stripped the black coat and pants off the resting bones, and after removing his own burial shroud, tried them on. A bit large, but that would give him room to add some flesh to his bones, if that were possible. How could he know? How did he know anything?Memories swam in the mist.The black clothes were a bit beyond the commoner's but not far enough to be extravagant. He wouldn't stand out in a crowd.The skeleton's feet were covered with pull on ankle high black leather boots. He removed them, sat on the edge of the slab, first tugged on the right one and then followed with the left. Perfect.He leaned forward and picked up his burial shroud from off the floor, folded it into a small rectangle and left the sepulcher, closing the splintered door behind him.He returned to sit once again on the not well-worn marble bench. Who would want to spend time meditating in a cemetery? He placed the folded shroud beside him, hoping his faculties were sharp enough to remember that he had.With sudden mercurial quickness he stood and began moving down the hill, meandering back and forth among the grave markers, thinking he may find more like him, or, and he hoped not, a fearful human being.Human being? How do I know this? But what if I do meet one? Maybe they cannot see me, but if they can, I will surely give them a fright, and they would run down the hill screaming in terror loud enough to gain the entire village's attention, and that would surely put me in danger.Who or whatever I am,I cannot be certain whether I am dead or alive or maybe somewhere in between, like dead-alive.Finding nothing or no one, he moved back up the hill to stop at the tree where his grave marker lay, relieved it hadn't been shattered. He picked it up, placed it back on its foundation, and then packed soil around its base. He took a couple of steps back to inspect it and was satisfied that it appeared undisturbed. He somehow knew not to have any attention drawn his way.Do not let confusion turn to rage.He sat on the marble bench and told himself he was no longer dead or alive or human in the strictest sense of the words. Along with that came the realization that to be dead-alive would require as much secrecy and anonymity as he could muster.Yes, control your rage, for a while at least, for how long, I do not know. But what did it matter? At this point he didn't know who he was or how he was or what he was. In reality, dead-alive was only an assumption and so he began to ponder what else he may be capable of doing. Could he control the elements, or morph into an animal like a wolf or a panther or a flying creature? All he could do was experiment and so he spoke, "To mist," and to mist him and his clothes became. "To flesh," he said and returned to the form of his fully clothed skeletal body.Amused by his newfound ability he said, "To marble," and to his delight, marble he became. Then with a sudden jolt of fear the thought struck his mind, What if I cannot speak, I will forever be an unmoving statue, my mind alive and trapped within this caricature of a body for centuries on end!The idea was excruciating in its pain of possibility.He tried to speak but could not. "No, no, no, do not let panic set in! He tried again, this time he could feel his lips move, but no speech came forth. The third try he spoke, "To flesh," and once more he became his skeletal body. Relief flooded his puzzled mind.Lesson learned. He must explore his new self with great care and caution, but he had discovered he had extraordinary strength and speed and could control at least some of the elements in relation to himself. How many, how far, and to what extent remained a matter of further exploration.With that in mind he grabbed the folded shroud, stood up and began descending a path running alongside the cemetery, intending to accept the invitation of the twinkling lights in the village below. Halfway down the hill he stopped, tilted up a large boulder sitting on the side of the path, and placed the shroud underneath it, taking great care in letting the stone down. To his eyes it looked undisturbed.In spite of not knowing what his appearance was, perhaps that of an emaciated old man, or a living skeleton, he continued down the hill to the village. The denizens were engaged in some form of a noisy celebration. For the moment he dared to get only so close to the festivities, but from what he could see of the revelers, he would not stand out in the crowd.CHAPTER 2He stood silent and still at the town's fringe, the festivities swirling and swaying out of proportion its size. It seemed all the townsfolk were engaged in them except for the smallest of babies.Children scampered about, horse drawn carriages clattered up and down the street, old folks stood against a tree or sat on a bench to watch, dogs darted around loose and barked at what, only they knew, and down the alley to his left, the grunting sound and not forgotten scent of pigs. His mouth watered.A new and foreign sensation flooded him with such force he could not fight against it. He turned down the alley and his nose led him to stop at an old abandoned unpainted wagon that had been so long against the side of a barn its tongue had formed a groove in the dirt after many years of rain and drought. It would take a team of mules to move it.He stopped, bent at the waist and peered underneath the old wagon. Two piglets lived there, one asleep, one awake. He reached out and grabbed the one awake by the hind leg. The beast was small and easy to manage, except for its squeal.He wanted the taste of its blood.First I must stop its squealing, but how, gnaw on its neck and keep spitting out the thick, bristle covered hide, until I reach the artery?He had not the patience for either as his need grew. He pulled his head back and then thrust it forward with all his might, his mouth open as large as it could go. To his surprise and delight a fountain of life giving elixir burst into his mouth and he swallowed as one starving. After gulping down the initial spurt he sucked and drank at his leisure until he had swallowed the last drop of the animal's blood. He pulled the piglet away from his mouth and looked down at its neck. He saw two puncture wounds, such as would be made by a sewing awl. He checked his teeth, they were neither long nor pointed.He tossed the bloodless carcass under the wagon. Somehow the other piglet had remained asleep.Invigorated, he felt as if he were floating, but unlike being drunk, he was in control of all his faculties, physical and especially his mental ones. He could feel his physical ones strengthening and smoothing out. He walked to the end of the embedded