Sam sprinted through the alleys of Jerusalem, snarling, red with rage. He wanted to destroy, to tear apart everything in sight. As he ran past a row of vendors, he reached out and swiped their booths, knocking them over like dominoes. He bumped people deliberately, as hard as he could, sending them flying every which way. He was like a wrecking ball, out of control, hurling down the alley, knocking over everything in his way.
Chaos ensued; cries rose up. People began to take notice and started to flee, to jump out of his way. He was like a freight train of destruction.
The sun was driving him crazy. It beat down on his head like a living thing, filling him with more and more rage. He had never known what true rage was until now. Nothing seemed to satisfy him.
He saw a tall, thin man and he dove for him, sinking his fangs into his neck. He did this in a split second, sucking out the blood, then hurried on, sinking his fangs into another person's neck. He went from person to person, sinking his fangs and sucking the blood. He moved so fast, none of them had time to react. They all slumped to the floor, one after the other, and he left a trail in his wake. He was in a feeding frenzy, and he felt his body begin to swell with their blood. Still, it was not enough.
The sun was driving him to the brink of insanity. He needed shade, and he needed it fast. He spotted a large building in the distance, a formal, elaborate palace, built of limestone, with pillars and huge arched doors. Without thinking, he burst across the square and charged it, kicking open the doors.
It was cooler in here, and finally, Sam could breathe again. Just getting the sun off his head made a difference. He was able to open his eyes, and slowly, they adjusted.
Staring back at Sam were the startled faces of dozens of people. Most sat inside small pools, individual baths, while others walked around, barefoot on the stone floor. They were all naked. That was when Sam realized: he was inside a bathhouse. A Roman bathhouse.
The ceilings were high and arched, letting in the light, and there were large arched columns all throughout. The floors were a shining marble, and small pools filled the vast room. People lazed about, apparently relaxing.
That is, until they saw. They quickly sat up, and their expressions morphed to fear.
Sam hated the sight of these people—these lazy, rich people, lounging about as if they hadn't a care in the world. He would make them all pay. He threw his head back and roared.
Most of the crowd had the good sense to scurry out of there, to hurry to grab their towels and robes and to try to get out as soon as they could.
But they didn't stand a chance. Sam hurled forward, lunged for the closest one, and sunk his teeth into her neck. He sucked the blood out and she collapsed to the ground and rolled into a bath, staining it red.
He did this again and again, jumping from one victim to the next, men and women alike. Soon the bathhouse filled with corpses, bodies floating everywhere, all the pools stained red.
There was a sudden crash at the door, and Sam wheeled to see what it was.
There, filling the doorway, were dozens of Roman soldiers. They wore official uniforms—short tunics, roman sandals, feathered helmets—and held shields and short swords. Several more held bows and arrows. They pulled them back and took aim at Sam.
"Stay where you are!" the leader yelled.
Sam snarled as he turned, rose to his full height, and began walking towards them.
The fire came. Dozens of arrows went hurling through the air, right for him. Sam could see them in slow motion, glistening, their silver tips heading right for him.
But he was faster even than their arrows. Before they could reach him, he was already high up in the air, leaping, somersaulting over them all. He easily covered the span of the entire room—forty feet—before the archers even relaxed their hands.
Sam came down feet first, kicking the center one right in the chest with such force that he knocked back the whole crowd, like a row of dominoes. A dozen soldiers went down.
Before the others could react, Sam reached over and snatched two swords out of two soldier's hands. He spun and slashed in every direction.
His aim was perfect. He chopped off head after head, then turned and jabbed the survivors right through the heart. He cut through the crowd like butter. Within seconds, dozens of soldiers slumped to the ground, lifeless.
Sam dropped to his knees and sank his fangs into each one's heart, drinking and drinking. He knelt there, on all fours, hunched over like a beast, gorging himself with blood, still trying to fulfill his rage, which was limitless.
Sam finished, but was still not satisfied. He felt as if he needed to battle entire armies, to kill masses of humanity at once. He needed to gorge for weeks. And even then, it wouldn't be enough.
"SAMSON!" shrieked a strange female voice.
Sam stopped, frozen in his tracks. It was a voice he hadn't heard in centuries. It was a voice he had almost forgotten, one he had never expected to hear again.
Only one person in this world had ever called him Samson.
It was the voice of his maker.
There, standing over him, looking down, a smile on her gorgeous face, was Sam's first true love.
There, was Samantha.
