The Strain, the Fall, the Night Eternal (66 page)

Cray-Z wasn’t in the mood for talking. He swung his steel pipe at Fet, who instinctively blocked the blow with his left forearm. The pipe cracked the bone.

Fet howled, and then, using the heavy nail gun as a club, struck Cray-Z hard across the temple. It staggered the madman, but he kept coming. Fet cracked Cray-Z in the ribs, then kicked at the calf of his right leg, dislocating his leg at the knee, finally bringing him down.

“Listen!” yelled Caver Carl.

Fet stopped and did so.

The telltale rumble. He turned and saw, down the length of the track, a dusting of light against the curve in the tunnel wall.

The 5 train was approaching its U-turn.

The other moles continued to pull at the pieces of the pile, but it was no use. Cray-Z used his pipe to get up onto his one good leg, hopping up and down.

“Fucking sinners!” he howled. “You moles are all blind! Here they come! Now you have no choice but to fight them. Fight for your lives!”

The train bore down on them, and Fet saw that there was no time. He backed off from the impending catastrophe, the brightening train light illuminating Cray-Z’s dance: a mad jig on his bent leg.

As the train blew past him, Fet caught a glimpse of the driver’s face. She stared straight ahead, without expression. She had to have seen the debris. And yet she never applied the brake, she never did anything.

She had the thousand-yard-stare of a newly turned vampire.

WHAM,
the train impacted the obstruction, wheels spinning, churning. The front car punched into the debris, exploding it, chewing and carrying the larger objects for some thirty feet before jumping the track. The cars lurched to the right, striking the edge of the platform at the head of the loop, still skidding, trailing a comet of sparks. The engine car of the train then wobbled the other way, the cars behind it ribboning along—the train jackknifing in the narrow track space.

The grating, metallic screech was nearly human in its outrage and its pain. Given the tunnels and their throat-like propensity for echoes, the cars stopped long before the awful sound did.

This train had many more bodies riding its exterior. Some were killed instantly—ground against and smeared along the edge of the platform. The rest rode the spectacular crash until the end. Once the cars came to a stop, they separated from the train like leeches detaching from flesh, dropping to the ground, getting their bearings.

Slowly, they turned toward the moles still standing there, staring in disbelief.

The riders walked out of the dust and smoke of the calamity, unfazed but for an odd, slinking gait. Their joints emitted a soft popping noise as they advanced.

Fet quickly went into his duffel bag, retrieving Setrakian’s improvised time bomb. He felt an intense burning in the right calf and looked down. A long, thin, needle-sharp piece of debris had somehow pierced his leg, all the way through. If he pulled it loose, the bleeding would be savage—and right now, blood was the last thing he wanted to smell of. He left it painfully lodged in his muscle mass.

Closer to the tracks, Cray-Z looked on in amazement. How could so many have survived?

Then, as the riders moved closer, even Cray-Z noticed that something was missing from these people. He detected traces of humanity in their faces, but it was only that: traces. Like the glimmer of greedy humanoid intelligence one sees inside the eyes of a hungry dog.

He recognized some of them, women and men from underground. Fellow moles—except for one figure. A lanky creature, pale and bare-chested, sculpted like an ivory figurine. A few strands of hair framed an angular, handsome, yet wholly possessed face.

It was Gabriel Bolivar. His music had not permeated the under-city demographic, and yet every eye fell upon him. He stood out from the rest that much, the showman he was in life carrying over into un-death. He wore black leather pants and cowboy boots, with no shirt. Every vein, muscle, and sinew in his torso was visible beneath his delicate, translucent skin.

Flanking him were two broken females. One’s arm was sliced open, a deep cut, slashing through flesh, muscle, and bone, nearly severing the limb. The cut did not bleed, but rather oozed—and not red blood, but a white substance more viscous than milk yet thinner in consistency than cream.

Caver Carl began to pray. His softly sobbing voice was so high, so full of fear, that Fet at first thought it belonged to a boy.

Bolivar pointed at the staring moles—and at once the riders were upon them.

The woman-thing ran straight at Caver Carl, knocking him back
off his feet, landing on his chest, and pinning him to the ground. She smelled of moldy orange peels and spoiled meat. He tried to fend her off, but she gripped his arm and twisted it in the socket, snapping it instantly.

