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DOUG REED

HALF
THE LOST YEARS

Dear Reader,
A few words of exposition are in order here. Allow me to be blunt.
Vampires walk among us. I apologize if this information offends
your sensibilities, but I feel it is best that we confront the danger
head-on, and without a lot of hand-wringing or wishing it wasnt so.
The existence of vampires is incontrovertible fact.
The novel Half chronicles the misadventures of one such vampire, living among us as a second-shift server operator for a large
insurance company. The name he now assumes is Phillip Half.
Before the downfall of Europes feudal system, he was Phillip Carl,
the Ninth Count Von Helfert.
What follows is information taken from secret Allied archives,
classified at the end of WWII and hidden away in Pentagon
vaults. These are revelations so sensational that they were excised
from the book. However, thanks to the freedoms afforded by the
Internet, I am now able, for the first time, to reveal the hidden history of vampiredoms role in the fall of Hitlers reign.

The Author

The order came down from the highest ranks. The inner circle of the Nazi
Party desired that their work should not cease at the end of a
mortal lifetime but might continue to be spread unendingly and
unceasingly to every place on the globe. The Nazis sought vampires counsel in achieving superhuman strength and immortality, thus to be unstoppable forever.

The pinnacle of the hierarchy were to be bitten by Aryan


vampires of documented aristocratic bloodlines. Anyone who
has been a vampire for more than a few moons carries within
himself a mix of blood like a cocktail of humanity. It was no
use explaining that to the Nazis. All they cared about was the
aristocratic pedigree.
There was an aristocrat in Outer Bavaria who had caught
the attention of the High Command. A certain Count Phillip
Carl Von Helfert.
The counts bloodlines were impeccably documented. His
lineage could be traced to the Middle Ages, and he had never
bitten an African. The High Command was very particular
about that. They also asked if he had ever bitten a Jew. The
count could not honestly recall. The Christian and the Jew
cry to the same god when confronted by a vampire, and the
same god ignores their pleas.
And so the Ninth Count Von Helfert was selected as the
honored vampire who would bite the Fhrer. On the oneyear anniversary of the invasion of Poland.
Hitler had cooked up a ceremony fitting for his entry into
immortality. The count was led into an antechamber where a
bevy of blond, blue-eyed virgins in white robes stripped him
naked, bathed him in scented waters, and placed a black robe
on him.
He was ushered into the Great Hall of the Reich
Chancellery. Rows of candles lined the walls. The effect

would have been solemn and impressive if it werent for the


harsh arc lighting at one end of the room.
A platform had been erected, adorned with Nazi insignia,
and no less than five movie cameras were set up at low, worshipful angles. A small, intense woman moved feverishly from
camera to camera supervising the moment, which would be
recorded for posterity.
She introduced herself to the count.
Leni Riefenstahl, she announced, raising her arm in salute.
You may call me Frau Riefenstahl. She then barked a series
of commands specifying how fast the count was to approach
the dais and the X on the floor, which marked the spot where
he was to stand when he arrived.
An apparatchik with a cue card knelt before the count.
MIGHTY FHRER, read the first card, WE THE
IMMORTALS PROSTRATE OURSELVES BEFORE
YOU.
The count elected not to read that particular card and began
walking down the aisle.
The Fhrer yelled, Cut!
The camera crews stopped filming.
Count Phillip Carl Von Helfert kept walking toward the
altar.
Stop! yelled Hitler. You will go back and read the card! I
can have you staked!
The counts eyes never left the little man as he steadily,
calmly lessened the distance between them. The tall, ancient
aristocrat found the little dictator almost adorable with his
strutting and preening and pretensions to glory. Count Von
Helfert suspected that his feelings stemmed from the itty-bitty
little Charlie Chaplin mustache currently quivering with rage
on that cute pouty little upper lip.

