Last of the Super Lancers

Written by Desert Sun - October, 2004

Send Feedback to Desert Sun          Printable Pages: 11          Rating: G

(Please note: the characters of the Lancer television series do not belong to me and were used without permission. This was written for fun, not profit.)

A pale halo surrounded the moon that late October night in the year of 1872. Jelly Hoskins claimed it was a sign of doom. He said he could feel it in his bones.

Johnny Lancer laughed. "Jelly, you're makin' a mountain out of a mole hill," he drawled, slapping the shorter man on the back. "You're just jumpy from all those ghost stories Scott an' Murdoch told us at supper."

Jelly snorted, thumbs tucking under his suspenders and chest puffing out like Dewdrop’s often did just before the pet gander loudly voiced his complaints. "Go right ahead an' laugh. Ain't no skin off my nose . . . but you mark my words. Lots of strange things happen on Halloween. Tonight ain't no time to be scoffin'. You're just askin' for trouble. Why, look at that moon—red as blood."

Nobody was more superstitious than Jelly, and Johnny couldn’t resist poking a little fun at the man. "You know it gets that way every time there's a fire in the mountains. It's from all the smoke in the air . . . or do you think its fire an' brimstone you've been smellin' all day." he said.

"This ain't nothin' to joke about," retorted Jelly. Giving his young boss a piercing glance, he let out a loud huff before striding toward the far side of the courtyard.

The hired man, who was practically treated like family by the Lancers, had arrived at his room and was reaching for the doorknob when a dark, winged creature flew past his head. Jelly jumped then turned to glare back over his shoulder at Johnny before disappearing behind a slamming door.

Again Johnny laughed at how easily Jelly could be spooked. Wasn't nothin' but a little ol' bat. From the way he acted, you'd think he'd seen one of them vampires Scott was tellin' us about.

Boney fingers clamped on his shoulder, and Johnny spun to one side, feeling the lurch of his heart as a soft voice inquired, "What's so funny?"

"Scott! Don't yuh know better'n to sneak up on a man like that?" Johnny scowled at the tall, young man with honey-colored hair.

"Little jumpy, aren't you, Brother?" scoffed Scott, the corners of his lips turning upward and his eyes crinkling with mischief. "You didn't think I was a spook, by any chance, did you?"

"No . . . I didn't think you was a spook. I just didn't hear yuh walk up behind me, is all," Johnny retorted, eyes challenging his brother while willing the mad thumping of his own heart to cease.

Scott hesitated, one hand stroking his chin. "So . . . what were you laughing about?"

Welcoming the change of subject, Johnny let out a long, slow breath before lazily answering. "Oh, you know Jelly. His bones are talkin' to him again . . . and he's convinced that red moon is the kiss of doom for Lancer." Waving a hand at the auburn orb, he grinned and chuckled. "I bet we could scare him right out of his socks if we made a few eerie noises outside his window—he's that jumpy."

The elder brother's brow lifted. "As tempting as that would be . . . I think we'd best not. Murdock just retired, and I doubt he'd appreciate having to calm Jelly down at this late hour."

"Yeah . . . but yuh can't say it wouldn't be fun," replied Johnny, and both brothers laughed.

After the sound of their mirth had faded into silence, Scott yawned. "Well, Brother, I don’t know about you, but I’m tired. I think I’ll follow Murdoch’s lead, say good night, and go to bed."

"Goodnight, Scott," Johnny said. Then as he watched the other man walk away, he had a fleeting thought that there was something not quite natural in his brother’s manner—a little too abrupt, and possibly a hint of unease and urgency beneath his seemingly unhurried departure.

Reprimanding himself for letting his imagination run wild, Johnny gazed up at the moon for a while. Still surrounded by a shimmering glow, the murky-red ball had risen higher in the east and was now peeking through the skeletal branches of a tall oak. Does look a bit spooky at that, he thought, a shiver shimmering up his spine then racing to the base of his skull when the silhouette of a bat, black wings crossing paths with the bare limbs of the tree, passed over the face of the moon.