Her hot hand pushed at his chin with enormous strength. Carl’s head was forced back to the breaking point, his neck extended and fully exposed. From his upside-down perspective, by the light of his miner’s helmet, all he could see were legs and unlaced shoes and bare feet running past. A horde of creatures—reinforcements—came at them from the tunnels, a full-on invasion trampling through camp, beings clustered over twitching bodies.

A second creature joined the woman on him, tearing away his shirt in a frenzy. He felt a hard bite at his neck. Not a hinged bite—not teeth—but a puncture, followed immediately by a suction-like latching. The other clawed at the inseam of his trousers, shredding them below his groin and clamping onto the inside of his thigh.

Pain at first, a sharp burning. Then, within moments … numbness. The sensation was like that of a piston thumping against his muscle and flesh.

He was being drained. Carl attempted to scream, his open mouth finding no voice but only four long, hot fingers. The creature grabbed hold of his cheek from the inside, its talon-like nail slicing his gum all the way to the jawbone. Its flesh tasted salty, tangy—until it was overwhelmed by the coppery flavor of his own blood.

F
et had retreated immediately after the crash, knowing a losing battle when he saw one. The screaming was nearly unbearable, yet he had a mission to complete, and that was his focus.

He climbed backward into one of the ducts, finding there was barely enough space to accommodate him. One advantage to fear was that the adrenaline coursing through him had the effect of dilating his pupils, and he found he could see his environs with unnatural clarity.

He unwrapped the rags and twisted the timer one full rotation. Three minutes. One hundred eighty seconds. A soft-boiled egg.

He cursed his luck, now realizing that, with the vampire battle
in the tunnel, he would have to travel deeper into the ducts used by vampires to transverse the river, but also backward, with his arm badly bruised and his leg dripping blood.

Before releasing the timer, he saw the bodies of the moles on the ground, squirming as they were consumed by clusters of vampires. They were already infected, already lost—all except for Cray-Z. He stood near a concrete pillar, watching like a blissful fool. And yet he was untouched by these dark things, unmolested as they rampaged past him.

Then Fet saw the lanky figure of Gabriel Bolivar approach Cray-Z. Cray-Z fell to his knees before the singer, the two of them outlined in smoke and dusty light, like figures in a Bible stamp.

Bolivar lay his hand upon Cray-Z’s head, and the madman bowed. He then kissed the hand, praying.

Fet had seen enough. He set the device down inside a gap and took his hand off the dial … one … two … three … counting in time with the ticking as he grabbed his duffel bag and retreated backward.

Fet kept pushing back, feeling his body ease after a while, lubricated by his own flowing blood.

… forty … forty-one … forty-two …

A cluster of creatures moved toward the duct entrance, attracted by the smell of Fet’s ambrosia. Fet saw their outline in the small aperture, and lost all hope.

… seventy-three … seventy-four … seventy-five …

He skidded as fast as he could, opening his duffel bag and removing his nail gun. He fired the silver nails as he retreated—screaming like a soldier emptying a machine gun into the enemy’s nest.

The nails embedded deep into the cheekbone and forehead of the first charging vampire, a nicely suited man in his sixties. Fet fired again, popping the man’s eye and gagging him with silver, the brad buried in the soft flesh of its throat.

The thing squealed and recoiled. Others scrambled over their fallen comrade, snaking quickly through the duct. Fet saw it approach—this one a slender woman in jogging sweats, her shoulder wounded, exposing her collarbone, scraping it against the tube walls.

… one hundred fifty … one hundred fifty-one … one hundred fifty-two …

Fet shot at the approaching creature. It kept creeping toward him even as its face was festooned with silver. Its goddamn stinger shot out of its pincushion face, fully extended, nearly touching Fet, forcing him to scramble harder, slipping on his blood, his next shot missing, the nail ricocheting past the lead vampire and burying itself in the throat of the creature behind it.

How far along was he? Fifty feet from the explosion? A hundred feet?

Not enough.

Three sticks of dynamite and a soft-fucking-boiled egg later, he would find out.

