The Strain, the Fall, the Night Eternal (130 page)

Fet looked up from the map. “They have detonators?”

Creem said, “If they don’t, nobody does. I seen fuses and timers. You gotta know what type you need. Your nuke here? Not that I know what I’m looking for.”

Fet didn’t answer that. “It’s about three feet by five feet. Portable, but not suitcase-small. Heavy. Like a small keg or a trash can.”

“You’ll find something that works. Or you won’t. I don’t make any guarantees, except that I can put you there. Then you take your toy far away and see how she goes. I don’t offer any money-back guarantees. Duds are your problem, not mine.”

Nora said, “You are offering us next to nothing.”

“You want to shop around for a few more years? Be my guest.”

Nora said, “I’m glad you find this so funny.”

“It’s all fucking funny to me, lady,” said Creem. “This whole world is a laugh factory. I laugh all day and night. What do you want me to do, bust out weeping? This vampire thing is one colossal joke, and the way I see it, you’re either in on the joke, or you’re out.”

“And you’re in on it?” said Nora.

“Put it to you this way, bald beauty,” said silver-toothed Creem. “I aim to have the last laugh. So you renegades and rebels better make sure you light the fuse on this fucking thing away from my island here. Take a bite out of . . . fucking Connecticut or something. But stay off my turf here. Part of the deal.”

Fet was smiling now. “What do you hope to do with this city once you own it?”

“I don’t even know. Who can think that far ahead? I never been a landlord before. This place is a fixer-upper but a one of a kind. Maybe turn this fucker into a casino. Or a skate rink—it’s all the same to you.”

Gus entered then. His hands were deep in his pockets, his face set tight. He was wearing dark glasses but if you looked carefully enough—like Nora did—you could see his eyes were red.

“Here he is,” said Creem. “Looks like we have a deal, Mex.”

Gus nodded. “We have a deal.”

Nora said, “Hold on. He’s got nothing except these maps.”

Gus nodded, still not really in the room yet. “How soon can we get it?”

Creem said, “How about tomorrow?”

Gus said, “Tomorrow it is. On one condition. You wait here tonight. With us. Lead us to it before first light.”

“Keeping an eye on me, Mex?”

“We’ll feed you,” said Gus.

Creem was won over. “Fair enough. I like my steak well-done, remember.” He swung his trunk door shut. “What’s your great plan, anyway?”

“You don’t really need to know,” said Gus.

“You can’t ambush this motherfucker.” Creem looked at them all. “Hope you know that.”

Gus said, “You can if you have something it wants. Something it needs.
That
is why I’m keeping my eye on you . . .”

Extract from the Diary of Ephraim Goodweather

Dear Zack,

This is my second time writing a letter that no father should ever have to write to his son: a suicide note. The first one I crafted before putting you on that train out of New York City, explaining my reasons for staying behind and fighting what I suspected was a losing battle.

Here I remain, still fighting that fight.

You were taken from me in the cruelest manner possible. For nearly two years now, I have pined for you, I have tried to find a way to set you free from the clutches of those who hold you. You think me dead, but no—not yet. I live, and I live for you.

I am writing this to you in the event that you survive me and that the Master survives me as well. In that case—which is for me the worst-case scenario—I will have committed a grave crime against humanity, or what was left of it. I will have traded the last hope for the freedom of our subordinated race in order that you, son, will live. Not only live, but live as a human being, unturned by the plague of vampirism spread by the Master.

My dearest hope is that you have by now come to the realization that the Master’s way is evil in its basest form. There is a very wise saying: “History is written by the victor.” Today I write not of history but of hope. We had a life together once, Zack. A beautiful life, and I include your mother in this also. Please remember that life, its sunlight, laughter, and simple joy. That was your youth. You have been made to grow up much too fast, and any confusion on your part as to who truly loves you and wants the best for you is understandable and forgivable. I forgive you everything. Please forgive my treachery on your behalf. My own life is a small price to pay for yours, but the lives of my friends, and the future of humanity—enormous.