My dear sir, said the count. Your efforts to film our ceremony will be in vain. After the next full moon, you yourself
will not appear on newsreels.
Hitler looked hurt and confused. Not . . . appear . . . on . . . ?
The vampire cannot be filmed. After the next full moon,
you will never appear on film again.
Hitlers eyes widened, and his cheeks puffed. The room
tensed for one of the Fhrers legendary temper tantrums.
Then he was interrupted by a wail from the camera platform.
The little woman directing the camera crews cried in shock.
The Fhrer must appear on film.
Calm yourself, Leni, said the dictator soothingly.
I have such plans for you, mein Fhrer! she sobbed. Such
pictures to make.
Like Gone with the Wind? asked Hitler eagerly.
Bigger than Gone with the Wind! she exclaimed.
Hitler turned to Count Von Helfert. Bigger than Gone with
the Wind. Surely there is some way around this. An immortal
must be seen on film.
You can appear in oil paintings, said the count.
OIL PAINTINGS!?!? shrieked Frau Riefenstahl. The
Ninth Count Von Helfert and the Butcher of Berlin cowered
before her wrath. Is this the nineteenth century? Am I to
paint the Fhrer as though he were a Mickey Mouse cartoon?
This is intolerable!
But Leni . . . whined Hitler.
Intolerable! declared the director.
Immortality . . . whimpered Hitler.
I have already given it to you! proclaimed the director.
On celluloid.
Hitler stood lost and confused. His insatiable need for immortality weighed against his unquenchable love of publicity.

If you do not appear on film, the people will lose hope. All
is lost! declared Leni.
The count shrugged. Dont hurry on my account. I have
nothing but time.
Hitler mused over this. Time, yes, time. In 1960, when my
invasion of America is complete. Perhaps that will be the
time.
Thus Count Phillip Von Helfert narrowly escaped the ignominy of being the
vampire to grant Hitler immortality. Germanys undead were
housed in a luxurious camp, where they could be studied. The
count returned to the camp and lived out the carnage of World
War II in comfort and ease. A steady supply of Jews, Gypsies, and
homosexuals were released onto the hunting grounds. Somehow
the message about vampires being unfilmable was never passed
down through the ranks of the Nazi bureaucracy. At the full
moon, when the vampires appetites were keenest, the latest herd
of victims would be released and the Nazis would again attempt to
capture their guests hunting techniques on film.

The Germans prided themselves on the regularity of the


hunts and the plushness of the accommodations. The camp
was run with efficiency and crisp courteousness.
Count Von Helfert felt progressively more and more queasy
about the whole thing. The taking of a victim is an intimate
act, the most intimate of a vampires existence. There are
rhythms and rituals. The fear. The holding. The soothing.
When the victims palpitating heart and the hunters racing
heart synchronize their rhythms and beat togetherwhen the
vampire is renewed by the fresh life he drinks, and the shallow
mortality of the victim is drained and replaced with a deeper,
darker hunger. This is a sacred act, rarely witnessed. To be surrounded by cameramen while doing it just seemed tawdry. It

drained the mystery from the act and reduced it to nothing


more than a sideshow curiosity.
By the end of the war, Count Von Helfert was glad to see
the Americans march into the camp led by a column of
undead Jews, Gypsies, and homosexuals. He had spent over
forty-eight full moons under Nazi observation, and the relentless sameness of camp life had become wearying.
The little dictator was not so happy to see the Allies closing
in on Berlin. In desperation, the last available vampire, a darkskinned Moroccan, was smuggled through the lines and
brought to the bunker.
The vampire bit Hitler and Eva Braun, whereupon the SS
took him outside and shot him. The Moroccan played dead
until his guards were gone. Then he rose, transformed himself
into a bat, and flew off to alert the Americans as to the
bunkers location.
Two unfortunate look-alikes were found to stand in for
Braun and the Fhrer, dressed up, and shot. Hitler and his
mistress, dressed as peasants, hid in a cellar in Berlin.
Stalin had his own squadron of vampires, who were not
fooled. Vampires always have a way of knowing when
another one of their kind is present. They call it vampdar.
Hunting the eastern half of the city by night, the Soviet vampires found the hideout with ease.
The Russian vampires staked Hitler with holly. Then they
left his corpse in the sun for a day. It crumbled to ashes. At
nightfall, they drove a stake through the ashes. Then they
burned the ashes. Twice. Stalin himself personally oversaw
the distribution of the ashes. Small packets were dispatched to
Siberia, the bottom of the Black Sea, to the far corners of the
Soviet empire. The last packet of ashes was kept in a snuffbox
on Stalins nightstand.

No mortal knows the extent of the vampires powers. Can


the vampire reconstitute himself, like the phoenix? Stalin didnt know the answer. He polled his scientists, didnt like the
answer he was given, and had the scientists shot.
Vampires sow seeds of fear and mistrust wherever they go, whether
clumped in a pile of ashes on a dictators nightstand or suffering
through the second shift in the server room of the Midwests
largest regional insurer.

Uneasy are the mortals who meet the undead.

Read the rest of the story . . .

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