He remembered the photos of the houses with their windows all lit up inside as he kept shooting and screaming. Houses that never needed exterminators. If there was any way he could survive this, he promised himself he would light up all the windows in his apartment and go out on the street just to look back.

… one-seventy-six … one-seventy-seven … one-seventy—

As the explosion rose behind the creature, and the blast of heat hit Vasiliy, he felt his body pushed by the searing piston of displaced air, and a body—that of a singed vampire—hit him full-on … knocking him out.

As he faded into a serene void, a word out of the depths of his mind replaced the cadence of the counting in his head:

CRO … CRO …

CROATOAN

Arlington Park, Jersey City

T
EN THIRTY AT NIGHT.

Alfonso Creem had been at the park an hour already, selecting a strategic spot.

He was picky that way.

The only thing he didn’t like about the location was the security light above, shining down in orange. So he had his lieutenant
Royal—just Royal—bust the lock on the base and pop out the plate and jam a tire iron inside. Problem solved. The light flickered out above, and Creem nodded his approval.

He took his place under the shadows. His muscular arms hung out from his sides, too big to cross over his chest. His midsection was broad and nearly square. The head of the Jersey Sapphires was a black Colombian, the son of a Brit father and a Colombian mother. The Jersey Sapphires ran every block surrounding Arlington Park. They could have the park too, if they wanted it, but it wasn’t worth the trouble. The park was a criminal bazaar at night, and cleaning it out was a job for the cops and good citizens, not the Sapphires. Indeed, it was to Creem’s advantage to have this dead zone here in the middle of Jersey City: a public toilet that drew the scumbags away from his blocks.

Creem had won every street corner by sheer force. He rolled in like a Sherman tank and battered the opposing force into submission. Every time he earned another corner, he celebrated by having one of his teeth capped in silver. Creem had a brilliant and intimidating smile. Silver bling dressed his fingers as well. He had chains, too, but tonight he had left his neckwear back at his crib; it’s the first thing desperate people grab when they know they’re about to be murdered.

Royal stood near Creem, sweating inside a fur-lined parka, an ace of spades sewn into the front of his black knit cap. “He didn’t say to meet alone?”

Creem said, “Just that he wanted to parlay.”

“Huh. So what’s the plan?”

“His plan? No fucking idea. My plan? A nice
puto
scar.” Creem used his thick thumb to mime a straight razor cutting deep across Royal’s face. “I fucking hate most Mexicans, but this one ’specially.”

“I wondered why the park.”

Murders in the park didn’t get solved. Because there was no outcry. If you were brave enough to enter A Park after dark, then you were dumb enough to die. Just in case, Creem had coated his fingertips with Crazy Glue to obscure his fingerprints, and had readied a flat razor’s handle with Vaseline and bleach—just like he would with a gun handle—to avoid leaving any DNA traces.

A long, black car pulled down the street. Not quite a limousine, but something swankier than a tricked-out Cadillac. It slowed at the curb, stopped. Tinted windows stayed up. The driver didn’t get out.

Royal looked at Creem. Creem looked at Royal.

The back door opened to the curb. The occupant got out, wearing sunglasses. Also a checked shirt unbuttoned over a white tank, baggy pants, new black boots. He removed his pinch-front hat, revealing a tight red do-rag beneath, and tossed the hat back onto the seat of the car.

Royal said, under his breath, “What the fuck is this?”

The
puto
crossed the sidewalk, entering through the opening in the fence. His white tank shirt glowed with what was bright in the night as he strolled over grass and dirt.

Creem didn’t believe his own eyes until the dude was near enough that his collarbone tat showed plain.

SOY COMO SOY
. I am what I am.

Creem said, “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

Gus Elizalde of Spanish Harlem’s La Mugre gang smiled but said nothing.

The car remained idling at the curb.

Creem said, “What? You come all the way here to tell me you won the fucking lottery?”

“Sort of like that.”

Creem dismissed him with a look up and down.

Gus said, “Fact, I’m here to offer you a percentage of the winning ticket.”

Creem snarled, trying to figure out the Mexican’s play. “What you thinking, homes? Riding that thing into my territory?”

“Everything is a dis with you, Creem,” said Gus. “Why you stuck forever in Jersey City.”