You’re as jumpy as Jelly, he scolded himself, turning toward the house. He had to admit, though; his bed was looking better by the minute. Some of the stories Scott and Murdoch had told had been enough to raise the hair on the back of anyone’s neck. Not that Johnny would ever admit to anyone that he was the least bit afraid. He had a reputation to uphold. It just wouldn’t do for word to get out that Johnny Madrid (Lancer) was frightened by a few silly Halloween tales.

Before settling into bed, Johnny stood by the window and looked out. He could have sworn he saw a dark form cross the courtyard below. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. Jelly’s the only one using a room on that side. Scott and Murdoch are in bed, and nobody else’d be visiting him this time of night.

Dismissing the whole thing as being a trick of his imagination, Johnny lit the candle on the table beside his bed then turned out the flame in the oil lamp. He gazed at the framed picture of his mother that was beside the candle and gently traced a finger down her cheek. “I miss you, Mama,” he whispered then made the sign of the cross over his heart, briefly prayed for his mother’s peace and happiness, and climbed into bed.

Sleep, however, was slow in coming. At first it was thoughts of his mother that occupied Johnny’s mind, and then it was visions of the strange creatures that allegedly roamed the earth on Halloween night. Werewolves and vampires, Murdoch and Scott had called them.

Eyes closed, Johnny smiled into the darkness when he remembered the Scottish legend that his father had told about a branch of the Lancer family that had moved into a vampire inhabited castle in the late seventeen hundreds. It’s a bunch of nonsense, he thought, all that stuff about them bein’ bitten and turnin’ into beings with strange powers and a thirst for blood. Murdoch’s grandfather was probably just pullin’ his leg, hopin’ to scare the pants off him with that tale about havin’ to help drive wooden stakes through their hearts on Halloween, and that bein’ the only way to kill them.

Johnny rolled onto his side. Super Lancers. Bet there ain’t a word of truth to the whole story, he scoffed in his mind. He had even expressed those same doubts to his father. Something had passed between Murdoch and Scott. What? A shared joke of some kind. Surely they didn’t believe there was a vampire running around looking for Lancer blood.

Not just any Lancer blood. Your blood, reminded a voice in the back of Johnny’s mind.

"Hog wash!" Johnny said aloud then chuckled. Now I’m even talking like Jelly.

With a grunt of disgust, Johnny propped himself up on one elbow then punched his pillow into a mound before settling down again and pulling the blankets over his head. Still he couldn’t sleep. The name of Octavian Lancer kept running through his head. Last of the Super Lancers. Hundred year vow of vengeance. Sworn to seek the blood of the youngest son of all future descendants of Murdoch’s grandfather.

He’s a myth, Johnny reasoned.

Sleep remained elusive.

What if . . ..

"I ain’t doin’ this because I believe all that falderal," Johnny said to his mother’s picture a short while later as he checked the cartridges in the spare revolver he kept behind the headboard of his bed. “I just don’t believe in takin’ chances, is all.”

With the pistol tucked beneath the pillow where it would be within easy reach, Johnny again tried to sleep. The presence of the gun brought a sense of control that eased his mind and gave him peace. He wasn’t even aware of having been oblivious to his surroundings until he awakened with a start and lay wondering what had disturbed him. One second he had been sleeping soundly and the next his eyes were open—heart thumping like the hind leg of a dog getting its ears scratched. There was no apparent reason for his fear; he hadn’t even been dreaming.

You’re worse than Jelly, he again chided himself as he peered through the dim fog that filled his familiar room with unknown shadows. The moon, now a yellow wedge in the upper-left corner of his window, told him the midnight hour was fast approaching. Or just past, he reasoned, which would explain the interruption to his sleep. Undoubtedly, he had heard the chiming of that blasted grandfather clock his father cared so much about.

