The Night Eternal (23 page)

“Is this it?” asked Fet.

Nora looked around, trying to get her bearings. “I saw a map
…
I don’t know. This isn’t what I envisioned.”

Fet checked the guard stations first. Inside was a bank of small-screen monitors, all dark. No on/off switches, no chairs.

“Vamps guard this place,” said Fet. “To keep humans out— or in?”

The entrance was not locked. The first room inside, which would have been the office or reception area, was stocked with rakes, shovels, hoes, hose trolleys, tillers, and wheelbarrows. The floor was dirt.

They heard grunts and squeals coming from inside. A nauseating shudder rippled through Eph, as he at first thought they were human noises. But no.

“Animals,” said Nora, moving to the door.

The vast warehouse was a humming brightness. Three stories tall, and twice the size of a football field or a soccer pitch, it was essentially an indoor farmstead and impossible to take in all at once. Suspended from the rafters high above were great lamps, with more lighting rigs erected over large garden plots and an orchard. The heat inside the warehouse was extreme but mitigated by a manufactured breeze that circulated via large vent fans.

Pigs congregated in a muddy enclosure outside an unroofed sty. A high-screened henhouse sat opposite, near what sounded like a cowshed and a sheep shelter. The smell of manure carried on the ventilating breeze.

Eph had to shield his eyes at first, with the lights pouring down from above, all but eliminating any surface shadows. They started down along one of the lanes, following a perforated irrigation pipe set on two-foot-high legs.

“Food factory,” said Fet. He pointed out cameras on the buildings. “People work it. Vamps keep an eye on them.” He squinted up into the lights. “Maybe there’s UV lights mixed in with the regular lamps up there, mimicking the range of light offered by the sun.”

Nora said, “Humans need light too.”

“Vamps can’t come inside. So people are left alone in here to tend the flock and harvest produce.”

Eph said, “I doubt they are left alone.”

Gus made a hissing noise to get their attention. “Rafters,” he said.

Eph looked up. He turned around, taking in a three-hundred-sixty-degree view until he saw the figure moving along a catwalk maybe two-thirds of the way up the long wall.

It was a man, wearing a long, drab, duster-style coat and a wide-brimmed rain hat. He was moving as fast as he could along the narrow, railed walkway.

“Stoneheart,” said Fet. Eldritch Palmer’s league of fellow travelers, who since his demise had transferred their allegiance to the Master when the Master assumed control of Palmer’s corporation’s vast industrial infrastructure.
Strigoi
sympathizers and—in terms of the new food-and-shelter-based economy—profiteers.

“Hey!” yelled Fet. The man did not respond but only lowered his head and moved more quickly.

Eph ran his eyes along the walkway to the corner. Mounted on a wide, triangular platform—both an observation post and a sniper’s perch—was the long barrel of a machine gun, tipped toward the ceiling, awaiting an operator.

“Get low!” said Fet, and they scattered, Gus and Bruno running back toward the entrance, Fet grabbing Nora and running her to the corner of the henhouse, Eph hustling toward the sheep shelter, Joaquin heading for the gardens.

Eph ducked and ran along the fence, this bottleneck being the very thing he had feared. He wasn’t going to perish by human hands, though. That much he had decided long ago. They were open targets down here in the serene, brightly lit interior farmstead—but Eph could do something about that.

The sheep were agitated, bleating too loudly for Eph to hear anything else. He glanced back at the corner and saw Gus and Bruno racing toward a ladder to the side. The Stoneheart reached the perch and was fooling with the mounted repeater, turning the muzzle end down toward the ground. He lashed out first at Gus, strafing the ground behind him until he lost the angle. Gus and Bruno started up the left-side wall, but the ladder did not run directly beneath; the Stoneheart might have another chance at them before they reached the catwalk.

Eph threw off the wire loops holding the sheep inside their shelter. The gate door banged open and they went bleating into the enclosure. Eph found the hinged section of fence and vaulted over it, working the outside catch. He grabbed the fence and raised his feet just in time, riding it open in order to avoid being trampled by the escaping sheep.

He heard gunfire but didn’t look back, running to the cowshed and doing the same, throwing up the rolling door and turning the herd loose. These were not fat Holsteins but rather cows in the dictionary definition of the term only: thin, loose-hided, walleyed, and fast. They went every which way, a number of them galumphing into the orchard and knocking into the weak-trunked apple trees.

