The creature’s shadow loomed over the carriages like a child leaning over a toy railway set. With each flap of its scaled wings, the track trembled under the small gale and dust from the canyon erupted upwards, clouding the little light not yet shielded by the dragon’s awe-inspiring blood-red body.

The shouts of men were hardly audible as the train let out a bellow of steam, and the steam trumpet whistled piercingly. Suddenly, there was a hissing from the sides of the carriages, and with the crank of cogs and wheels, small platforms emerged mounted with golden-rimmed turret contractions manned by men dressed in red greatcoats and elaborate black hats.

“Sir, awaiting orders,” shouted a pompous-looking redcoat to a solemn man in a medal-coated jacket of black and gold.

The solemn man, General Xavius, stared out the window of the front carriage, placing his glass of red wine onto the gem-encrusted table. He then tapped a small button, causing a copper tube to emerge from the wall of the cart.

“What is the dragon doing?” He asked, speaking through the pipe.

A quivering voice from the caboose responded.

“I-It’s slowing down, falling back to be-behind the train.”

Xavius frowned and ran a finger along the scar that stretched from the top of his left eye to the bottom of his chin. He thought back to his last skirmish with a dragon. He made his decision.

“Fire the grapples. Pull the creature forward.”

The great creature had raised its wings to make a hovering motion, allowing it to slow down. Suddenly, its throat glowed a deep-orange colour, and its eye flickered a menacing red. But, before damage could be done, there was a series of explosions, like fireworks, and several harpoons pierced the beast’s wings, shattering its scales and hooking to it with merciless efficiency. Following, an officer let out an inaudible shout, and each manned turret cranked, sending out jets of steam, as each soldier pulled back an oversized lever. The monster roared, but it was too late, the harpoons were tugging it forward, and it was losing height.

Meanwhile, the train was slowing under the immense force required to pull the several-ton dragon and, as the track switched from rocky terrain to a rickety bridge reaching over a canyon, there was a judder as several of the harpoon chains snapped. A moment later, a loud crack filled the air. The dragon was free again. Then, to make matters worse, from the depths of the canyon, scaling up the foundations of the bridge, came two much smaller dragons.

“S-sir, it has company! Redbolts, I think,” The quivering voice revealed.

Xavius grumbled a response and stood up, heading towards the exit of the carriage and taking a rifle from the weapons rack. The pompous-looking redcoat paled.

“Soldier,” Xavius said, “Alert the driver to stop the train.”

“But, sir, we’re on a bridge.”

“Stop the train. We don’t drive with Redbolts on our tail.”

The redcoat whimpered but obeyed, leaving the carriage from the opposite door to Xavius.

Outside, men were calling to each other, pointing frantically at the two smaller dragons that were now airborne and circling like vultures above the train.

Meanwhile, Xavius exited his carriage, passing through a cargo cart full of gold and silver before beginning to climb a ladder. The train screeched and jolted to a halt; Xavius reached the roof of the carriage.

For a moment, it was silent.

“Turrets, focus on the big one. Infantry, shoot at the Bolts,” Xavius bellowed, his voice echoing across the canyon.

The turrets hummed as their cogs creaked and spun, and the soldiers aimed the machines towards the grand dragon. It had now landed on the bridge, causing the entire train to shudder and the wooden foundations of the track to crack slightly.

As this went on, the infantry, who manned the caboose of the train, aimed their rifles towards the circling Bolts in the sky. Yet, when they shot, only one was hit. The other had locked in on Xavius and darted towards him with extraordinary speed, like the lightning bolt the breed was named after.

Xavius, however, stood firm and aimed his gun forward with determination and the confidence that only comes with experience. He pulled the trigger.

The bullet was an unstoppable force, filled with power and unparalleled destructive capabilities. The Redbolt was also unstoppable, laced with the strength of lightning. When the two collided, therefore, there was only one possible outcome: A draw.

In one chaotic moment, the Bolt’s head was pierced, and its body crumbled as it became a corpse. Yet, still carried by momentum, the small dragon crashed into Xavius, and the two were propelled from the safety of the train roof towards the depths of the canyon. Towards the void. Towards death.

The other Redbolt, pierced by the bullets of the infantry, joined its sibling heading towards the graveyard of the canyon depths.

Meanwhile, the large dragon let out a ferocious roar and spouted a deadly stream of fire onto the track. While the metal carriages resisted the flames, the bridge burst into flames. Suddenly, an alarm was raised, and all down the train ran messenger children ringing bells and shouting, “Fire! Fire on the tracks!” For the communication pipes were too unreliable for such news.

The redcoat, still at the locomotive of the train, heard the yells, and within minutes the vehicle was spurred into action. All the while, the turrets let out a volley of hefty cannon balls that crashed through the flames of the dragon and slammed into its being, cracking bones and shattering scales.