If the old man wasn’t so attached to the thing, I’d see that it disappeared, Johnny silently grumbled, closing his eyes.

Something wasn’t quite right, but Johnny couldn’t think what. He slid his hand under his pillow. The revolver was still there, right where he had put it before lying down. With his fingers resting on the smooth, comforting handle, he tried to go back to sleep.

Scrrritch!

"Who’s there?" Johnny whispered, tightening his grip on the gun.

Silence.

"Scott?"

More silence.

"Murdoch?"

Still no answer.

Probably just the wind rattling that loose shutter, Johnny thought, willing the throbbing in his chest to subside.

Johnny took another glance around his room, just to ease his mind. The chair in the darkest corner had taken shape, but he saw nothing to be alarmed about. It was empty.

Determined not to let fear get the better of him, Johnny pulled the blankets over his head. He wiggled into a comfortable position on his side and breathed in and out in long slow breaths.

Squeeeeek.

It’s nothing.

Thump. Thump.

Ignore it and go to sleep.

"Jaw . . . neeee."

It was the wind. Just the wind, howling in the leafless tree outside the window, that sounded like someone had softly called out his name, Johnny reasoned, refusing to give into his wild imagination. The tree had probably been what made the scratching and thumping noises, too.

"Ooooooh . . . Jaaaaw . . . neeeeee."

"Alright! Enough of this." Johnny said without realizing that he had actually spoken as he sat up and opened his eyes. He slowly checked out his room again. "See . . . nothing," he grumbled aloud.

"Are you sure?" whined the wind.

As Johnny jerked the revolver from beneath his pillow, it hit him; the candle had gone out—had been out all along. He gulped. "Who said that?"

"Ieeee . . . diiiiid."

Johnny searched for the source of the throaty voice, but the room was too full of deep shadows without the candle to aid the faint light of the moon. "Where are you?" he demanded, fear gripping his chest.

"Oooo-ver heeeer-er."

Slowly the chair in the corner grew, its dark form stretching upward as two large wings unfolded and spread outward. Johnny swallowed the terror rising in his throat. "I’ve got a gun and I’ll shoot," he said.

"Shoot at what. A cape?"

The voice and the laugh that followed came out of the corner by the door across the room from the chair. Johnny swung the revolver around. He squinted and searched the darkness.

"Over here, John."

Again Johnny pointed his gun at the giant bat that had moved away from the chair and was now in front of the window. Most of what little light the moon shed on the room was effectively blocked, but the former gunfighter didn’t need any light. Not with a target that large, and he promptly told the creature so.

"And what of your father and brother. What will you tell them when you have nothing to show them but a broken window or a wall full of holes?"

This time it was Johnny that laughed. "I can’t miss," he said, more from bravado than confidence.

"Are you sure?" asked the voice by the door.

"Who are you?" Johnny demanded, peering into the dark corner while wishing the candle hadn’t gone out.

Finding nothing there, Johnny faced the window again. The caped creature had moved closer to the foot of the bed. "Who are you?" Johnny grated, hoping the fear he felt couldn’t be detected in the harsh tone.

"Octavian Lancer. Hasn’t your father told you anything about your ancestors?"

"He’s told me some," Johnny replied, wondering what about his visitor’s throaty voice seemed familiar.

"Then you know the legend of Vanishing Heights Castle, and how it rises up from the middle of Vampire Marsh in the very heart of Scotland on Halloween night?"

In the dim light, Johnny noticed the manly features of the bat-like creatures face. The long straight nose could easily have belonged to his brother, Scott. Thinking he smelled a rat, he shrugged and pretended his skin hadn’t crawled. "No, don’t believe I do," he lied, figuring to string his guest along for a while. "Mind tellin’ me what that has to do with you?"

"So . . . the mighty Murdoch Lancer is afraid to tell his sons about the Super Lancers, is he?"

