The Strain, the Fall, the Night Eternal (57 page)

Eph found it difficult to process theory down in the underbelly of the besieged city. “You’re saying that he’s saying that maybe we’ve always known …?”

“Yes—always feared. That this threat—this clan of vampires who subsist on human blood, and whose disease possesses human bodies—existed and was known. But as they went underground, or what-have-you, retreating into the shadows, the truth got massaged into myth. Fact became folklore. But this well of fear runs so
deeply, throughout all peoples and all cultures, that it never went away.”

Eph nodded, interested but also distracted. Fet could stand back and consider the big picture, while Eph’s situation was the opposite of Fet’s. His wife—his ex-wife—had been taken, turned. And now she was hell-bent on turning her blood, her Dear One, their son. This plague of demons had affected him on a personal level, and he was finding it difficult to focus on anything else, never mind theorizing on the grand scale of things—though that was, in fact, his training as an epidemiologist. But when something this insidious enters your personal life, all superior thinking goes out the window.

Eph found himself increasingly obsessed with Eldritch Palmer, the head of the Stoneheart Group and one of the three richest men in the world—and the man they had identified as the Master’s coconspirator. As the domestic attacks had scaled up, doubling each passing night, the strain spreading exponentially, the news insisted on reducing them to mere “riots.” This was akin to calling a revolution an isolated protest. They had to know better, and yet someone—it
had
to be Palmer, a man with a vested interest in misleading the American public and the world at large—was influencing the media and controlling the CDC. Only his Stoneheart Group could finance and enforce such a massive campaign of public misinformation about the occultation. Eph had determined, privately, that if they could not readily destroy the Master, well, they could certainly destroy Palmer, who was not only elderly but notoriously infirm. Any other man would have passed on ten years ago, but Palmer’s vast fortune and unlimited resources kept him alive, like an antique vehicle requiring round-the-clock maintenance just to keep it running. Life, the doctor in Eph imagined, had become for Palmer something akin to a fetish: How long could he keep going?

Eph’s fury at the Master—for turning Kelly, for upending everything Eph believed about science and medicine—was justified but impotent, like shaking his fists at death itself. But condemning Palmer, the Master’s human collaborator and enabler, gave Eph’s torment a direction and a purpose. Even better, it legitimized a desire for personal revenge.

This old man had shattered Eph’s son’s life and broken the boy’s heart.

They reached the long chamber that was their destination. Fet readied his nail gun and Eph brandished his sword before turning the corner.

At the far end of the low chamber stood the mound of dirt and refuse. The filthy altar upon which the coffin—the intricately carved cabinet had traversed the Atlantic inside the cold underbelly of Regis Air Flight 753, inside which the Master lay buried in cold, soft loam—had lain.

The coffin was gone. Disappeared again, as it had from the secure hangar at LaGuardia Airport. The flattened top of the dirt altar still bore its impression.

Someone—or, more likely, some
thing
—had returned to claim it before Eph and Fet could destroy the Master’s resting place.

“He’s been back here,” said Fet, looking all around.

Eph was bitterly disappointed. He had longed to demolish the heavy cabinet—to turn his wrath on some physical form of destruction, and to disrupt the monster’s habitat in some certain way. To let it know that they had not given up, and would never back down.

“Over here,” said Fet. “Look at this.”

A splashed-out swirl of colors at the base of the side wall, given life by the rays of Fet’s lamp wand, indicated a fresh spray of vampire urine. Then Fet illuminated the entire wall with a normal flashlight.

A graffiti mural of wild designs, random in arrangement, covered the stone expanse. Closer, Eph discerned that the vast majority of the figures were variations on a six-pointed motif, ranging from rudimentary to abstract to simply bewildering. Here was something starlike in appearance; there a more amoeba-like pattern. The graffiti spread out across the wide wall in the manner of a thing replicating itself, filling the stone face from bottom to top. Up close, the paint smelled fresh.

“This,” said Fet, stepping back to take it all in, “is new.”

