The Strain, the Fall, the Night Eternal (38 page)

Vasiliy hastily emptied three cartons, then turned with his lamp and made his way back through the tunnels. He came across active tracks with the boxed-over third rail, and then the sump pump, and followed the long hose. At one point he felt the tunnel wind change, and turned to see the curve brightening behind him. He quickly stepped back into a wall recess, bracing himself, the roar deafening. The train squealed past and Vasiliy glimpsed commuters in the windows before shielding his eyes from the smoky swirl of grit and dust.

It passed, and he followed the tracks until he reached a lighted platform. He surfaced with bag and rod, pulling himself up off the track onto the mostly empty platform, next to a sign that read,
IF YOU SEE SOMETHING
,
SAY SOMETHING
. Nobody did. He walked up the mezzanine stairs and moved through the turnstiles, resurfacing on the street into the warming sun. He moved to a nearby fence and found himself back above the World Trade Center construction site. He lit a cheroot
with his blue flame butane Zippo and sucked in the poison, chasing the fear he’d felt under the streets. He walked back across the street to the World Trade Center site, coming upon two handmade fliers stapled to the fence. They were scanned color photographs of two sandhogs, one with his helmet still on and dirt on his face. The blue heading over both photographs read:
MISSING
.

FINAL INTERLUDE
The Ruins

I
N THE INTERVENING DAYS AFTER THE FALL OF
Treblinka, most of the escapees were tracked down and executed. Yet Setrakian managed to survive in the woods, remaining within range of the stench of the death camp. He gobbled up roots and whatever small prey he could catch with his broken hands, while from the bodies of other corpses he scavenged an imperfect wardrobe and raggedy, mismatched shoes.

He avoided the search patrols and the barking dogs by the day—while at night, he searched.

He had heard of the Roman ruins through camp hearsay from native Poles. It took him almost a week of roaming, until late one afternoon, in the dying light of dusk, he found himself at the mossy steps at the top of the ancient rubble.

Most of what remained was underground, with only a few overgrown stones visible from the outside. A large pillar still stood at the top of a mound of stones. He could make out a few letters, but they had faded so long ago that it was impossible to discern any meaning.

It was also impossible to stand there at the dark mouth of these catacombs and not shudder.

Abraham was certain: down there was the lair of Sardu. He knew. Fear overcame him, and he felt the burning hole growing in his chest.
But purpose was stronger in his heart. Because he knew that it was his calling to find that thing, that hungry thing, and kill it. Make it cease. The camp rebellion had scuttled his killing plan—after weeks and months of procuring raw white oak for shaping—but not his need for vengeance. Of everything that was wrong in the world, this was the thing he could do right. That could give his existence meaning. And now he was about to do it.

Using a broken rock, he had fashioned a crude new stake, chosen from the hardest branch he could find, not pure white oak, but it would have to do. He did this with mangled fingers, further ruined his aching hands for all time. His footsteps echoed in the stone chamber that formed the catacomb. Its ceiling was quite low—surprising, given the Thing’s unnatural height—and roots had upset the stones that precariously held the structure together. The first chamber led to a second, and, amazingly, a third. Each one smaller than the other.

Setrakian had nothing with which to light his way, but the crumbling structure allowed for faint columns of late-day light to seep through the darkness. He moved cautiously through the chambers, pulse racing, stricken at the threshold of murder. His crude wooden stake seemed wholly inadequate as a weapon to fight with in the dark, with the hungry Thing. Especially with broken hands. What was he doing? How would he kill this monster?

As he entered the last chamber, an acid pang of surging fear burned his throat. For the rest of his life, he would be afflicted by acid reflux. The room was vacant, but there, at its center, Setrakian the woodworker saw clearly in the dirt floor—as though inscribed there—the outline marking of a coffin. A huge box, two and a half yards by one and a quarter yards, and one that could only have been removed from this lair by the hands of a Thing with monstrous will.

Then—from behind him—he heard the scratch of footsteps along the stony floor. Setrakian whirled with the wooden stake outstretched, trapped within the Thing’s innermost chamber. The beast had come home to nest, only to find prey lurking in its sleeping place.

