The Vampires of Africa

More than ten thousand years ago, a race called the Bitalo conquered the continent of Africa. They were something like vampires, something like African vampires. There is a quite a bit of sunshine in Africa. Do you know what that means? It means that the African vampires do not fear the sun. It means that the sun cannot save you from an African vampire. There are African vampires in the United States. They came to this country during the slave trade. Most of them look like ordinary African American people, but there are Bitalos in every race. African vampires do not like blood that much. To them it is like milk-good for their health. Some call them cannibal vampires or ghoul vampires because their main food is people. They like their food prepared in many ways-fried, baked, barbequed, and ground like hamburgers. There are quite a few African vampires in the United States. Now they are planning to take over the United States. Somebody has got to stop them. John Srungu has killed quite a few Bitalos, but he is a very old man now, and he is becoming senile. Also, there would seem to be very few Srungu Knights left. But John Srungu has a much younger friend named John David Hunter, also known as the Preacher. The preacher just might be a natural-born Srungu Knight. He just might be the Chosen One. Bitalo prophecy warns them of the coming of a man who could destroy them. He would be a descendant of Curtis Jore, the man of war, the man who destroyed their ancient vampire. Could this preacher be the Chosen One?

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The Vampires of AfricaBy Herb CunninghamTrafford PublishingCopyright © 2013 Herb CunninghamAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4669-7360-2 CHAPTER 1He who fights with monsters might takecare lest he thereby becomes a monster.NietzscheIt was an unseasonably warm October day as beautifulas Shakespeare's day in June. As usual, the fish weren'tbiting on the Little Calumet River, but the Preacher smiledanyway. He didn't care about the fish not biting. He was justtoo happy to be alive and "back home again in Indiana," asthe song went. Many years ago, and many thousands of milesaway in Vietnam, he had never expected to make it back toGary alive. Now, almost every day, he thanked God for lettinghim live and return to the city and state that he had once hated.The Preacher's real name was John David Hunter. He was adeacon, not a preacher, but he looked and dressed like a BlackBaptist minister, immaculately, impeccably, and elegantlyin names like Armani, Brooks Brothers, London Fog, andJohnson-Murphy, among others. The Preacher, as they say, wasnot a bad looking man. He was dark, rather short and stocky,and had a round, handsome, sharp featured face. Clean shaven,he wore his hair cut short. Even thought he was approachingfifty, there were only two or three strands of gray in his jetblack hair, and he still had all of his teeth except two molars.As usual, he was the best dressed angler on the river in his darkgreen B.A.S.S. (Bass Anglers Sportsman's Society) baseballtype cap, matching jacket of the same brand, and dark greenslacks.Other than Lake Michigan at certain times of the year,there were very few good fishing places in Northwest Indiana,just a few mud holes, polluted creeks, and small rivers. Thefamed Kankakee River, full of bowfin (dogfish), thumbnailsized bluegills, and baby bass, is vastly overrated, and WillowSlough is usually a waste of time. When the Preacher returnedfrom Vietnam, he remembered an eternity of futility spentfishing in Northwest Indiana, so he decided to go where hecould catch some real fish. First he headed north to Canadaand Alaska and caught fish that most fishermen would nevereven see except in a book, or on television, at a fish market, oron the menu at an exclusive seafood restaurant, fish like arcticchar, arctic grayling, and inconnu. He hung a muskellunge ofmonstrous proportions in the St. Laurence River, but it brokehis line and got away.That fall and winter the Preacher took a few fishing tripssouth and he caught some big catfish. He fished Kentucky Lake,Lake Barkley, Reelfoot Lake, Dale Hollow, Lake Okeechobeein the Florida Everglades, and other famous fishing places inthe south. And he fished in the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf ofMexico, even though he didn't know anything about salt waterfishing.Finally, that next spring and summer, the Preacher wentwest and fished in the mighty Mississippi, and