by Brian Lumley
And that was the whole thing of it: Johnny Found did look like a ‘nice young man’. When Harry Keogh had seen him, he’d been surprised that he didn’t more nearly fit the bill. Medium height and blocky build; blond, shoulder-length hair; good, square teeth in a full mouth with a droopy, almost innocent smile… only his slightly sallow complexion marred the boy-next-door image. That and his eyes, which were dark and deep-sunken. And the fact that he lived in a pigsty. And that he was a coldblooded ravager of both living and dead flesh.
Penny blurted an apology to the gaping, spluttering fat man where he fingered his milk-soaked jacket, looked up and saw Johnny closing with her, turned and fled for the swing doors. Johnny glanced around at the dozen or so nearby patrons in their booths, shrugged and pulled a wry face, as if to say: ‘A weirdo… nothing to do with me, folks!’ and calmly walked after her.
But he was so intent on his act, and on following the girl into the night, that as he caught the still swinging door on the inswing and passed out through it he didn’t see the two sharp-eyed men starting to their feet and coming after him.
Outside Penny turned frantically this way and that. A thin mist lay on the tarmac of the sprawling, tree-bordered car park; the headlights of vehicles on the nearby trunk road blinded her where they went scything by; she couldn’t see Harry anywhere. But Johnny Found could see Penny, and he was right behind her.
She heard the crunch of gravel on the path leading back to the diner’s door but didn’t dare turn round. Of course, it could be anyone… but it could also be him. She felt rooted to the spot, all of her senses straining to identify what if anything was going on behind her, but utterly incapable of turning round and using the most obvious sense of all. And: God! she prayed. Please let it not be him!
But it was.
‘Penny?’ he said, sly and yet somehow wonderingly.
Now she turned, but with a sort of slow-motion jerkiness, like a puppet controlled by a spastic puppeteer. And there he was, bearing down on her, wearing a painted-on smile under eyes that were jet-black and flint-hard.
Her heart very nearly stopped; she wanted to cry out but could only choke; she almost fainted into his arms. He caught her up, looked quickly all around and saw no one. And: ‘Mine!’ he gurgled, glaring into her half-glazed, sideways-sliding eyes behind their fluttering lids. ‘All Johnny’s now, Penny!’
He wanted to ask her questions, right now, right here, but knew she wouldn’t hear them. She was sliding away from him — away from the horror of him — into another world. Escaping into unconsciousness. That was a laugh. Why, no way she could escape from Johnny! Not even into death!
Here, in front of the diner, was the car park; behind it was the lorry park, and dividing the two a belt of trees with paths between. Johnny picked Penny up, hurried with her into the cover of the trees, carried her through them light as a child. Behind him the E-Branch spotter and a Special Branch Detective Inspector erupted from the diner, glanced this way and that, saw him hurrying into darkness.
They came running after him — and the Necroscope came loping after them.
Harry had heard her cry out. Not aloud, for she’d been too terrified to make any sound whatsoever. He’d heard her in his mind. She was his thrall, and she’d called to him. The call had come just as he was leaving the disabled police car, and at first he hadn’t known what it was. But the vampire in him had known. He had seen Found carrying Penny into the screening trees, towards the lorry park, and he’d seen the two men from the diner running after him. All of them were moving quickly, but not as quick as Harry.
His lope was more wolf — more alien — than human, and he covered ground like the shadow of a fast-fleeting cloud under the moon. But as he entered the trees on a diagonal course calculated to intercept Johnny Found and his captive, he knew he’d made a mistake. The trees and the shrubs beneath them were an ornamental screen designed to separate the two car parks, and as such they were protected by high wire-mesh fences. Precious seconds were lost as Harry came up against a fence, cursed and conjured a Möbius door. In another moment he cleared the belt of trees and emerged on the perimeter of the hard-standing…
… Where a reeling, gagging figure collided with him and brought him to a halt! It was the esper. He knew Harry at once — sensed the awesome power of his metaphysical mind, that and the vampire in him — and threw up a hand to ward him off. The hand was bloody as the gaping wound in his cheek, where Johnny Found had torn a third of his face away.
