The Drums. The Drums. They pound out a warning. Stay back! Come no closer! We wish for no conflict! For centuries, we have listened for these drums. Stay back! Stay back! We smelled the scent of our foes from afar, so potent was their reek, we followed it here, to the den. Stay back! Keep away! Leave our den! So close, so close we are. Very near, if they use the drums. If we come closer, we shall be attacked. When we are attacked, we shall have to fight back.

So it has been for centuries with my people. Ever the scent, the hunt, the drums, the battle. For centuries, this cycle has endured. No matter the numbers, the conditions, the location, always the same cycle. But we are a superior race. Through our numerous hunts, we have endured. Yet these creatures upon which we prey, these beasts we hunt, we fight, we slaughter, they are dying. They are failing. They are becoming extinct.

The drums. They are beating faster now. Their speed, the pounding, faster, more frantic. Go back! Go back! Leave us in peace! Higher in pitch, faster, louder, urging us on while calling us back. Beneath the moon, invisible and dark in the sky. They are afraid without the moon. We are confident. We continue forward. The drums, the drums beat faster. Throbbing like a pulse.

Silence. A howl. Then eyes, eyes, great yellow eyes, appearing everywhere around us like the lanterns of Hell. A growl of pure hatred rising from the eyes, the eyes that burn into us. Then, they attack! Great masses of muscle and fur, claws and jaws, power! The power of an ancient world. They lunge, diving, racing to kill us all.

The crack of gunshot, the gleam of silver, the first rank falls before us. Twisted howls of pain, distorted carcasses, dying wounded. We fire again, but the second rank is lucky. The shrieks of my kin mingle with the howls of triumph. It is gruesome war now.

Too close for bullets. Hand-held weapons appear. Swords, scimitars, maces, chains, a gladiator battle. My favorite, the scythe, held tight in my fists, soon stained with the blood of my enemies. The same blood splatters on my face and hair, drenching me in the foul reek of death. They lunge, they flail, they claw, they wail, but my scythe cuts them all down. Caught in the thralls of battle, lost in the lust for blood, blinded by my own malice. I fight, I fight, I kill!

A whimper of defeat. They are going inside. We chase them into the den, killing, killing, slaying the mates and the offspring. We're mad with the frenzy, howling in reply to our victims, as they die kneeling and begging before us. Twisted, half-human corpses lay strewn about everywhere. Within the dark maze of the crumbling city, we feed. We feed off the wine of their blood, their life, and their tortured death.

Once the massacre is over, we stand upon the highest peaks of the burnt-out structure, clutching bloodstained hands of our foes. We raise them high, and sing our praises to the Blood, our Father, the Death, our Mother, and the Night, our Master, by order of tooth and claw. We sing our praises for the hunt, for the life, for the blood. We sing our praises for our god- given power; the power with which we rule this miserable wasteland called Earth.

We are vampires! Rulers of this reeking desert. Rulers of this world.