many of the otherfamous rivers of the Old West like the Missouri, the Colorado,the Snake River, the Red River, the famous Columbia River,and the Rio Grande. When he reached California, he wentfishing in the Pacific Ocean off one of the piers at Marina DelRey and he thought about all of the fish that he had caught. Hehad caught black bass, white bass, striped bass, spotted bass,rock bass, warmouth bass, and calico bass (crappies). Also, hehad caught rainbow trout, brown trout, brook trout, lake trout,and cutthroat trout. He had caught all kinds of panfish, roughfish, and food fish. He had caught damn near every kind of fishthere was in the whole United States, including some unusualfish, some eels, several spoonbill catfish, and three alligatorgarfish. Then the Preacher grew tired of fishing and he puthis fishing equipment away for several years. Now he fishedmost often close to home in the Little Calumet River, a famousriver, itself, in the history of Northwest Indiana. Once it hadbeen as good a fishing place as any, but the Little Calumethad been fished out, and then polluted with both industrial andhuman waste, but now, finally, the federal government wascleaning up the river. The Army Corps Of Engineers was notonly dredging out the muck and channelizing the river, butalso creating riverside lagoons, marinas and parks.The Preacher was using a cane pole rigged with a red andwhite, pencil-shaped "crappie" bobber, split shot, and twosmall Eagle Claw hooks, one baited with a red worm, and theother with a mud minnow. He was fishing among the branchesof a huge tree that had fallen into the river. Suddenly the bobberducked under and the Preacher squealed with delight as hehooked and landed a fat, hand sized bluegill. He began to grinas he visualized a fish fry that night. Two or three more bluegillsthat size, maybe even a crappie or two, some steak fries, a littlecoleslaw, and a quart of Miller High Life—it didn't git no betterthan that. But then, suddenly, it got much worse. The windshifted from the south to the east, and the Preacher smelleddeath. He froze with fear. The stench brought back nightmarememories of Vietnam and all the death there. Suddenly hedidn't feel like fishing anymore. He threw the bluegill back,then loaded his tackle box, minnow bucket, folding chair, andcane pole into the back of the new, black Blazer. He decidedto stop at a pay phone and make an anonymous call to thepolice. There was no need for him to actually see the body.He'd smelled enough dead bodies to know that there was oneback there in the woods. Really nothing unusual. Gary was thenation's murder capital, infamous for gang related and drugrelated homicides. Bodies were often dropped in secludedareas in Gary. Nothing strange about bodies being dumpedin Gary, but something else very strange was happening inGary. A lot of Gary people, and some from the surroundingcommunities, were disappearing into the proverbial "thin air,without a trace," never to be seen again dead or alive. In thepast year more than fifty people had simply vanished. Most,but not all, were young, Black, male, and involved in somekind of criminal activity like drug dealing, gangbanging, pettycrime, or drug abuse. Surely, most of the missing persons hadbeen killed in the continuing drug and gang wars, but wherewere the bodies. Maybe he had discovered one of the missingpersons, the Preacher thought. He hurried and started theengine, almost as if he were afraid that the body back there inthe woods would rise from the dead and come after him. Then,suddenly, he stopped. Something clicked in his mind, and eventhough he was shaking with fear, he knew that he had to goback into the woods and face the body there.He'd been fishing from the north bank of the river, a fewyards east of the bridge. He hesitated, then began to walk slowlynortheast toward the source of the stench. An overgrown pathled slightly downhill into a shallow depression perhaps thirtyyards from the river. The depression was surrounded by thickbrush and small trees. As he walked deeper into the woods,his fear mounted rapidly, and an unnerving, tickling, tinglingsensation began at the back of his neck. Then somethingwarned him not to venture any closer.Ominously, the wind shifted again, this time to the north,the skies began to cloud over, the day grew darker and colder,and a cold rain began to fall. The Preacher returned to theBlazer and got a pair of binoculars, then returned. Carefullyand methodically, he peered through the thick