Harry held him upright, snarled at him, then thrust him toward one of the paths through the trees. ‘Go and get help, quickly, before you bleed to death!’
And as the esper choked out something inarticulate and staggered away, the Necroscope reached out with his vampire awareness to cover the entire park. He found three people at once: Penny, unconscious; Johnny Found, furious and bloody; and the policeman, dead where Pound’s weapon had crashed through his ear to gouge into his brain.
Harry pinpointed their location, conjured a door and ran through it… and out again at the rear of the Frigis Express truck, where even now Johnny was slamming home the bolt on the roller door. At his feet, the policeman lay crumpled in a pool of his own blood, the left side of his face a raw red pulp.
The necromancer had taken the policeman’s gun; he sensed Harry’s presence, whirled, aimed and fired! Harry was coming head-on; he felt a colossal blow as the bullet smashed into his collarbone on the right side, spun him round and hurled him down on the tarmac.
Then, startled by the explosion and the flash, Johnny was fumbling the gun and dropping it. Stumbling across Harry, he kicked at him where he lay curled up in his pain; and running past the trailer toward his truck’s cab, the madman raved, cursed and laughed all in one.
The pain in Harry’s shoulder was a living thing that took hold of his flesh with white-hot pincers and twisted it, causing him to moan his agony. And he thought: Bastard thing in my blood, my mind! Your fault, you berserk, headlong, idiot! Very well, you’ve caused me to be hurt — now heal me!
Found was in his cab, starting up and revving the engine. Airbrakes hissed and the reversing lights blazed crimson to match Harry’s eyes or the jelly coagulating on the side of the dead policeman’s head. Racked by pain, the Necroscope saw the huge bulk of the truck jerk, shudder and start backing up; in another moment a pair of its twinned wheels skidded viciously, then gripped and dragged the policeman’s body under. Blood and guts gushed as the wheels lifted up barely an inch and the weight of the truck squeezed the corpse’s innards like toothpaste from a tube.
He’s lucky he’s dead! Harry dazedly, unthinkingly thought. It’s something he wouldn’t want to happen while he was still alive! They were instinctive thoughts, shocked out of him by the squelching eruption of brains and shit and flailing guts, but they were also deadspeak and the policeman heard him.
Exhaust gases belched in Harry’s face where he rolled desperately from the path of the reversing truck; the scarlet-dripping wheels missed him by inches; but through all the roar and the stink and the mess on the tarmac he heard and was riveted by the policeman’s answer:
But I did feel it! And God, it was like dying twice! And Harry’s blood — even his blood — froze as he remembered who was driving the truck: Johnny Found, necromancer, whose actions his victims could feel even as the teeming dead had once felt Dragosani’s!
Then the airbrakes hissed again and the truck jerked to a halt, shuddered, started forward, turned and rumbled away towards the exit. Johnny Found was making his escape, with Penny aboard. But: No, you fucking don’t! Harry fixed the truck’s location in his mind, got to his knees, toppled through a Möbius door and out again into the refrigerated trailer. It was dark in there but that was nothing to the Necroscope. He saw Penny, crawled to her, put his left hand under her head and drew it into his lap. She opened her eyes and looked into his where they blazed.
‘Harry, I… I didn’t stay in the diner,’ she whispered.
‘I know
,’ he growled. ‘Did he hurt you?’
‘No.’ She shook her head, but weakly, ‘I… I think I just fainted.’
Harry had no time to waste. Not now, for his blood was up. Literally! ‘Cling to me,’ he said.
She did as she was told and Harry let the Möbius equations roll across the computer screen of his mind. One moment later and Penny felt the awesome immensity of the Möbius Continuum, and in the next gravity returned where they fell prone on to Harry’s bed in the house outside Bonnyrig. ‘This time stay here!’ he told her. And before she could even sit up he was gone again…
In the operations room at E-Branch HQ, Millicent Cleary and the Minister Responsible sat with David Chung, who was also the Duty Officer, at one end of a large desk. The desk was equipped with a radio receiver, a radio telephone, standard telephones, blown-up Ordnance Survey maps of England under illuminated plastic, and a tray containing various small items of property belonging to Branch agents in the field. Spotlights in the ceiling were concentrated on the desk, turning it and its immediate surroundings into an island of light in the large room’s comparative darkness.
