They'll come back, next time with bigger guns and more soldiers. -Christopher Stone

Prologue-The hunt

He cradled his Remington 700 in his left arm and his right hand was holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Snow slowly drifted through the forest on the outskirts of a town only known to him as Forks. He wasn't familiar with it, only knowing that this was the Headquarters to the Northern Assault by the Soviet Union on America's shores.

He lowered his binocs and lifted the small radio, a trophy picked up from a dead soldier, to his ear. It had been silent for the past hour, which was usual for the Soviet grunts, but now it sizzled to life, "Everything is clear in sector Alpha-14, moving into Bravo-14."

The professor of Russian culture and language grinned and went into the prone position, setting his rifle against his shoulder and his cheek against the stock. Popping off the scope covers, he waited silently.

The steady crunch of boots on snow could now be heard in the area causing the Professor to perk up his ears. The direction they came from was unexpected, and he panicked a little. They were now thirty meters to his seven o'clock and put him dangerously close to being discovered. He lay completely still, letting his hearing take over.

"Do you believe the stories that old man tells?" It was a boy, barely of conscript age if the Professor could guess. He seemed scared and jumpy. This could play a major disadvantage to the Professor as the young soldier might fire at anything that moved, and it just so happened that there was a rabbit right in front of him.

A harsh laugh was the next thing to be heard, "You worry too much you Vladimir. Vampires and ghouls don't exist. This may be a land of barbarians, but there are no mystic people who can swoop in unnoticed and drink our blood. That is utter nonsense."

So, that's what they were excited about, local legends. He suppressed a chuckle; this was going to be fun. Maybe the transfer wasn't the hell he thought it was. He continued to peer down the scope, waiting for his victims to cross the valley he had chosen for them.

They did not disappoint as they crossed into his field of fire, "Bad move comrades," the crosshairs of his scope hovered at the base of the older man's unprotected neck. His right index finger curled around the trigger and slowly moved back until the sharp report of the Remington rang through the forest. The blue eyes of the Professor traced the bullets path until it went through the soldier's neck, spraying a few warm drops of blood on his younger companion.

The young conscript turned around and madly fired the AK-103 he was carrying. None of the bullets came close. Crosshairs sailed over to the Conscript's face, then right above his shoulder. Another shot rang out, causing the young man to jump again and waste more rounds. The Conscript fumbled his hands, trying to find his radio. He did so and raised it his mouth, voice frantic and unsure, "We have a…a…attackers in sector Bravo-14. I repeat we have," Another sniper shot rang out, and the Conscript replied with more automatic fire, "I'm requesting reinforcements immediately."

The Professor stood up when the radio transmission was finished, his rifle left in the snow. In his hands he carried a well cared for and well worn Colt M1911. He was wearing a white cloak over gray military fatigues. The cloak's hood was up so very little of his face showed, he was grinning under its shadow.

The Conscript noticed the figure walking towards him, his eyes wide. Pointing the rifle at the cloaked figure he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, and he got the same result over and over. The Professor chuckled, "Comrade, it won't magically reload on its own."

Still wide eyed, the Conscript began to fumble for another magazine. The Professor stopped ten meters away from his target, "I thank you for alerting your friends, it will make entering your headquarters much easier."

The Conscript finally fed a fresh magazine into his Kalashnikov, but before he could fire a forty-five round blasted off the Conscript's trigger finger. Smoke trailed from the Colt's muzzle, "Who the hell are you!?" The Conscript was yelling, desperately trying to switch the rifle to his other hand.

The Professor's grin turned to a cruel smile, "I am an Upir," He grinned, using the Russian word for vampire to increase the young man's fright. It had the desired effect when his eyes snapped open in alarm. The Colt barked again, a bullet making its way through the Conscript's left eye.

The Professor turned to pick up his rifle while lifting a police issued radio to his mouth, "Distraction is complete, part two of mission is green lighted," he paused, then grinned, "Upir out…"