"Super Lancers, huh?" Johnny stifled a laugh. The whole thing was getting ridiculous. Obviously it was a joke—most likely cooked up by Scott and, possibly, being carried out with Murdoch’s help. Still he drew his knees up before adding, "Maybe he don’t believe there’s any such thing."

Dark wings billowed then folded across the bat-man’s chest. "Oh, he believes all right, Johnny Boy. He believes. Why else would he leave behind a fortune in gold to carve an empire out of this wilderness?"

His visitor stepped closer, and Johnny scooted up to sit with his back against the headboard of the bed. All the while, he kept the pistol trained on the creature’s body. "So . . . Oc . . . Octavian, ain’t it? Mind tellin’ me what you’re doin’ here?"

"Don’t you know?"

Johnny shivered at the sinister tone in which the question was asked. He clamped his elbow to his side to steady his hand with the gun. The game was getting old, and it was time to put an end to it. "Just humor me, all right, and tell me what you want," he said, attempting to hide his impatience by speaking slowly.

"Blood . . . fresh young Lancer blood."

A turn of the creature’s head revealed a long curved tooth hanging from each corner of his mouth. Johnny’s legs felt limp as noodles. "Blood?" he said, his voice hitching upwards despite his attempt to convince himself he was talking to his brother.

"Just a little sip. You won’t even miss it . . . and you’ll be giving to a good cause."

"Yeah," Johnny squeaked then pulled himself together, his voice steadier. "What cause?"

"The preservation of the Super Lancers. I’m the last, you know? The others . . . all gone. Not a pretty sight. Some with stakes driven through their hearts. Others . . . simply faded into oblivion for lack of new blood. You wouldn’t want that to happen to me . . . now would you?"

Oh, wouldn’t I? thought Johnny, not that he believed any of what was happening. Still, why not continue to play along; see what the jokester had in mind. "And if I oblige yuh . . . what’s in for me; I become like you?" he asked, purposely sounding sarcastic.

"Would that be so bad?"

The creature slid its wings down and out while gliding around the corner of the bed. "Stop! I’ll shoot," Johnny commanded. He wasn’t convinced there was any such thing as a vampire, but he wasn’t taking any chances, either.

"Go ahead. I won’t feel a thing." The creature took another swishing step.

Click. Click-click-click.

"I warned you it wouldn’t do you any good, didn’t I, Johnny Boy?"

As the blood rushed from his heart, Johnny could have sworn it turned to ice before reaching his head. "You stay away from me," he warned, throwing back the blankets and scrambling to his knees — gun slung backward as he raised it to shoulder height. He hadn’t intended to do more than scare the creature, who had to be Scott, with a few near misses. Only the gun he had personally checked just before going to sleep was empty. Now, he was beginning to have second thoughts about his visitor being his brother.

"Don’t be such a baby, Boy. I already told you, you wouldn’t feel anything," chided the vampire.

"I ain’t givin’ you one drop of my blood . . . now . . . or ever!"

"Oh, won’t you?"

Johnny twisted toward this new voice then immediately realized his mistake when a heated breath caressed his neck. “Get away from me,” he yelled, diving for the end of the bed. However, he wasn’t quick enough to evade the large hand that clamped around his leg. Held fast, he kicked hard with his other foot. Someone, or something, grunted and the fingers slid free.

With one desperate roll, Johnny cleared the end of the bed and hit the floor with a loud thump. He scrambled to get his feet under him, but long tentacles wrapped around his shoulders, smashing him to the floor as the creature said, "I’m not losing you now."

Bodies twisted, arms and legs thrashing wildly, as Johnny struggled for freedom. One of his hands caught in the creature’s winged cape. The material tangled around his arm and his shoulders were crushed against the floor. He bucked and tugged, but his adversary could not be budged. Finally, pinned on his back, Johnny looked up at the straining face above him. The mouth opened and long ivory teeth descended.