Many times I have given up hope in myself, but never in you. I regret only that I will not see the man you will grow to be. Please let my sacrifice guide you onto the path of goodness.

And now I have one other very important thing to say. If, as I say, this plan comes off as I fear it might, then I have been turned. I am a vampire. And you must understand that, due to the bond of love I feel for you, my vampire self will be coming for you. It will never stop. If, by the time you read this, you have already slain me, I thank you. A thousand times, I thank you. Please feel no guilt, no shame, only the satisfaction of a good deed done well. I am at peace.

But if somehow you have not released me yet—please destroy me the next chance you get. This is my last request. You will want to cut down your mother too. We love you.

If you have found this diary where I intend to leave it—on your boyhood bed, in your mother’s house on Kelton Street in Woodside, Queens—then you will find, beneath the bed, a bag of weapons forged of silver that I hope will make your way easier in this world. It is all I have to bequeath you.

It is a cruel world, Zachary Goodweather. Do anything you can to make it better.

Your father,
Dr. Ephraim Goodweather

Columbia University

E
PH
HAD
SKIPPED
Gus’s promised meal in order to compose his letter to Zack in one of the empty classrooms down the hall from Joaquin. In doing so, Eph despised the Master at that moment more than he had at any other point in this long, terrible ordeal.

Now he looked over what he had just written. He read it through, trying to approach it as Zack would. Eph had never before considered this from Zachary’s perspective. What would his son think?

Dad loved me
—yes.

Dad was a traitor to his friends and his people
—yes.

Eph realized, reading this, how saddled with guilt Zack would be. To have the weight of the lost world upon his shoulders. His father having chosen slavery for all for the freedom of one.

Was that really an act of love? Or was that something else?

It was a cheat. It was the easy way out. Zack would get to live as a human slave—
if
the Master fulfilled its end of the bargain—and the planet would become a vampire’s nest for eternity.

Eph had the sensation of awakening, as though from a fever dream. How could he ever have considered this? It was almost as though, having allowed the Master’s voice into his head, he had also allowed a bit of corruption or insanity. As if the Master’s malignant presence had mentally nested inside Eph’s mind and started to metastasize. Thinking of this actually made him fear for Zack more than ever: he feared Zack being alive next to that monster.

Eph heard someone approaching from the hallway and quickly closed his diary and slid it underneath his pack—just as the door opened.

It was Creem, his bulk nearly filling the door frame. Eph had expected Mr. Quinlan, and Creem’s presence threw him off. At the same time, Eph was relieved: Mr. Quinlan would have seen right through his distress, Eph felt.

“Hey, doc. Looking for you. Alone time, huh?”

“Getting my head straight.”

“I was looking for that Dr. Martinez, but she’s busy.”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“Off somewhere with the big dude, the exterminator.” Creem walked in and closed the door, extending his arm, his sleeve rolled back to his thick elbow. A square pad bandage was adhered to his forearm. “I got this cut I need you to look at. I saw the Mex’s boy there, Joaquin. He’s downright fucked. I need this checked out.”

“Uh, sure.” Eph tried to clear his head. “Let’s see.”

Creem came forward, Eph digging a flashlight out of his pack, taking the man’s wide forearm in hand.

His skin color looked good under the bright beam.

“Peel it back for me,” said Eph.

Creem did, his sausage-thick fingers adorned with silver bling. The bandage pulled off wiry black hairs, but the man didn’t flinch.

Eph shone his flashlight down over the revealed flesh. No cut or abrasion.

“I don’t see anything,” said Eph.

Creem said, “That’s because there’s nothing to see.”

He pulled his arm back, standing there, looking at Eph. Waiting for Eph to figure it out.

Creem said, “The Master said I was to reach out to you in private.”

Eph nearly jumped backward. The flashlight fell from his hands, rolling to his foot. Eph picked it up, fumbling with it to turn off the beam.

The gang leader smiled silverly.

“It’s you?” said Eph.