Millicent Cleary had just a moment ago received a brief telepathic message from Paxton at the house near Bonnyrig, stating that the assault team was in position. Keogh and the girl had been back, briefly, but Paxton was sure that the Necroscope was no longer in the house. Similarly Frank Robinson, the spotter who was Paxton’s partner on the job, believed one of the two was still there; since there was no noticeable disturbance of the psychic ‘ether’, he would guess it was the girl. Keogh must have used the Möbius Continuum to drop her off at the house before moving on. If there’d been any indication that the Necroscope himself was still in there, then the team would have maintained ESP silence. But since he wasn’t… Paxton was eager to learn what was happening.
Cleary passed the mind-message on and the Minister Responsible gave a snort. ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re right about Paxton,’ he said. ‘All of you. I get the feeling he won’t be satisfied until he’s running the world!’
Cleary frowned and nodded. ‘Ruining it, you mean!’ she said, sourly; then quickly added, ‘Er… sir! But we are right, and you don’t have to be psychic to know it. He’s a menace. We’re lucky Ben Trask is up there keeping an eye on him. Do you want me to tell him anything?’
The Minister looked at her — also at Chung where he busied himself touching and concentrating on his many contact sigils in their tray, fathoming the whereabouts, mood and feelings of the agents in the field — and mentally reviewed the situation:
The telepath Trevor Jordan (who by all rights and natural laws should be a small heap of ashes in a vase), was on a night train heading for London via Darlington. Two E-Branch agents were on the same train and didn’t anticipate too much trouble, even though it was a pretty safe bet that Jordan was a vampire. They were equipped with powerful automatic weapons, and one of them had a small but deadly crossbow. Another man was on his way to the mainline station in Darlington to give them a hand. He had a car, and in its boot a flamethrower.
Penny Sanderson, also a resurrected vampire, was probably in Keogh’s house outside Bonnyrig. The agents up there were (again probably) as strong a team of espers as E-Branch could throw together, which they would need to be if or when Keogh rejoined the party. For the odds were that sooner or later he’d go back there for the girl.
As for the Necroscope himself: he could be quite literally anywhere, but he was probably tracking Johnny Found. His reasons for doing so were all his own, but the Sanderson girl had been one of Pound’s victims. Vengeance? Why not? It seemed the Wamphyri had always been big on revenge.
So, if E-Branch moved now, two of the three targets were good as dead (the Minister recoiled for a moment, shocked by the necessarily cold efficiency of his own thoughts) but Keogh would still remain the big question mark, the pivot on which everything else turned. And it would be to everyone’s advantage — literally everyone’s, everywhere — if the Necroscope could be taken out at the same time as the others.
‘Sir?’ The girl was still waiting for an answer.
The Minister opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment David Chung held up a hand and said, ‘Hold it!’ Cleary and the Minister looked at the locator; his other hand was resting on a Zippo cigarette lighter, the longtime property of Paul Garvey, a telepath working with the police out of Darlington. That hand was steady, the tips of Chung’s long fingers motionless where they touched the cold metal. But the hand he held up was trembling, violently.
Suddenly he snatched back his hand from the tray, stepped back a little from the desk. In another moment he’d recovered himself, came forward again and said: ‘Garvey has been hurt! I don’t know how, but it’s serious…’ He closed his eyes and his hand hovered a moment over the maps beneath their clear plastic laminate.
As the small Chinaman’s hand came down to cover a section of the Al north of Newark, the Minister turned to Cleary. ‘Can you get hold of Garvey?’
‘I’ve worked with him, lots.’ She was breathless. ‘Let me try.’
She closed her eyes and concentrated on mental pictures of her fellow esper, and got him at once. Garvey was in fact sending at that very moment. But his signal and message were weak, garbled, distorted by his pain… which Cleary immediately became heir to! She gasped and staggered, and for a second lost him. Then she picked him up again, but barely in time before he blacked out and his telepathic thoughts flew into shards in her mind. The rush of psychic sendings had not been without images, however, which she’d received even as he was going under.