"You’re ain’t gettin’ none o’ my blood," Johnny shouted, swinging the pistol still gripped in his free hand. A solid thunk followed by a yelp of pain told him the gun barrel had found its mark. He arched his back and threw his hips to one side. The creature toppled, but the fight was not won, yet, for everything went black and the vampire seemed to grow more hands — hands that covered Johnny with darkness and blinded him with suffocating layers of cloth.

At last Johnny beat his way to freedom and staggered to his feet. With thundering heart and gasping breath, he searched the dimly lit corners of his room. No one was there. His attacker seemed to have vanished.

Soft light from the candle on the bedside table shimmered against the wall. Johnny stared in open-mouthed disbelief. Who had lit it? When? He swallowed and edged forward. His bare toe bumped something. His gun! He picked it up, again looked into the shadowy corners of the room just to make sure he really was alone, and then moved closer to the table.

"Are you all right?"

Johnny spun toward the door then, shoulders sagging, let a blast of air escape from his mouth. "Yeah . . . I . . . I’m fine," he replied, suspiciously eyeing his yawning brother.

"I thought I heard you yell."

"Oh?"

"Is anything wrong?" a deeper voice inquired as a tall form loomed behind Scott Lancer in the doorway of Johnny’s room.

"Uh, no Murdoch. Nothing," replied Johnny. He wasn’t about to tell anyone about his visitor, not before he was sure it hadn’t all be a prank, anyhow.

Another form crowded into the doorway. "Is something wrong with Johnny?"

"No, Teresa, nothing is wrong with Johnny." Johnny couldn’t keep the sharpness from his voice. He was getting perturbed at everyone’s sudden interest in his welfare. If they hadn’t been a party to his ordeal, then how had they all known to come rushing to his room?

"Are you sure?"

She sure is convincing, Johnny thought, but merely asserted that he really was fine.

"How’d your blankets get on the floor?"

Johnny followed the movement of the girl’s hand. As if you didn’t know, he almost said but bit his tongue and shrugged. "Oh, that? I had a bad dream and . . . fell out of bed." He grinned. "Guess I made a bit of noise."

"Must’ve been some nightmare?" Teresa said, pushing past Scott. She picked up the top blanket in the heap and shook her head before proceeding to remake the bed.

"Sorry I . . . disrupted everyone’s sleep," Johnny said, swiping a hand in front of his eyes as though he were brushing away cobwebs.

"No need to apologize. We’re just glad you’re all right." Scott looked up at the tall man at his side. "Aren’t we, Murdoch?"

Murdoch met Scott’s gaze then ran a finger down one side of his nose. "Yeah," he said, shifting his eyes downward.

I just bet you are, thought Johnny, sure that his father and brother had shared some unspoken words. What, he could only guess; however, if the two had conspired against him, he had no intention of giving them the satisfaction of knowing how frightened he’d been. They’d never let him live it down. And Heaven forbid, Jelly ever getting wind of what had happened in his room that night. Every man, woman, and child in the valley would know he’d fallen for their trap.

"There." Teresa turned away from the bed—blankets neatly tucked in place, top edge turned down to expose the newly fluffed pillow.

"Thanks." Johnny gave her a grateful smile. Maybe he had been hasty in thinking she had anything to do with his ordeal.

Scott cleared his throat. "Well, I think I’ll turn in . . . now that everything seems to be in order here." He slapped Johnny on the arm. "Daylight does come early, and I’ve already lost a half an hour of sleep."

"Don’t blame me for keepin’ yuh up. I told yuh I was fine when yuh first come in here," replied Johnny with narrowed eyes while thinking his brother sure was putting his all into the act.

A round of "good nights" was said, and then Johnny was left alone. Leaning against the doorjamb, he watched as Scott and Teresa vanished behind the closed doors of their rooms and Murdoch’s head disappeared down the stairs.

The lamp on the wall outside Johnny’s room cast a pale glow the length of the hall. He thought of turning it out, but then decided against that idea and went back into to his room—purposely leaving the door slightly open.