“And you?” said Creem. “Didn’t make no sense.” Creem looked back at the closed door before continuing. “Listen, homeboy. You gotta be more present, you know? Gotta speak up more, play the part. You’re not working it hard enough.”

Eph barely heard him. “How long . . . ?”

“The Master came to me not too long ago. Fucking mowed down the rest of my crew. But I can respect that. This is the Master’s block now, you know?” A silver snap of his fingers. “But it spared me. The Master had other plans. Made me an offer—the same one I made you people.”

“Turn us in . . . for Manhattan?”

“Well, for a piece. A little black market, some sex trade, gambling. Said it would help keep people distracted and in line.”

“So this . . . this detonator . . . it’s all a lie.”

“Naw, that’s real. I was just supposed to infiltrate you people. It was Gus who came to me with the request.”

“What about the book?”

“That silver book you’re always whispering about? The Master didn’t say. That’s what you’re giving him?”

Eph had to play along here. So he nodded.

“You’re the last one I woulda thought. But hey—those others are soon gonna wish they’d made a deal before us.”

Creem smiled silverly again. His metallic expression sickened Eph.

Eph said, “You really think it’ll honor its deal with you?”

Creem made a face. “Why wouldn’t it? You expect it to honor yours?”

“I don’t even know about that.”

“You think it’ll fuck us?” Creem was getting angry. “Why? What are you getting outta this? Better not say this city.”

“My boy.”

“And?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s all? Your boy. For this fucking sacred book and your friends.”

“He’s all I want.”

Creem stepped back, acting impressed but—Eph could tell—thinking Eph a fool. “You know, I got to thinking, when I found out about you. Why two plans? What’s the Master thinking? Is it going to do both deals?”

“Probably neither,” said Eph.

Creem didn’t like the sound of that. “Anyway, it occurred to me—one of us is the backup plan. ’Cause, you do the deal first, what’s he need me for? I get fucked over, and you get the glory.”

“The glory of betraying my friends.”

Creem nodded. Eph should have paid more attention to Creem’s reaction, but he was too agitated now. Too torn. He saw himself reflected in this bloodless mercenary.

“I think the Master was trying to punk me. I think having the second deal is the same as having no deal. That’s why I told the others about the armory location. ’Cause they’re never gonna make it there. ’Cause Creem’s gotta make his move now.”

Eph became aware of the gangbanger’s closeness then. He checked the man’s hands, and they were empty—but balled into fists.

“Wait,” said Eph, sensing what Creem was about to do. “Hold on. Hear me out. I . . . I’m not going to do it. It was madness to even consider it. I’m not turning on these people—and you shouldn’t either. You know where a detonator is. We get that, hook it up to Fet’s bomb, and we go after the Master’s Black Site. That way we all get what we want. I get my boy back. You can have your chunk of real estate. And we nail that fucker once and for all.”

Creem nodded, appearing to weigh the offer. “Funny,” he said. “That’s exactly what I would say if the tables were turned and you were about to double-cross me.
Adios,
doc.”

Creem grasped Eph by his front collar, and there was no time to defend himself. The man’s fat fist and silvered knuckles came hurtling at the side of Eph’s head, and he didn’t feel the blow at first, only noticing the sudden twisting of the room, and then chairs scattering beneath the weight of his falling body. His skull smacked the floor and the room went white and then very, very dark.

The Vision

A
S
USUAL
,
OUT
of the fire came the figures of light. Eph stood there, immobile—overwhelmed as they approached him. His solar plexus was hit by the energy of one of them as it struck him full-on. Eph resisted, wrestled for what seemed an eternity. The second figure joined the match—but Ephraim Goodweather didn’t give up. He fought bravely, desperately, until he saw Zack’s face again, amid the glow.

“
Dad—
” Zack said, and then the flashpoint occurred again.

But this time Eph did not wake up. The image gave way to a new landscape of verdant green grass under a warm yellow sun, rippling in an unobtrusive breeze.

A field. Part of a farm.

Clear, blue sky. Scudding clouds. Lush trees.

Eph raised his hand to block the direct sun from his eyes so he could see better.