Eph moved in to examine a glyph at the center of one of the more elaborate stars. It appeared to be a hook, or a claw, or …

“A crescent moon.” Eph moved his black-light lamp across the
complex motif. Invisible to the naked eye, two identical shapes were hidden in the vectors of the tracery. And an arrow, pointing to the tunnels beyond.

“They may be migrating,” said Fet. “Pointing the way …”

Eph nodded, and followed Fet’s gaze. The direction it indicated was southeast.

“My father used to tell me about these markings,” said Fet. “Hobo speak—from when he first came to this country after the war. Chalk drawings indicating friendly and unfriendly houses—where you might get fed, find a bed, or even to warn others about a hostile homeowner. Throughout the years, I’ve seen similar signs in warehouses, in tunnels, cellars …”

“What does it mean?”

“I don’t know the language.” He looked around. “But it seems to be pointing that way. See if one of those phones has any battery left. One with a camera.”

Eph rooted through the top of the pile, trying phones and discarding the dark ones. A pink Nokia with a glow-in-the-dark Hello Kitty charm winked to life in his hand. He tossed it to Fet.

Fet looked it over. “I never understood this fucking cat. The head is too big. How is it even a cat? Look at it. Is it sick with … with water inside it?”

“Hydrocephalic, you mean?” said Eph, wondering where this was coming from.

Fet ripped off the charm and tossed it away. “It’s a jinx. Fucking cat. I hate that fucking cat.”

He snapped a picture of the crescent glyph illuminated by indigo light, then videoed the entirety of the manic fresco, overwhelmed by the sight of it inside this gloomy chamber, haunted by the nature of its trespass—and mystified as to its meaning.

I
t was daylight when they emerged. Eph carried his sword and other equipment inside a baseball bag over his shoulder; Fet ported his weapons in a small rolling case that used to contain his exterminating tools and poisons. They were dressed for labor, and dirty from the tunnels beneath Ground Zero.

Wall Street was eerily quiet, the sidewalks nearly empty. Distant sirens wailed, begging a response that would not come. Black smoke was becoming a permanent fixture in the city sky.

The few pedestrians who did pass scurried by them quickly, with barely a nod. Some wore face masks, others shielded their noses and mouths with scarves—operating on misinformation about this mysterious “virus.” Most shops and stores were closed—looted and empty or without power. They passed a market that was lit but unstaffed. People inside were taking what was left of the spoiled fruit in the stalls in front, or canned goods from the emptying shelves in back. Anything consumable. The drink cooler had already been raided, as had the refrigerated foods section. The cash register was cleaned out as well, because old habits die hard. But currency was hardly as valuable as water and food would be soon.

“Crazy,” muttered Eph.

“At least some people still have power,” said Fet. “Wait until their phones and laptops run dry, and they find they can’t recharge. That’s when the screaming starts.”

Crosswalk signs changed symbols, going from the red hand to the white figure walking, but without crowds to cross. Manhattan without pedestrians was not Manhattan. Eph heard automobile horns out on the main avenues, but only an occasional taxi traversed the side streets—drivers hunched over steering wheels, fares sitting anxiously in the back.

They both paused at the next curb, out of habit, the crossing sign turning red. “Why now, do you think?” said Eph. “If they have been here so long, for centuries—what provoked this?”

Fet said, “His time horizon and ours, they are not the same. We measure our lives in days and years, by a calendar. He is a night creature. He has only the sky to concern him.”

“The eclipse,” said Eph suddenly. “He was waiting for that.”

“Maybe it means something,” said Fet. “Signifies something to him …”

Coming out of a station, a Transit Authority cop glanced at them, eyeing Eph.

“Shit.” Eph looked away, but neither quickly nor casually enough. Even with the police forces breaking down, his face was on
television a lot, and everybody was still watching, waiting to be told what to do.

As they moved on, the cop turned away.
It’s just my paranoia,
Eph thought.

Around the corner, following precise instructions, the cop made a phone call.

Fet’s Blog

H
ELLO THERE, WORLD.

Or what’s left of it.

I used to think that there was nothing more useless than writing a blog.

I was unable to imagine any greater waste of time.

I mean, who cares what you have to say?