The faintest shadow preceded it, but the footfalls were light and dragging. It was not the Thing who appeared at the stone turn to menace Setrakian, but a man of normal human size. A German officer, his uniform tattered and soiled. Its eyes were crimson and watery, brimming
with a hunger that had grown into pure manic pain. Setrakian recognized him: Dieter Zimmer, a young officer not much older than he, a true sadist, a barracks officer who bragged of polishing his boots every night in order to scrub away the crust of Jewish blood.

Now it longed for it—for Setrakian’s blood. Any blood. To gorge itself.

Setrakian would not be taken here. He was outside the camp walls now, and so resolved that he had not endured such hell only to fall here, to succumb to the unholy might of this cursed Nazi-Thing.

He ran at it with the point of his stake, but the Thing was faster than anticipated, grasping the wooden weapon and wrenching it from Setrakian’s useless hands, snapping the radius and the ulna in Setrakian’s forearm. He cast the stick aside, and it clacked against a stone wall and fell to the dirt.

The Thing started for Setrakian, wheezing with excitement. He backed up until he realized he was in the center of the rectangular coffin impression. Then, with unexplained strength, he ran at the Thing, forcing it hard against the wall. Dirt crumbled out from around the exposed stones, falling like wisps of smoke. The Thing tried to grab for his head, but Setrakian again lunged at him, shoving his broken arm up under the demon’s chin, forcing its sneering face upward so that it could not sting him and drink.

The Thing improved its leverage and flung Setrakian aside. He landed next to his stake. He gripped it, but the Thing stood smiling, ready to take it away again. Setrakian jabbed it beneath the supporting wall stones instead. He wedged it beneath a loose stone and used his legs to pry out the stone, just as the Thing’s mouth began to open.

Stones gave way, the side wall of the chamber entrance collapsing as Setrakian crawled away. The roar was loud but brief, the chamber filling with dust, smothering the remaining light. Setrakian crawled blindly over the stones, and a hand grabbed him, its grip strong. The dust parted enough for Setrakian to see that a large stone had crushed the Thing’s head from crown to jaw—and yet it was still functioning. Its dark heart, or whatever it was, still throbbed hungrily. Setrakian kicked at its arm until he escaped the Thing’s grip, and in doing so dislodged the stone. The top half of the head was split, the skull slightly cracked, like a soft-boiled egg.

Setrakian grabbed a leg and dragged the body with his one good arm. He hauled it back to the surface and out of the ruins, into the very last vestiges of daylight filtering in through the tree cover. The dusk was orange and dim—but it was enough. The Thing writhed in pain as it quickly cooked, settling into the ground.

Setrakian raised his face to the dying sun and let loose an animal howl. An unwise act, as he was still on the run from the fallen camp—an outpouring of his anguished soul, from the slaughter of his family, to the terrors of his captivity, to the new horrors he had found … and, finally, to the God who had abandoned him and his people.

Next time he met one of these creatures, he would have the proper tools at his disposal. He would give himself better than a fighting chance. He knew then, as surely as he was still alive, that he would follow the tracks of that vanished coffin for years to come. For decades, if necessary. It was this certainty that gave him a newfound direction and sent him forward in the quest that would occupy him for the rest of his life.

REPLICATION

Jamaica Hospital Medical Center

E
ph and Nora swept their badges through security and got Setrakian through the emergency room entrance without attracting any undue attention. On the stairs going up to the isolation ward, Setrakian said, “This is unreasonably risky.”

Eph said, “This man, Jim Kent—he and Nora and I have worked side by side for a year now. We can’t just abandon him.”

“He is turned. What can you do for him?”

Eph slowed. Setrakian was huffing and puffing behind them, and appreciated the stop, leaning on his walking stick. Eph looked at Nora, and they were agreed.

“I can release him,” said Eph.

They exited the stairwell and eyed the isolation ward entrance down the hallway.

“No police,” Nora said.

Setrakian was looking around. He was not so sure.

“There is Sylvia,” said Eph, noticing Jim’s frizzy-haired girlfriend sitting in a folding chair near the ward entrance.

Nora nodded to herself, ready. “Okay,” she said.

