The Strain, the Fall, the Night Eternal (58 page)

No matter. The surgeon was relieved, and grateful. His retirement had been planned for some time now, and everything was arranged. It was a blessing to be free of all obligations at such a
tumultuous time as this. He only hoped the flights to Honduras were still in operation. And burning down this building would draw no inquiries in the wake of so much civil unrest.

All this the doctor swallowed with a polite smile. He withdrew under Mr. Fitzwilliam’s steely gaze.

Palmer rested his eyes. He let his mind go back to the Master’s solar exposure, perpetrated by that old fool, Setrakian. Palmer assessed this development in the only terms he understood: What did it mean for him?

It only sped up the timeline, which, in turn, expedited his imminent deliverance.

At long last, his day was nearly at hand.

Setrakian. Did defeat indeed taste bitter? Or was it more akin to ashes on the tongue?

Palmer had never known defeat—
would
never know defeat. And how many can say that?

Like a stone in the middle of a swift river, stood Setrakian. Foolishly and proudly believing he was disrupting the flow—when, in fact, the river was predictably running full-speed right around him.

The futility of humans. It all starts out with such promise, doesn’t it? And yet all ends so predictably.

His thoughts turned to The Palmer Foundation. It was indeed expected among the super-rich that each of the world’s wealthiest endow a charitable organization in his own name. This, his one and only philanthropic foundation, had used its ample resources to transport and treat two full busloads of children afflicted by the recent occultation of the Earth. Children struck blind during that rare celestial event—either as a result of peeking at the eclipsed sun without proper optical protection, or else due to an unfortunate defect in the lenses of a batch of child-size safety glasses. The faulty glasses had been traced back to a plant in China, the trail running cold at an empty lot in Taipei …

No expense was to be spared in the rehabilitation and re-education of these poor souls, his foundation pledged. And indeed, Palmer meant it.

The Master had demanded it so.

Pearl Street

E
PH FELT THAT
they were being followed as they crossed the street. Fet, on the other hand, was focused on the rats. The displaced rodents scurried from door to door and along the sunny gutter, evidently in a state of panic and chaos.

“Look up there,” said Fet.

What Eph thought were pigeons perched on the ledges were, in fact, rats. Looking down, watching Eph and Fet as though waiting to see what they would do. Their presence was instructive as a barometer of the vampire infestation spreading underground, driving rats from their nests. Something about the animal vibrations the
strigoi
gave off, or else their manifestly evil presence, repelled other forms of life.

“There must be a nest nearby,” said Fet.

They neared a bar, and Eph felt a thirsty tug at the back of his throat. He doubled back and tried the door, finding it unlocked. An ancient bar, established more than 150 years ago—the oldest continually operating ale house in New York City, bragged the sign—but no patrons, and no bartender. The only disruption to the silence was the low chatter of a television in a high corner, playing the news.

They walked to the back bar, which was darker, and just as empty. Half-consumed mugs of beer sat on the tables, and a few chairs still had coats hanging off them. When the party ended here, it had ended abruptly and all at once.

Eph checked the bathrooms—the men’s room containing great and ancient urinals ending in a trough beneath the floor—and found them predictably empty.

He came back out, his boots scuffing the sawdust on the floor. Fet had set down his case and pulled out a chair, resting his legs.

Eph stepped behind the back bar. No liquor bottles or blenders or buckets of ice—just beer taps, with shelves of ten-ounce glass mugs waiting below. The place served only beer. No liquor, which was what Eph wanted. Only its own branded brew, available in either light or dark ale. The old taps were for show, but the newer ones flowed smoothly. Eph poured two dark draughts. “Here’s to …?”

Fet got to his feet and walked to the bar, taking up one of the mugs. “Killing bloodsuckers.”

Eph drained half his mug. “Looks like people cleared out of here in a hurry.”

“Last call,” said Fet, swiping the foam off his thick upper lip. “Last call all over town.”

A voice from the television got their attention, and they walked into the front room. A reporter was doing a live shot from a town near Bronxville, the hometown of one of the four survivors of Flight 753. Smoke darkened the sky behind him, the news crawl reading,
BRONXVILLE RIOTS CONTINUE
.