brush, and thenhe saw it—the thing that he feared—the mound! Made of dirt,it was roughly circular, maybe ten or fifteen feet in diameter,and about three or four feet high. The mound was covered withdead grass, brush, and fallen leaves in an attempt to make it looknatural. Suddenly his fear and the terrible, tickling, tinglingfeeling at the back of his neck grew much worse. An ancientnightmare, one infinitely worse than Vietnam had returned.No, he prayed desperately! This can't be true! Please don'tlet this be true! The old legends were nightmarish, and he hadnever wanted to believe them, but somehow in his heart he hadknown that they were real. And now, horribly, this confirmedhis worst fears. These things that he feared had not onlyexisted many centuries ago, but they had survived—and nowthey were here!As he sped away, the Preacher knew that he would notreport his grisly discovery to the police. The police would bepowerless against an evil this monstrous if what he feared wastrue. Only one person could help him, a very old man. All ofthe others were dead.CHAPTER 2The Preacher did not know where the old man lived,only that he frequented seven or eight bars scatteredthrough the Glen Park, West Side, and Midtownsections of Gary. By the time he reached the last tavern onthe near Midtown East side, it was raining much harder and itwas almost dark. The old man was not there. For the first timesince Vietnam, the Preacher was afraid. Soon it would be darkand he did not want to be out after dark.He felt relieved when he reached his house, but he did notfeel safe, even there. He was tired, but too afraid to sleep. Hetried to convince himself that his fear was illogical, irrational,and that this thing that he feared could not exist, and that if ithad ever existed, then it had been dead for many centuries. Heset his burglar alarm, then took some tranquilizers. That nighthe had the most terrifying nightmares he had ever known, buthe couldn't remember what they were about.The next morning the skies had cleared and it was anothersunny, beautiful Indian summer day. The Preacher rememberedVietnam and thought about how the unimaginable, unspeakablehorror comes on just such a day. There were only three placesyou could get breakfast in downtown Gary, the bus station,McDonald's, and the lunch counter at the drug store in thebank building. He finally located the old man at the lunchcounter in the drug store. The small, slim, brown elf of a manreminded the Preacher of Obi Wan Kenobi, or maybe the Yodain the Star Wars movies. The two men often talked on varioustopics. John traveled extensively, often overseas, he attendedplays and concerts, he'd seen just about every movie made, andhe read extensively, having probably read almost everythingon the bestseller list for probably the last twenty five years.He smiled when he saw the Preacher, but soon his expressionturned to one of horror and dread."Did anyone see you?" the old man finally askedfearfully."Well, there were other people out there fishing, and therewere cars passing by," the Preacher shrugged. "There's acop who sometimes stops and asks what we're catching. Hestopped by yesterday. Quite a few people fish out there. Why,I don't know. You hardly ever catch anything.""You didn't tell anyone, did you?" John asked.The Preacher shook his head, "No! You told me never totell anyone.""Don't!" the old man warned again. "They walk amongus. They belong to a secret society. Your best friend, even yourwoman could be one of them." He hesitated and shook hishead and the Preacher could see the fear and anxiety in his faceincreasing. "I thought we had killed them all," the old mansaid wearily, "but always a few seem to survive.""Do you think we should call the police?" the Preacherasked.The old man shook his head vigorously. "Absolutely not!There's nothing the police can do. Not against what we're upagainst.""Then what shall we do?" the Preacher asked."I don't know," the old man replied.CHAPTER 3"I shall contact you tomorrow," the old man had said.So the Preacher returned home and waited for the callthat he hoped would never come. He lived in a huge, old,magnificent, three-story, brick house that had once belongedto a physician. The house was located in the far Northwestcorner of Gary in a heavily wooded neighborhood right acrossthe road from another larger and even more polluted river thanthe Little Calumet, the Grand Calumet River that borderedGary on the North. The Preacher tried to relax and failed. Hecould not help feeling