The Immortal

He gazed up at the sky, utterly gobsmacked by what he was seeing. Stars. Bloody hell, so many stars. He'd never clapped eyes on anything quite so beautiful. He'd tried counting them, but it was properly impossible. He'd only managed about a thousand before losing track, and there were loads more twinkling away up there. And cor, the moon! It was positively radiant despite not being full. He could see clear as day in the dark, even without the sun.

He let out a rather British sigh, for despite being there over three days, he hadn't found a single trace of civilisation. Not even the slightest hint of it. He hadn't the foggiest where he was. The only thing he knew was that it was properly snowing, and with all these glaciers about, he reckoned he must be in Canada, Russia, or perhaps somewhere in Scandinavia. But then again, the land was covered in verdant grass, which made absolutely no sense whatsoever. And he'd seen some right peculiar things. The animals were enormous! Several metres tall, if you please. That's when it dawned on him that he most certainly wasn't on Earth. Or perhaps he was, but somehow in the bloody ice age. Rubbish explanation, that.

He'd been born on the evening of 19th February 1995. William was his name, and he was a proper linguist. He was fluent in more than a dozen languages, including Latin, French, English, German, Greek, Arabic, and even dead languages like Ancient Greek, Egyptian, Sanskrit, and plenty more besides. He'd been rather keen on languages since he was just a wee lad and had carried that passion right through to adulthood. His fascination with mythology began during his teenage years after reading those Percy Jackson books. As such, he was well-versed in various mythologies, from Hindu to Greek to Egyptian. Fascinating stuff, really—gave one quite the insight into how ancient civilisations viewed the world.

He'd been poring over some ancient manuscripts in his university office in 2020 when he caught that ghastly Covid-19. Popped his clogs a few weeks later, he did. And now, here he was. In the midst of vast snow, near a coast of glaciers. According to his rather educated guess, he was somewhere near the equator line. Though he couldn't fathom why it was snowing so bloody hard. Perhaps Earth was a tad further from the Sun, or his educated guess was complete tosh, or he was indeed in the ice age. Or maybe—just maybe—he wasn't on Earth at all. Who could say? He'd already died once, so being alive again was quite the surprise, really.

William had noticed several rather peculiar things about himself. He looked different. Or at least he thought so. He'd only been able to feel his face, mind you. Couldn't find his reflection anywhere, which was properly strange. He'd also discovered he was considerably stronger and faster. Bloody hell, was he faster. He estimated he could lift several tonnes. And as for speed? He reckoned he could manage 240 kilometres per hour—that's 150 miles if you're being american about it. Significantly quicker than any animal he'd ever known. Even cheetahs were proper sluggish compared to him. And his stamina! Miles better than a cheetah's.

He sighed again, rather dramatically this time. He hadn't the faintest idea if he'd ever make it back to his time. He'd had a decent life. Despite having no loved ones left, he missed certain modern conveniences. The Internet, primarily. With the Internet, he wouldn't be quite so bloody bored. He could chat with anyone and read endless books to pass the time. If his hypothesis was spot on and this really was the ice age, he could be stuck here for dozens of millennia to a million years. And he had a sneaking suspicion he was immortal. Think about it—no reflection, super speed, super strength, possible night vision. He was quite clearly a vampire. No idea why he wasn't bursting into flames in the sunlight, but he wasn't about to complain. While he was a bit miffed about no longer being human, being a vampire seemed rather practical at the moment, what with all these giant animals roaming about. He'd seen a few himself—proper scary ones too, like sabretooth cats and bloody great mammoths. Wasn't too chuffed about that.

He stopped by an enormous rock and knelt beside some cracked ice sheets. His hand brushed the surface, shattering the thick layer of frost that had formed. He leaned closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of himself in the water. But once again, not a blooming thing stared back at him.

His heart was racing like mad.

The realisation came slowly, but with each passing second, it became harder to deny: He didn't just look different—he didn't exist in any visible sense, at least not in the ways he was used to. This wasn't some barmy dream or delusion. Something had fundamentally altered him, and the absence of a reflection was properly doing his head in. Despite knowing in his brain that he was likely some form of vampire, his heart still couldn't accept it. His heart was still hoping it was some elaborate practical joke or an incredibly vivid dream.

He pressed his fingers to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath his skin. So, not properly dead then. Not fully, at any rate. But whatever he'd become, it wasn't normal—at least not in any sense he understood from human mythology. Was he really a vampire? He knew vampires were meant to be undead and all that rot, but his heart was still beating away. Or was he something else entirely? He shook his head in proper British exasperation.

"Pull yourself together, William," he muttered to himself. "One thing at a bloody time."

He hauled himself to his feet and carried on his journey along the shore, pressing forward even as the wind whipped snow against his face like a right proper nuisance.

But then, he spotted something that made him stop dead in his tracks. Footprints.