Fet reached up to change the channel. Wall Street was reeling from consumer fear, the threat of an outbreak greater than the H1N1 flu, and a rash of disappearances among their own brokers. Traders were shown sitting immobilized while the market averages plummeted.

On NY1, traffic was the focus, every exit out of Manhattan congested with people fleeing the island ahead of a rumored quarantine. Air and rail travel were overbooked, the airports and train station scenes of sheer chaos.

Eph heard a helicopter overhead. A chopper was probably the only easy way in or out of Manhattan now. If you had your own helipad. Like Eldritch Palmer.

Eph found an old-school, hard-wired telephone behind the bar. He got a scratchy dial tone and patiently used the rotary face to dial Setrakian’s.

It rang through, and Nora answered. “How’s Zack?” Eph asked, before she could speak.

“Better. He was really flipped out for a while.”

“She never came back?”

“No. Setrakian ran her off the roof.”

“Off the roof? Good Christ.” Eph felt sick. He grabbed a clean mug and couldn’t pour another beer fast enough. “Where’s Z now?”

“Upstairs. You want me to get him?”

“No. Better if I talk to him face-to-face when I get back.”

“I think you’re right. Did you destroy the coffin?”

“No,” said Eph. “It was gone.”

“Gone?” she said.

“Apparently he’s not badly injured. Not slowed down much at all. And—this is weird, but there were some strange drawings on the wall down there, spray paint—”

“What do you mean, someone putting up graffiti?”

Eph patted the phone in his pocket, reassuring himself that the pink phone was still there. “I got some video. I really don’t know what to make of it.” He pulled the phone away for a moment to swallow more beer. “I’ll tell you, though. The city—it’s eerie. Quiet.”

“Not here,” said Nora. “There’s a little bit of a lull now that it’s dawn—but it won’t last. The sun doesn’t seem to scare them as much now. Like they’re becoming bolder.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” said Eph. “They’re learning, becoming smarter. We have to get out of there. Today.”

“Setrakian was just saying that. Because of Kelly.”

“Because she knows where we are now?”

“Because she knows—that means the Master knows.”

Eph pressed his hand against his closed eyes, pushing back on his headache. “Okay.”

“Where are you now?”

“Financial District, near the Ferry Loop station.” He didn’t mention that he was in a bar. “Fet has a line on a bigger car. We’re going to get that and head back soon.”

“Just—please get back here in one human piece.”

“That’s our plan.”

He hung up, and went rooting underneath the bar. He was looking for a container to hold more beer, which he needed for the descent back underground. Something other than a glass mug. He found an old, leather-jacketed flask, and, in brushing the dust off the brass cap, discovered a bottle of good vintage brandy behind it. No dust on the brandy: probably there for a quick nip for the barkeep to break the monotony of the ale. He rinsed out the flask and was filling it carefully over a small sink when he heard a knock at the door.

He came around the bar fast, heading for his weapon bag before realizing: vampires don’t knock. He continued past Fet to the door,
cautiously, looking through the window and seeing Dr. Everett Barnes, the director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. The old country doctor was not wearing his admiral’s uniform—the CDC was originally born of the U.S. Navy—but rather an ivory-on-white suit, the jacket unbuttoned. He looked as though he had rushed away from a late breakfast.

Eph could view the immediate street area behind him, and Barnes was apparently alone, at least for the moment. Eph unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“Ephraim,” said Barnes.

Eph grabbed him by his lapel and hauled him inside fast, locking up again. “You,” he said, checking the street again. “Where are the rest?”

Director Barnes pulled away from Eph, readjusting his jacket. “They are on orders to keep well back. But they will be here soon, make no mistake about that. I insisted that I needed a few minutes alone with you.”

“Jesus,” said Eph, checking the rooftops across the street before backing away from the front windows. “How did they get you here so fast?”

“It is a priority that I speak to you. No one wants to harm you, Ephraim. This was all done at my behest.”

Eph turned away from him, heading back to the bar. “Maybe you only think so.”

“We need you to come in,” said Barnes, following him. “I need you, Ephraim. I know this now.”