that his safe, peaceful life was going tochange.Now, it was almost time for lunch, and he had missedbreakfast. There were some of his favorite foods in therefrigerator, country ham and redeye gravy, mixed mustardand turnip greens, cabbage, squash, okra, and cornbread, buthis apprehension and nervousness would not let him eat. Hetook a tranquilizer and tried to stop worrying and relax.The Preacher had named his house Hunter House, but itwas really Bleak House, he thought. Hunter House was a ghosthouse haunted not by the ghosts of those who had died there,but rather haunted by the ghosts of those who had never beenborn and had never lived there. When he had returned fromVietnam, he had wanted a family, so he had bought this big,old, elegant, wonderful, doctor's house, and like an animalor insect preparing a nest to attract a mate, he had fixed itup, even made it better, more beautiful, more elegant. But hislabors were in vain. The wife and the children never came.Now, twenty five years later, it was too late for what he hadwanted. Sure, there was an almost infinite supply of fortyishand fiftyish women who were going nowhere in life and eagerto get married to any man, especially a man such as himself, aman with money and such a magnificent house. Many of themwere quite beautiful, even more beautiful than Laverne, butto marry any one of them would have been vanity, the type ofvanity mentioned in the Bible—the quality or state of beingfruitless, useless, or destitute of reality, etc. A few years ago,he'd considering marrying a beautiful, younger woman namedLilli and starting a family with her, but a family is a lot ofwork for a man of any age, and the Preacher was getting readyto retire. He couldn't envision himself as a fifty-five year old,first time father waking up at three o'clock in the morning tochange a diaper, or fix a bottle, or as a seventy year old fathertrying to go one-on-one in a basketball game against a fifteenyear old son. So instead, he envied his friends as he watchedtheir children participate in sports, win scholastic honors,graduate from high school and college, work in the church,and finally have children of their own. Yes, Hunter House washaunted by ghosts, not the kind that frightened you, but thekind that saddened and depressed you. He could sense theseghosts, ghost wives, ghost children, even ghost grandchildren,sometimes even dreaming about them. But then his mindreturned to the present and his sadness was replaced by a muchstronger emotion—fear. He was tired, but much too frightenedto sleep. The thick, black woods bordering the river across theroad now seemed ghostly, evil, and threatening. Nightmarish.And even his own house seemed like some shadowy, dark,supernatural place. He had just taken another tranquilizerwhen the phone rang. It was the old man."Be sure to get a good night's sleep tonight," The old mansaid, "because we're going fishing early tomorrow morning.""Where to?" the Preacher asked."To the Little Calumet River, of course," the old manreplied. "I think you know the spot."CHAPTER 4When a journey begins badly, it rarely ends well.THE FLOATING ISLAND.Jules Verne 1895The old man baited his hook with a small nightcrawler, then tried to relax as he waited for a fish tobite. He failed. Centuries had passed, but the horrorremained. The terror within him grew. His heart raced, he grewlight-headed, and the terrible tingling-tickling at the back ofhis neck began to spread to the rest of his body. It was anotherwonderful, beautiful, unseasonably warm October day, but hefelt the cold chill of fear. The evil that he feared was here.He could feel it. Centuries ago, on the faraway continent ofAfrica, his ancestors thought they had saved the world froma spreading, evil, malignant abomination. But a few membersof that evil empire had escaped to other parts of Africa andhidden out. Evidently, some of their descendants had beencaptured and brought to America along with the other blackslaves during the slave trade. Now they walked among us,hidden in plain sight, waiting, increasing their numbers, andplanning something—but what, the old man wondered. Maybewhat he feared was not true. Maybe this was just a false alarm,the old man hoped and prayed desperately. (Continues...)Excerpted from The Vampires of Africa by Herb Cunningham. Copyright © 2013 Herb Cunningham. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. 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.

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