wagon tongue, eased himself down, and leaned his back against the side of the weathered barn."Hey mister, why are you slumped down alone in this alley?The party's out here."He moved his head slowly to the right to see the woman who had spoken quite loud, but the light was too dim to allow clarity of vision. He stood with the ease of a young man and stepped assuredly toward the main street where she stood.Middle-aged, the streets had taken their toll on her, and who knew what she looked like underneath all the paint? He got within arm's length of her and she didn't recoil in fear nor run away."My, my mister, it looks like you haven't eaten in a month. How's about you and me getting us something to eat and drink? Start putting some meat on those bones of yours."He checked his pants pocket, found a coin and pulled it out.How did I know that this would be needed? It must be an ingrained memory from ... before. There seem to be many of them.It was once one of substantial value, but perhaps that had changed. He showed it to the woman. She held her expression in check."Will this be enough to buy us a good meal?" he asked."More than enough," she replied. "My name is Lolita, by the way, but most folks call me Lola.""Alright Lolita, my name is ... (his mind snapped back to his grave marker) ... Pilatus, and shall we be on our way?"They hooked arms and headed toward the busiest part of the street.Walking down a red tiled portico Pilatus' attention was captured by a couple of boys in the street trying to keep their dogs from fighting. While walking and watching, he accidentally bumped into a man who was close to being the size of a bull."Pardon me sir, I was watching ...""... those two dogs out in the street as was I. No harm done, but I'm surprised I didn't knock you on your backside. Not much meat on those bones of yours.""You're the second person to say that to me tonight. I am going to begin working on it right away. Lola and I are going to have dinner at the ...""... Sicilian," she interjected.Pilatus etched the man's features in his mind and then reached out with his being to feel his essence, a newly discovered ability of being dead-alive. He was one of those, "Hey there friend how ya doin?" types on the outside, but inside was vicious and would take everything he could from you, including your life."Name's Giovanni," said the large man, offering his hand."My name is Pilatus," he said and gently laid his hand in the man's huge paw.Giovanni began to squeeze hard and to the point of causing pain in order to establish his superiority. Pilatus matched him increment for increment of applied force until the bull sized man reached his limit and relaxed his grip.Pilatus leaned forward. "I have more," he whispered.Giovanni withdrew his hand and stepped back, his eyes grown large."Uh-h-h, glad to meet you Mr. Pilatus, you and the lady have a wonderful evening.""Oh, we will Mr. Giovanni, and thank you," said Lola. Pilatus didn't speak as he hooked arms with Lola and they continued their journey down the portico.Out in the street, the dogs hadn't spilled each other's blood.Entering the pleasant surroundings of the Sicilian, the waiter seated them at a table against a wall, a sconce oil lamp cast dim light on the red and white checkered cloth."Are you in need of a menu?" inquired the waiter."I'll have a filet mignon, very rare, a small loaf of bread, and a glass of your finest water," said Pilatus, wondering what memory those words came from. The waiter nodded and looked at Lola. "I'll have the chicken caccitore, a small loaf of bread, and a glass of your finest red wine please," she said. The waiter nodded and disappeared."Lola?""Yes.""It seems that there is a very odd festive mood affecting the village. Is something special taking place or is this normal for ... what is this village called?""Turin," she replied. "The festival is called All Hallow's Eve and lasts the entire night. As you have probably noticed people dress up like something from beyond the grave or from a different world; witches, goblins, ghosts, skeletons, animals and the like. Don't ask me what it means or how it got started because I don't know. It takes place once a year on this date."The waiter set the plates of food on the table. Pilatus devoured the rare bloody meat and wiped up the left over juice with the bread. Lola was daintier and ate noiselessly. At one time she may have been a lady.He discreetly ran his right index finger along his top row of teeth, taking extra care to stop and check his canines. They were neither long nor pointed. He concluded they must extend when needed and retract when not.Lola ordered another glass of red wine and after emptying it the waiter retrieved the coin on the table. He returned with the change. They thanked him, stood, hooked arms, and headed out the door to the now very crowded and rowdy street, leaving the change on the table.Pilatus turned to her. "I think I've had enough of this whirling crowd for one night. Will you be alright if I leave?" he asked."Well, I'll be damned, a gentleman indeed. Of course I'll be alright. I've lived on these streets most of my life," she said.He nodded and then turned and headed up cemetery hill. The rare steak had only whetted his appetite. Lola went the other way, the crowd parting for her as she moved through it to the center of the revelers.The odds were far askew and against it but as he ascended the hill he met Mr. Giovanni who, for reasons known only to him, was coming down it. Pilatus instinctively knew the man was itching for revenge for being bested in the show of strength disguised as a hand shake."Well, Mr. Pilatus, we meet again. Say, did you know Lolita, Lola, is one of the longest tenured whores in town?"Pilatus glanced around. No one was in sight."I assume you know that from experience Mr. Giovanni, and I will also assume that you are the largest of the many pigs that dwell in the town.""Why you upstart piece of skeletal dung! I hope you enjoyed your last meal because I intend on crushing every bone in your body.""My last meal? No sir, not quite," he said as he let Giovanni grab him around his rib cage and at the same time pin his arms to his sides.He reared his head back, thrust it forward, and bit into the thumping artery of the big man's neck, this time ready for the initial spurt of the refreshing blood. Giovanni fainted and went limp. Pilatus, with one arm, dragged him into the bushes where he could drain the man's elixir at his leisure. (Continues...)Excerpted from Pilatus the Damned by R. D. Amundson. Copyright © 2015 R.D. Amundson. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Reviews

News