“Look,” said Eph, reaching the bar and turning. “Maybe you understand what’s going on, and maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re part of it, I don’t know. You might not even know. But there is someone behind this, someone very powerful, and if I go anywhere with you now, it will certainly result in my incapacitation or death. Or worse.”

“I am eager to listen to you, Ephraim. Whatever you have to say. I stand before you as a man admitting his mistake. I know now that we are in the grip of something altogether devastating and otherworldly.”

“Not otherworldly. This-worldly.” Eph capped his brandy flask.

Fet was behind Barnes. “How long until they come in?” he asked.

“Not long,” said Barnes, unsure of the big exterminator in the dirty jumpsuit. Barnes returned his attention to Eph, and the flask. “Should you be drinking now?”

“Now more than ever,” said Eph. “Help yourself if you want. I recommend the dark ale.”

“Look, I know you’ve been put through a lot—”

“What happens to
me
doesn’t really matter, Everett. This isn’t about me, so any appeals to my ego won’t get you anywhere. What I
am
concerned about are these half-truths—or, should I say, outright lies—being issued under the auspices of the CDC. Are you no longer serving the public now, Everett? Just your government?”

Director Barnes winced. “Necessarily both.”

“Weak,” said Eph. “Inept. Even criminal.”

“This is why I need you to come in, Ephraim. I need your eyewitness experience, your expertise—”

“It’s too late! Can’t you at least see that?”

Barnes backed off a bit, keeping an eye on Fet because Fet made him nervous. “You were right about Bronxville. We’ve closed it off.”

“Closed it off?” said Fet. “How?”

“A wire fence.”

Eph laughed bitterly. “A wire fence? Jesus, Everett. This is exactly what I mean. You’re reacting to the
public perception
of the virus, rather than the threat itself. Reassuring them with fences? With a
symbol
? They will tear those fences apart—”

“Then tell me. Tell me what I need. What
you
need.”

“Start with destroying the corpses. That is step number one.”

“Destroy the …? You know I can’t do that.”

“Then nothing else you do matters. You have to send in a military team and sweep through that place and eliminate every single carrier. Then expand that operation south, into the city here, and all across Brooklyn and the Bronx …”

“You’re talking mass killing. Think about the visuals—”

“Think about the
reality,
Everett. I am a doctor, same as you. But this is a new world now.”

Fet drifted away, back toward the front, keeping an eye on the
street. Eph said, “They don’t want you to bring me in to help. They want you to bring me in so they can neutralize me and the people I know. This”—he crossed to his weapons bag, drawing a silver sword—“is my scalpel now. The only way to heal these creatures is to release them—and yes, that means wholesale slaughter. Not doctoring. You want to help—to really help? Then get on TV and tell them that. Tell them the truth.”

Barnes looked at Fet in the front. “And who is this one with you now? I expected to see you with Dr. Martinez.”

Something about the way Barnes said Nora’s name struck Eph as odd. But he could not pursue it. Fet came back quickly from the front windows.

“Here they come,” said Fet.

Eph ventured near enough to see vans pulling up, closing off the street in either direction. Fet passed him, grabbing Barnes by the shoulder and walking him to a table in back, sitting him in the corner. Eph slung his baseball bag over his shoulder and ported Fet’s case to him.

“Please,” said Barnes. “I implore you. Both of you. I can protect you.”

“Listen,” said Fet. “You just officially became a hostage, so shut the fuck up.” To Eph, he said: “Now what? How do we hold them off? UVC light doesn’t work on the FBI.”

Eph looked around the old ale house for answers. The pictures and ephemera of a century and a half, hanging on the walls and cluttering the shelves behind the bar. Portraits of Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and a bust of JFK—all assassinated presidents. Nearby, among such curios as a musket, a shaving-cream mug, and framed obituaries, hung a small silver dagger.

Near it, a sign:
WE WERE HERE BEFORE YOU WERE BORN.

Eph rushed behind the bar. He kicked aside the sawdust over the bull-nose ring latch embedded in the worn wooden floor.

Fet, appearing at his side, helped him raise the trapdoor.

The odor told them everything they needed to know. Ammonia. Pungent and recent.