Once sitting on the bed, Johnny picked up the pocket watch he’d laid next to his mother’s picture. One o’clock. What had Scott said about vampires? They only came out at midnight on a full moon and had exactly one hour to find and conquer their victim.

Rubish, Johnny nearly snorted, but he peered into all the corners before crawling between the sheets. It was then that he noticed the bullets behind the candle. He sat up, collected the cartridges, and slipped them into the empty chambers of the pistol he’d laid on the corner of the night table. Reason told him, he had only thought he had loaded the gun before going to bed, but he knew different, which increased his uneasiness. It just didn’t seem possible that either Murdoch or Scott could get the gun out from under his head, unload, and put it back without being caught in the act. Johnny never had been that sound of sleeper, and his father and brother both knew that.

After the gun was loaded, Johnny picked up his pillow and went out into the hallway. He sat down near the stairs where the bedroom doors of all of his family members would be visible, stuffed the pillow behind his back, and then slouched against the wall. With the pistol cradled in his lap, he kept watch until the pink light of dawn chased the shadows from the hall. Then, and only then, did he return to his bed and crawl between the sheets.

When Johnny arrived at the breakfast table, he noticed right off that Scott had a cut on the edge of his jawbone near his left ear. "Cut yourself shaving?" he asked with a grin.

Scott’s finger went to the scab. "Yes. Careless of me, wasn’t it?"

Johnny didn’t miss his brother’s slight hesitation. "Yeah, it was," he said, at the same time wondering if the sight on the barrel of his revolver, instead of a razor, hadn’t been what had taken the nick out of Scott’s skin. Before he could comment on the lack of blood, however; Jelly came banging through the outside door of the kitchen.

"You all right, Johnny?" the whiskered man asked, sliding into the chair on the end.

"Yeah . . . why?"

"Oh, nothin’."

"Come on Jelly, out with it. If it was nothin’, you wouldn’t have brought it up," Johnny said with a touch of impatience creeping into his voice.

"Well . . . it’s just . . . I could’ve sworn I saw a monstrous bat fly out your window."

Jelly’s reluctance seemed exaggerated, as though he were covering up his involvement of last nights prank. Johnny chuckled. "Jelly, your eyes could turn a kitten into a mountain lion when the moon’s just right. Now do I look like I had a run in with a vampire? See." Johnny pulled his shirt collar down far to expose his neck. "No teeth marks, if that’s what you’re worried about."

"Well, maybe, somethin’ scared him off before he got that far."

Seeing a guarded glance pass between Scott and Murdoch, Johnny wondered if they thought Jelly had been seeing things, or if they were enjoying his contribution to covering their trail. He smiled at the whiskered man. "Could be, but I never saw him. What’s more, I doubt you did either. If yuh had, you’d have woke up the dead."

Jelly huh-rumphed, gave Johnny an injured glare, and then remained silent for some time. This was not like Jelly at all. If he was in the right, he wouldn’t shut up until he had everyone else convinced, too.

A few more references to vampires were made during breakfast. Johnny never did tell his family about doing battle with one, and neither Scott nor Murdoch ever admitted they had been playing a trick on him. Whatever had been the truth of the previous night went to the grave with them all. However, all though Johnny refused to believe that Octavian Lancer was real, he took no chances. From that year on, Halloween night found him awake and sitting someplace where he could keep a watchful eye on his family.

Octavian Lancer never did put in another appearance during Johnny’s lifetime. Johnny couldn’t be sure whether it was because the vampire had never existed in the first place or because Octavian had failed to collect the blood of the youngest Lancer son that eerie night in 1872 and so had faded into oblivion until some future time. In any case, on his death bed, Johnny called in his last born son and instructed him to continue the annual vigils.

And so it is that to this very day, the youngest son of each new generation of Lancers spends Halloween night watching over his family. No one ever knows that his eyes are not closed in sleep until the dawn chases away the darkness. His is a lonely and secret mission — sacred and never to be told to a single soul other than the son, who will take his place.