Posted by: Thomas Drinkard | August 17, 2015

Second Post – Opening Chapter of a Novel

Note: This is simply an edited copy. The audio on the original had some problems.  Enjoy anyway.

Yesterday, I posted the first draft of the opening chapter of a work-in-progress. Thank you to those who commented.

Today, I’m posting the prologue to a published novella,  V Trooper – First Mission.  It was started as an experiment in writing fantasy fiction.  The protagonist is a vampire.  Since no one has codified what a vampire is truly like, I chose to use some of the elements from Bram Stoker’s Dracula and added in a bit of Anne Rice’s take on the supernatural creatures from her Interview With The Vampire. Wil Boyd, the vampire is unlike any other I’ve encountered in reading.  I can’t speak for TV vampires, I’m not familiar with them.

Regarding the writing of the novella, the fact that I was writing about a vampire who was a soldier, seemed to set the creative juices free. There is more poetic description there than in some of my other, more conventional fiction.

Wil Boyd, as noted, is the protagonist, but his boss in the Army, Major Vic Russell shares the stage almost equally. The man is a frustrated warrior. He lost part of a leg in combat and has now been shuffled away from his beloved Special Forces to command a sustainment battalion, supplying bullets and beans to troops in Afghanistan.

There are underlying love stories that become more fully developed in the second novella. That piece also examines the birth of the European vampire mythology.

V Trooper – First Mission is currently available as a digital book through Amazon and as an audiobook through Amazon and

Here’s the prologue.  Enjoy reading and listening. The talented Carl Moore is the narrator for both novellas.



Mustafa Muhammad was cold. Night in the mountains near Bamiyan, Afghanistan, chilled the Taliban warrior. His robes were not enough to block mountain winds that slithered through the rocks as he squatted, watching the trails that led to his master’s encampment at the top of the hill.

No enemy will come, not even the infidel’s Special Forces, but the Sheikh would have my head removed if I left this post. Eight of us guard the Sheikh’s tent. If I have to piss, I can only go three meters away to a tin bucket, and I have to smell it until my relief comes at four in the morning. Then I have to take away the bucket, empty it, and bring it back for the next man.

My sergeant is sleeping in a comfortable bag inside a big, warm tent while I freeze.

A sound, like great wings above him, made Mustafa look to the stars and lift the barrel of his AK-47.


Then he was there, coming up the hill. A slim man in a black uniform, an American. He approached Mustafa without speaking. In the bare light of the sickle moon, the man seemed to smile. Before the Taliban guard could bring his weapon around, the stranger had grabbed the gun barrel. He was smiling, though there was a strange look to his mouth.

The intruder wore curved sunglasses and pulled them aside as he came ever closer. The eyes were red and glowed as fiery as the burning coals they mimicked. Mustafa released his grip on the weapon and turned to run. He opened his mouth to yell an alarm, but a hand as cold and hard as a knife’s blade covered his mouth and spun him around, drawing him against a body hard as dragon’s scales. The mouth the Taliban soldier thought was eerie, opened. Fangs, like those of a viper, glittered in the moonlight.

The only sound at the guard post was a slight drumming as the dead guard’s feet trembled in the dirt.



  1. great, I enjoy reading whatever you write!

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