So I don’t really know what this is.

But I need to do it.

I guess I have two reasons.

One is to set down my thoughts. To get them out onto this computer screen where I can see them and maybe make some sense out of all that is happening. Because what I have experienced in the past few days has changed me—literally—and I need to try and figure out who I am now.

The second reason?

Simple. Get out the truth. The truth of what is happening.

Who am I? I’m an exterminator by trade. So if you happen to live in one of the five boroughs of NYC, and you see a rat in your bathtub and you call pest control …

Yep. I’m the guy who shows up two weeks later.

You used to be able to leave that dirty job to me. Ridding pests. Eradicating vermin.

But not anymore.

A new infestation is spreading throughout the city, and into the world. A new breed of intruder. A pox upon the human race.

These creatures are nesting in your basement.

In your attic.

Your walls.

Now, here’s the kicker.

With rats, mice, roaches—the best way to eliminate an infestation is to remove the food source.

Okay.

Only problem with that is that this new breed’s food source?

That’s right.

It’s us.

You and me.

See, in case you haven’t figured it out yet—we’re in a shitload of trouble here.

Fairfield County, Connecticut

T
HE LOW-SLUNG BUILDING
was one of a dozen at the end of the crumbling road, an office park that had been foundering even before the recession hit. It retained the sign of the previous tenant, R. L. Industries, a former armored car dispatcher and garage, and accordingly remained surrounded by a sturdy twelve-foot chain-link fence. Access was by key card through an electronic gate.

The garage half of the interior held the doctor’s cream-colored Jaguar and a fleet of black vehicles befitting a dignitary’s motorcade. The office half had been refitted into a small, private surgery dedicated to servicing one patient.

Eldritch Palmer lay in the recovery room, waking to the usual postoperative discomfort. He roused himself slowly but surely, having made this dark passage to returning consciousness many times before. His surgical team knew well the appropriate mix of sedatives and anesthesia. They never put him under deeply anymore. At his advanced age, it was too risky. And for Palmer, the less anesthesia used the faster he recovered.

He remained connected to machines testing the efficiency of his new liver. The donor had been a teenage Salvadorian runaway, tested to be disease-, drug-, and alcohol-free. A healthy, young, pinkish-brown organ, roughly triangular in shape, similar to an American football in size. Fresh off a jet plane, fewer than fourteen
hours since harvesting, this allograft was, by Palmer’s own count, his seventh liver. His body went through them the way coffee machines go through filters.

The liver, both the largest internal organ and the largest single gland in the human body, has many vital functions, including metabolism, glycogen storage, plasma synthesis, hormone production, and detoxification. Currently, there was no medical way to compensate for its absence in the body—which was most unfortunate for the reluctant Salvadorian donor.

Mr. Fitzwilliam, Palmer’s nurse, bodyguard, and constant companion, stood in the corner, ever-vigilant in the manner of most ex-Marines. The surgeon entered, still wearing his mask, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves. The doctor was fastidious, ambitious, and, even by most surgeons’ standards, incredibly wealthy.

He drew back the sheet. The newly stitched incision was a reopening of an older transplantation scar. Outwardly, Palmer’s chest was a lumpy tableau of disfiguring scars. His interior torso was a hardened basket of failing organs. That was what the surgeon told him: “I am afraid your body cannot sustain any more tissue or organ allografts, Mr. Palmer. This is the end.”

Palmer smiled. His body was a hive of other people’s organs, and in that way he was not dissimilar from the Master, who was the embodiment of a hive of undead souls.

“Thank you, doctor. I understand.” Palmer’s voice was still raw from the breathing tube. “In fact, I suggest that you strike this surgery altogether. I know you are concerned about the AMA finding out about our techniques of organ harvesting, and I hereby release you from obligation. The fee you collect for this procedure will be your last. I will require no further medical intervention—not ever.”

The surgeon’s eyes remained uncertain. Eldritch Palmer, a sick man for nearly all his life, possessed an uncanny will to live: a fierce and unnatural survival instinct the likes of which the surgeon had never before encountered. Was he finally succumbing to his ultimate fate?