Eph went around the dairy, looking for the others. He saw Joaquin far right, behind one of the garden lamps with a tool in his hand, using it to aim the hot lamp up at the corner shooter. A genius idea, it worked perfectly, distracting the Stoneheart so that Gus and Bruno could charge up the exposed section of ladder. Joaquin dove for cover as the Stoneheart ripped at the lamp, exploding the bulb in a shower of sparks.

Fet was up and running, using one wayward heifer as a partial shield as he broke for a ladder on the near wall, to the right of the shooter’s perch. Eph edged around the corner of the dairy, thinking about making a run for the wall himself, when the dirt started popping before his feet. He bolted backward just as the rounds chewed the wooden corner where his head had been.

T
he ladder shivered under his weight as Fet climbed hand-over-hand toward the catwalk. The Stoneheart was swung all the way around, trying to angle his fire at Gus and Bruno, but they were low on the walkway, his rounds clanking off the intervening iron slats. Someone below turned another lamp on the Stoneheart, and Fet could see the man’s face locked in a grimace, as though he knew he was going to lose. Who were these people who would willingly do the vampires’ bidding?

Inhuman,
he thought.

And that thought powered Fet up the last few rungs. The Stoneheart was still unaware of his blind-side approach but could turn at any time. Imagining the long barrel of the gun swinging his way made him run faster, drawing his sword from his pack.

Inhuman motherfuckers.

The Stoneheart heard or felt Fet’s pounding boots. He swung around, wide-eyed, firing the gun before he had completed the sweep, but too late. Fet was too close. He ran his sword through the Stoneheart’s belly, then pulled it back.

Bewildered, the man slumped to his knees, appearing as shocked by Fet’s betrayal of the new vampiric order as Fet was by the Stoneheart’s betrayal of his own kind. Out of this offended expression vomited bile and blood, bursting onto the barrel of the smoking weapon.

The man’s agonal suffering was wholly unlike any vampire’s. Fet was not used to killing fellow humans. The silver sword was well suited for vampire killing but completely inefficient for dispatching humans.

Bruno came charging from the other catwalk, seizing the man before Fet could react, grabbing him up and dumping him over the low edge of the perch. The Stoneheart twisted in the air, trailing gore, landing headfirst.

Gus grabbed the trigger end of the hot weapon. He swung it around, surveilling the artificial farmstead below them. He tipped it up, aiming it at the multitude of lights beaming down on the farm like cooking lamps.

Fet heard yelling and recognized Nora’s voice, finding her below, waving her arms and pointing at the gun as sheep trotted past.

Fet grabbed the tops of Gus’s arms, just below his shoulders. Not restraining him, just getting his attention. “Don’t,” he said, referring to the lamps. “This food is for humans.”

Gus winced. He wanted to light up the place. Instead, he pulled away from the bright lamps and fired straight out across the cavernous building, rounds punching holes in the far wall, ejected cartridges raining onto the perch.

N
ora was the first one out of the indoor farm. She could feel the others pulling on her to leave; the pale light would fade from the sky soon. She grew more frantic with each step, until she was running.

The next building was surrounded by a fence covered with opaque black netting. She could see the building inside, an older structure, original to the former food-processing plant, not vast like the farmstead. A faceless, industrial-appearing building that fairly screamed “slaughterhouse.”

“Is this it?” asked Fet.

Beyond it, Nora could see a turn in the perimeter fence. “
Unless …
unless they changed it from the map.”

She clung to hope. This was obviously not the entrance to a retirement community or any sort of hospitable environment.

Fet stopped her. “Let me go in first,” he said. “You wait here.”

She watched him start away, the others closing around her like doubts in her mind. “No,” she said at once, and caught up with him. Her breath was short, her words coming quietly. “I’m going too.”

Fet rolled back the gate just wide enough for them to enter. The others followed to a side doorway apart from the main entrance, where the door was unlocked.

Inside, machinery hummed. A heavy odor permeated the air inside, difficult to place at first.

The metallic smell of old coins warmed in a sweaty fist. Human blood.

Nora shut down a little then. She knew what she was going to see even before she reached the first pens.