She turned to the Minister and her features were drawn, bloodless. ‘Paul’s face,’ she said. ‘It’s ruined! His cheek is hanging in tatters. But there’s a doctor with him. They’re in some sort of… motorway cafe? I think he was attacked by Johnny Found — but the Necroscope was also there. And a policeman is dead!’
The Minister grabbed her wrist, steadied her. ‘A policeman, dead? And Keogh was there? You’re sure?’
She nodded, gulped. ‘It was in Paul’s mind: a picture of a… a bloody hole in a policeman’s head. And another of Harry, with eyes like red lamps burning in his face!’
Chung said, ‘Garvey’s somewhere here,’ and he pointed at the map. ‘On the Al.’
The Minister took a deep breath, nodded and said, This is it: it’s all coming to a head, right now. Keogh might have guessed it all along but by now he must know we’re after him, definitely. So while all three of these… these creatures, are in different locations — from which two of them at least can’t escape — now has to be the best time to move on them.’ He turned to the girl. ‘Miss Cleary, er, Millicent? Is Paxton still waiting? Get back on to him and tell him to move in now, at once. Then speak to Scanlon and tell him the same thing.’ He turned to Chung. ‘And David — ‘
But the locator was already busy on the radio, speaking to people in Darlington.
Meanwhile:
By the time Johnny Pound’s thundering Frigis Express truck took the curves on the roundabout at the junction of the Al and A46 outside Newark, he was much calmer and showing a lot of skill and driving discipline. Had there been a police patrol car stationed at the roundabout, its officers probably wouldn’t look twice at him.
There was no patrol car, however. Just Harry Keogh.
Using Pound’s knife, the Necroscope had followed the truck’s progress in a series of short Möbius jumps, waiting for his quarry to slow down a little before attempting what would have to be an extremely accurate jump on to a moving object — directly into Pound’s cab! Also, it must be accomplished as smoothly as possible, so as not to jar Harry’s badly shattered collarbone. The pain of that alone would have left any other man writhing on his back or entirely unconscious. But Harry wasn’t any other man. Indeed, with every passing moment he was a little less a man and more a monster, albeit one with a human soul.
And so, as the necromancer straightened up his truck off the ro
undabout and back on to the Al, Harry emerged from the eternal darkness of the Möbius Continuum into the empty seat on his left. At first Found didn’t see him, or if he did he considered him a shadow in the corner of his eye. And Harry sat still and quiet in the very corner of the cab, pressed against the door with his face and upper body turned towards the driver. He kept his eyes three-quarters shuttered, studying Johnny’s face, which had seemed previously scarcely to match up with any of the descriptions given him by the girls, but which he now saw to be very terrible indeed.
As for Johnny himself: he knew that it was all over. Too many people had seen him tonight, in the diner, the car park, with or close to the girl. Indeed, it seemed to him that he’d been set up. They had traced him, then trapped him with a girl who was the image of one of his victims. And he had fallen for it. Well, two of the bastards at least had paid for it, and the girl would pay, too, when he climbed into the trailer with her, chopped a passage through the orbit of her left eye and fucked her brain!
These were his thoughts, which Harry, looking directly at him, read as clearly as — more clearly than — the pages of a book. And if before there had been any doubt at all in the Necroscope’s mind that his intended course of action was the right one, these were also the thoughts which dispelled it. Now, as Johnny dwelled more intimately on the pleasures he intended taking with or from the girl, Harry very quietly spoke up and said: ‘None of those things will happen, for the girl isn’t in the trailer. I freed her. As I intend freeing all of the dead. From their terror, Johnny. From your tyranny.’
Pound’s jaw had fallen open at the first word. There was a trickle of saliva, slime, froth, in the left-hand corner of his mouth, which now ran down under his lip and into the dimple of his chin. He said ‘Who — ?’ and his coal-black eyes slowly slid to the left in their deep sockets… then stood out like inkblots on the gaunt parchment which until a moment ago had been the flushed, bloated flesh of his face.