Yet, it was not until the third volley and until the train began to pick up speed that the dragon was finally felled, taking down a portion of the bridge with it.

And, as the final shots were fired, Xavius hit the dusty floor of the canyon. A smile was on his face, for, at the very least, his men had done their job. His honour and reputation were secured; The war efforts could on. The sky was black with smoke.

Fighting wasn’t my forte. Until I was eighteen, I’d never even had to lift a sword. After all, before all the Chosen One business, I was simply a shop assistant at a rather small bookstore in town. Then, I happened to open the wrong book, and the next second some shady folk in velvet robes were inviting me into their cult dedicated to destroying the “Dark Lord.” Yet, despite appearing wise, they weren’t particularly bright, and my deceptions always fooled them. Whether I pretended to have learnt some ancient magical technique through acting and practical effects; bribed the local bandits to leave; or simply lied that the “ancient evil monster” had died, they never doubted my word. In fact, they even thought I was a prodigy, and there was no doubt I was the chosen one. And, because they didn’t doubt it, nobody doubted it. Like wildfire, news of my exploits crossed the land and soon everyone from the far south to the far north knew my name. By spreading a few lies, I was welcomed to every inn, restaurant, castle, and exclusive club. However, it wasn’t easy: Everyone wanted me to do this and that for them and not doing such things would put my reputation at stake. Therefore, I had to lie some more. I mean, some of my actions were strokes of genius: For example, I managed to remove a troll from one man’s land by using a lure to relocate it to another man's land. The farmer who now had to deal with the troll was so poor he wouldn’t even think of hiring me, so the problem was solved.

Yet, the Dark Lord's power was growing and, much to my dismay, it was decided I would be sent to fight him earlier than expected in order to thwart his plans before he started them. So, within two years of opening that blasted book, I was knocking on the daunting doors of Castle Doom, clutching the “Sword of Destiny” (which I had never used) in my sweaty hands. Then, I was being led through weaving corridors and up spiralling gothic staircases by a grand escort of goblins, trolls and orcs before arriving in the infamous “Egregious Hall.” There, it was extraordinarily spooky, as if I was walking into a living horror trope: The architecture was all built from some sort of black stone, the ceiling was vaulted with pointed arches, golden chandeliers emphasized the creature’s wealth, great cobwebs stretched from the floor to the highest points of the ceiling and malnourished prisoners hung in cages attached to chains coming from the mouths of gargoyles lining the upper perimeter of the hall. Finally, on a throne built from bones was the man himself: The Dark Lord. He stood, revealing his seven-foot figure which, even when covered by a black monk-Esque, robes, still appeared broad and strong. In his hand, he wielded his great blade (“Bone Saw”) , with its serrated blade and strange black metal that sent shivers up my spine. It was then that I realised the dire predicament I was in: I was going to die, or, at best, become the latest edition to the creature's decorations.

He walked towards me, the shadow of his figure ominously tall due to the arrangement of candles in the hall. I stepped back, holding my sword a little higher. Yet, I knew it was hopeless. And then it struck me: It was supposed to be hopeless. I had been sent here to die. That was the only possible explanation. The velvet-cloaked cult must have realised I was a con, sent me to my death, and were probably trying to find a new Chosen One once I died. It was no wonder they sent me here early; They needed more time. I dropped my sword.

“I surrender,” I whimpered, and the Dark Lord stopped dead in his tracks.

“You surrender?” He asked in his hoard, creepy voice.

“Yep, you’re going to kill me anyway, but I’d rather die quickly than in some drawn-out battle.”

The creature scoffed and approached me, looping around me slowly.

“You think I will kill you quickly, Chosen One,” he whispered in my ear.

“Yes, I’ll even pay you,” I responded rather bluntly, as I fumbled in the pocket of my robe, reaching for “coins.”

He paused and that was enough, for I was not reaching for coins.

After all, since the beginning, I was a coward, and cowards don’t fight fairly, put themself in danger, or care about honour. No, since the beginning, I had lied, cheated, and never once fought, so why would I do such a thing with the big man himself?

From my pocket, I drew a poisoned dagger, a blade which swiftly pierced the “Dark Lord’s” robes and dug into his pale, sickly flesh. Suddenly, he lurched backwards and crumpled to the ground. The monsters in the hall surrounding us began to hollow and curse, yet that did not stop their master’s body from turning purple as his skin flaked away in a gust of grey flecks.

I stood back and smiled at my work.

“Maybe I am the Chosen One.”

The smell of death is thick in the air, suffocating all who dare venture close to the border of the compound and causing all those within a miles radius to crinkle their nose. The source is obvious: stacks of maggot-coated limbs and torsos arranged like great walls around the perimeter of our land.