They weren't his, that's for certain. The prints were absolutely massive—far too large to belong to any human, and shaped unlike anything he'd ever clapped eyes on. Four distinct toes pressed deep into the snow, and claw marks followed each step, as if whatever had made them weighed tonnes. The prints trailed along the shoreline, curving toward the rather intimidating cliffs ahead.

For a moment, William dithered about like a proper fool. He could either follow the tracks and see where they led—or turn inland, away from whatever colossal creature had left them behind.

His stomach gave an almighty growl, sharp and insistent. It was the first real hunger pang he'd felt since waking up in this peculiar place. The sensation was properly startling—so deep it was almost painful, as though something inside him was having a right go at his insides, demanding to be fed.

William clutched his stomach, groaning as the ache sharpened. "Oh, bloody brilliant," he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Hunger. That's just what I needed, innit?"

He hadn't eaten in days, yet he didn't feel weak—at least not physically. His body still felt unsettlingly powerful, as though fueled by something other than a proper meal. Probably by blood, if he was being honest with himself. But the hunger was something else entirely—deep, raw, and gnawing at the edges of his mind like a persistent door-to-door salesman.

He tried to shake it off and keep walking, but with each step, the ache twisted harder in his gut. Everything felt too vivid. The cold air tasted metallic, the snow beneath his boots squeaked like it was having a right moan, and the faint rustle of wind carried scents he should never have been able to pick up.

Then he caught it. The scent...

The scent of blood.

He stopped dead, the scent hitting him like a double-decker bus. His entire body went rigid, every muscle tense as anything. The sharp, coppery tang was unmistakable, filling his lungs with an intensity that nearly knocked him for six. It was fresh—warm. His stomach gave an angry growl, and suddenly, every part of him was focused like a laser on the source.

"Bloody hell and all its residents," he whispered, running his hand down his face. "This can't be good, can it?"

Despite his brain telling him to resist the urge like a proper British gentleman would, he couldn't. His body moved on its own, with its own instinct as he moved closer to wherever that absolutely delicious scent was coming from. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he drew closer, and the wind carried the faintest sound of something trickling—wet, thick, seeping into the ground. He could see it now.

A massive creature lay splayed across the snow, steam rising from the gaping wound across its side. Blood glistened, pooling beneath the strange beast—a black-furred colossus with tusks chipped and jagged. It was a bloody mammoth. A dead one at that. William stared at the dark crimson stain spreading across the ice, and his whole body trembled like a leaf in autumn.

His breath came fast, shallow, and ragged. The hunger clawed at him with a desperation he couldn't ignore. Just a taste, something whispered in the back of his mind. Just a little to take the edge off, like a cheeky pint before dinner.

"No, no, absolutely not," he mumbled, pacing on the spot like a nervous father-to-be. "I mean, for Christ's sake, I've been alive—what—three days, and now I'm already craving blood? That's proper mental, that is." He huffed, shaking his head as if trying to wake himself from a particularly nasty dream. "Get a grip, William. You're a bloody linguist, not some savage beast."

But even as the words left his mouth, his hand reached down, brushing the bloodied snow. It was still warm. His fingers trembled as he brought them closer to his face, the scent absolutely overwhelming.

"Oh, sod it all..." he whispered as his tongue flicked across his fingertips, tasting the blood.

A jolt ran through him like an electric current, setting every nerve alight as if he'd stuck his finger in a socket. His muscles tightened, and his five senses sharpened to a terrifying clarity. The stars above seemed to blaze brighter, the world around him somehow more vivid than a BBC nature documentary. The hunger roared again, louder, more insistent.

He crouched by the fallen creature, staring at it with wide, hungry eyes. But just as he was about to lose himself entirely, a distant howl echoed through the night—low, mournful, and terrifyingly close. Rather like last orders at the pub, but considerably more menacing.

His head snapped up, the sound sending a proper chill down his spine. The wind shifted, bringing with it the scent of more blood... and something else.

Something alive.

And it was coming, no doubt about that.

He didn't give a toss. His mind told him he'd deal with it later, like putting off the washing up. For now, he bit into the animal, sucking all the blood inside like it was the last pint at closing time. His vision continued to improve as all of his other senses were also enhanced. His hunger had vanished completely, as if it had nipped off down the pub.

"Ah, perfect," he muttered, wiping the blood from his lips with the back of his hand like a messy tea drinker. "As if things weren't going pear-shaped enough already."

He glanced in the direction of the howl. Whatever it was, it wasn't small—and it was closing in faster than a London cab driver spotting a fare.

"Right then," he muttered under his breath, flexing his fingers as the power surged through him again. "Better introduce myself before that thing does, eh?"

Despite the situation, a grin crept across his face. Whatever was out there, it wasn't the only predator tonight.

And he was absolutely famished. Proper starving for some meat, he was!