She went to Sylvia alone, who rose out of her chair when she saw her coming. “Nora.”

“How is Jim?”

“They haven’t told me anything.” Sylvia looked past her. “Eph isn’t with you?”

Nora shook her head. “He went away.”

“It isn’t true what they say, is it?”

“Never. You look worn out. Let’s get you something to eat.”

While Nora was asking for directions to the cafeteria, distracting the nurses, Eph and Setrakian slipped inside the doors to the isolation ward. Eph passed the glove-and-gown station like a reluctant assassin, moving through layers of plastic to Jim’s bay.

His bed was empty. Jim was gone.

Eph quickly checked the other bays. All vacant.

“They must have moved him,” said Eph.

Setrakian said, “His lady friend would not be outside if she knew he was gone.”

“Then …?”

“They have taken him.”

Eph stared at the empty bed. “They?”

“Come,” said Setrakian. “This is very dangerous. We have no time.”

“Wait.” He went to the bedside table, seeing Jim’s earpiece hanging from the drawer below. He found Jim’s phone and checked to make sure that it was charged. He pulled out his own phone and realized it was like a homing device now. The FBI could close in on his location through GPS.

He dropped his phone into the drawer, swapping it for Jim’s.

“Doctor,” said Setrakian, growing impatient.

“Please—call me Eph,” he said, slipping Jim’s phone into his pocket on the way out. “I don’t feel much like a doctor these days.”

West Side Highway, Manhattan

G
US
E
LIZALDE
sat in the back of the NYPD prisoner transport van, his hands cuffed around a steel bar behind him. Felix sat diagonally across from him, head down, rocking with the motion, growing paler by the minute. They had to be on the West Side Highway to be moving this fast in Manhattan. Two other prisoners sat with them, one across
from Gus, one to his left, across from Felix. Both asleep. The stupid can sleep through anything.

Gus smelled cigarette smoke from the cab of the windowless van, through the closed partition. It had been near dusk when they were loaded in. Gus kept his eye on Felix, sagging forward off the handcuff bar. Thinking about what the old pawnbroker had said. And waiting.

He didn’t have to wait long. Felix’s head started to buck, then turn to the side. At once he sat erect and surveyed his surroundings. Felix looked at Gus, stared at him, but nothing in Felix’s eyes showed Gus that his lifelong
compadre
recognized him.

A darkness in his eyes. A void.

A blaring car horn woke up the dude next to Gus then, startling him awake. “Shit,” said the guy, rattling his cuffs behind him. “Fuck we headed?” Gus didn’t answer. The dude was looking across at Felix, who was looking at him. He kicked Felix’s foot. “I said where the fuck we headed, junior?”

Felix looked at him for an instant with a vacant, almost idiotic stare. His mouth opened as though to answer—and the stinger shot out, piercing the helpless guy’s throat. Right across the entire width of the van, and the dude couldn’t do anything about it except stomp and kick. Gus started to do the same, trapped as he was in back there with the former Felix, yelling and rattling and waking up the prisoner across from him. They all yelled and screamed and stomped as the dude next to Gus went limp, Felix’s stinger flushing from translucent to bloodred.

The partition opened between the prisoner area and the front cab. A head with a cop hat on it twisted around from the passenger’s seat. “Shut the fuck up back there or else I will—”

He saw Felix drinking the other prisoner. Saw the engorging appendage reaching across the van, the first messy feeding, Felix disengaging and his stinger coming back into his mouth. Blood spilling out of the dude’s neck and dribbling down Felix’s front.

The passenger cop yelped and turned away.

“What is it?” yelled the driver, trying to get a look in the back.

Felix’s stinger shot out through the partition, latching onto the van driver’s throat. Screaming rang from the cab as the van lurched, out of control. Gus grabbed the handcuff rail with his fingers just in time
to keep his hands from being broken at the wrists, and the van veered right and then left, hard—before crashing on its side.

The van scraped along until it hit a guardrail, bouncing off, spinning to a stop. Gus was on his side, the prisoner across from him now dangling from broken arms, yelping in pain and fear. Felix’s bar latch had broken, his stinger hanging down and twitching like a live electrical cable dripping human blood.