Inside rooms no larger than a handicapped restroom stall, high-backed wheelchairs were reclined beneath coiled plastic tubes dangling from longer feeder tubes overhead. Flushed clean, the tubes were meant to carry human blood into larger vessels suspended from tracks. The pens were empty now.

Farther ahead, they passed a refrigeration room where the product collected from this terrible blood drive was packed and stored. Forty-two days was the natural limit for viability, but as vampire sustenance—as pure food—maybe the window of time was shorter.

Nora imagined seniors being brought here, sitting slumped in the wheelchairs, tubes taking blood from their necks. She saw them with their eyes rolling back in their sockets, perhaps guided here by the Master’s control of their older, fragile minds.

She grew more frantic and kept moving, knowing the truth but unable to accept it. She tried calling her mother’s name, and the silence that answered was awful, leaving her own voice echoing in her ears, ringing with desperation.

They came to a wide room with walls tiled three-quarters of the way to the ceiling and multiple drains in the red-stained floor. An abattoir. Wrinkled bodies sagged on hooks, flayed skin lying like pelts piled upon the floor.

Nora gagged, but there was nothing in her stomach to come up. She gripped Fet’s arm, and he helped her stay on her feet.

Barnes,
she thought. That uniform-wearing butcher and liar. “I am going to kill him,” she said.

Eph appeared at Fet’s side. “We have to go.”

Nora, her head buried in his chest, felt Fet nod.

Eph said, “They’ll send helicopters. Police, with regular guns.”

Fet wrapped Nora in his arm and walked her to the nearest door. Nora didn’t want to see any more. She wanted to leave this camp for good.

Outside, the dying sky glowed a jaundiced yellow. Gus climbed into the cab of a backhoe parked across the dirt roadway, near the fence. He fooled with the controls, and the engine started.

Nora felt Fet stiffen, and she looked up. A dozen or so ghostlike humans in jumpsuits stood near, having wandered over from the barracks in violation of curfew. Drawn by the machine gun fire, no doubt, and curiosity over the cause of the alarms. Or perhaps these dozen had drawn the short straws.

Gus came down from the backhoe to yell at them, berating them for being so passive and cowardly. But Nora called on him to stop.

“They’re not cowards,” she said. “They’re malnourished, they have low blood pressure, hypotension … We have to help them help themselves.”

Fet left Nora to climb into the cab of the backhoe, trying out the controls.

“Gus,” said Bruno. “I’m staying here.”

“What?” said Gus.

“I’m staying here to fuck up this sick shit. Time for a little revenge. Show them they bit the wrong motherfucker.”

Gus got it. Immediately, he understood. “You’re one fucking badass hero,
hombre.
”

“The baddest. Badder than you.”

Gus smiled, the pride he felt for his friend choking him up. They gripped hands, pulling each other in for a tight bro-hug. Joaquin did the same.

“We’ll never forget you, man,” said Joaquin.

Bruno’s face was set angry to hide his softer emotions. He looked back at the bloodletting building. “Neither will these fuckers. I guarantee it.”

Fet had turned the backhoe around and now drove it forward, ramming straight into the high perimeter fence, the tractor’s wide treads riding up and over it.

Police sirens were audible now. Many of them, growing closer.

Bruno went to Nora. “Lady?” he said. “I’m going to burn down this place. For you and for me. Know that.”

Nora nodded, still inconsolable.

“Now go,” said Bruno, turning and starting back into the slaughterhouse with his sword in hand. “All of you!” he yelled at the humans wearing camp jumpsuits, scaring them away. “I need every minute I got.”

Eph offered Nora his hand, but Fet had returned for her, and she left under Fet’s arm, moving past Eph—who, after a moment, followed them over the downed razor wire.

B
runo, raging with pain, felt the worms move inside of him. The enemy was inside his circulatory system, spreading throughout his organs and wriggling inside his brain. He worked quickly to transport the stand-alone UV lamps from the farmstead garden to the bloodletting factory, setting them inside the doors to delay the incursion of the vampires. Then he set about severing the tubes and dismantling the blood-collecting apparatus as though he were tearing apart his own infected arteries. He stabbed and sliced the refrigerated packs of blood, leaving the floor and his clothes awash in scarlet. It splattered everywhere, drenching him, but not before he made sure he wasted every last unit. Then he went about destroying the equipment itself, the vacuums and pumps.