That wasn't the initial plan. At first, we'd tried to burn the bodies. Yet, since "The Pact", there were simply too many to burn. Instead, we'd had to make use of them - After all, even before the outbreak recycling was a key part of life. The vampires agreed, of course - They agreed with everything we said, so long as we gave them our blood. In fact, they even built the walls. It's not like they can catch any diseases from the corpses anyway. Atlhough I can't imagine it was a pleasant job.

Suddenly, my arm tenses. I stop looking from the window and watch as the blood surrounding the two little punctures in my arm miraculously congeals. Dracs stands up, stretching before wiping a spot of blood from his pale lips. "I can feel the strength coming back to me already," he sighs before offering me his hand and pulling me up. "Shall we get to it then?" I nod, still a little weak from the loss of blood.

We leave the blood donating room, exiting from the clinically clean box of a room (furnished with only a chair), into the musty corridors of Bassett Hall. While we try to clean the house, it is old, and the cobwebs always persist, decorating the fading blue walls. Additionally, dust continues to sit deep in the rich red carpets, with no vacuum cleaners left to draw it out. A spider falls onto my arm; I swat it away. Sometimes, it feels like the spider population is increasing at the rate the human population is collapsing. From further down the corridor comes the sound of the kitchen staff shouting and the clattering of kitchenware. Upstairs, there's laughter from the designated dorm and recreation rooms. From the far end of the house, someone wails in our makeshift infirmary.

Entering the entrance hall, the carpet changes to glimmering white tiles, and the roof is much taller. A golden chandelier hangs over us, and opposite the front door is a double staircase leading to the upper floors. Before the outbreak, anyone would say we were living it large. Yet, I would trade every gram of gold and wealth in the house for a proper meal and a full stomach. Although, the size of the building allows for at least some personal space, especially before the vampires came. That's something to be grateful for - I'm sure the sods still alive in the cities would kill for such a luxury.

Dracs and I exit the house. Immediately, the stench of death strengthens. Yet, out here, it is silent save for the murmuring of the farmers as they painstakingly work the land.

We walk a little through the rolling grass fields towards the wall that stands several hundred meters from the hall. Suddenly, there is a tearing sound and a female figure bursts into existence before us. Her hair is styled in a similar fashion to a 90s punk star, and she wears a ragged-looking trench coat to accompany her ragged-looking attire. "Good afternoon, Mary," I say. "Pulled the short straw again?" She laughs, looking at my arm. "I swear no one else has to donate blood on the same day as baiting." "Tell me about it," I grumble. "Well, let's get it over with." Dracs, Mary, and I then walk together, nearing the wall which stands five foot high. We stop at a small storage shack, from which Dracs takes a rectangular metal cage about six feet in height. Effortlessly, he straps it to his back (the cage looking almost small compared to his broad 8-foot frame). Mary lifts me up, putting me snugly in the cage and locking it. "Here we go," Mary cries. My ears pop, my heart skips a beat, and my stomach drops as if I'm falling. Then, in the blink of an eye, we're standing on the other side of the wall. Quickly, the two vampires leave, hiding in a small block of trees. "It's show time," I mutter to myself.

Zombies are drawn to sound and human flesh. At the start of the pandemic, that was why the worst hoards were in the cities. Yet, once the urban areas were ravaged, the monsters had to start going to quieter regions to find their much-desired flesh. Soon, hoards travelled cross-country, straining their rotting ears for sounds only humans can make. By the third year of the apocalypse, most of the population was dead, and zombies wandered every corner of the world. Suddenly, being the only place where humans dwelled for hundreds of miles, our base at Bassett Hall became a core attraction for many hoards of zombies. The vampires saved us. Yet, even so, a big enough army of Z's would strain our defences or even end us, so we started baiting. That's what I'm doing now: Luring the zombies to be slaughtered before they can form too big a hoard.

I begin, wacking the bars of the cage so they clang and shouting so loudly my throat goes raw. A minute later, the hunched figures of the undead appear on the horizon, hobbling towards me with intense desire. An hour later, the cage is swarmed as they try and fit their grubby hand through the bars like children reaching for free sweets. Now, I stand tense and straight, waiting for the vampire duo to do their job. CRACK.

Like lighting, the two strike the mini hoard, tearing through the bodies as a car breaks through the snow. Black blood splatters me, painting me like modern art, and, despite experience, I still find myself shaking and scrunching my face up as if I was a human pug. Soon, the Z's all lie dead, their heads struck from their bodies, their torsos and limbs ready for the wall. This is why we signed "The Pact." After all, the vampires may be creepy, pale, and drink our blood, but nothing quite matches their awe-inspiring power. We need them as they need us, and until the day all the Z's are wiped from the Earth, and maybe a little longer, our truce with them will stand.