The Black River (The Complete Adrift Trilogy)

by K. R. Griffiths

  I’m next, Jerome thought.

  But had the demons in the casino seen which way he headed? Did they even know this network of veins ran beneath the body of the hotel? As far as Jerome could see, there were no bodies down here, no blood.

  Maybe I got away, he thought.

  And his blood ran cold as he heard clicking on the stairs behind him.

  There was no time to think. Jerome slipped into the supply closet and eased the door shut.

  Ventilation slats set high in the door let the faint blood-red glow of the emergency lights filter into the closet, and Jerome crouched low, almost kissing the floor. He stared at the square of crimson light filtering through the slats, casting a pattern on the floor right in front of his face.

  And he waited.

  Click.

  Click, click.

  Beads of sweat popped on his brow, running down his nose, threatening to drop onto the closet floor. Would the demon outside hear him?

  Would it smell him?

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  The clicking sound of the demon’s claws on the concrete got louder.

  Click, click.

  Louder.

  He held his breath, until it felt like a shrapnel grenade had been deployed in his chest...

  Click.

  ...and the red light spilling through the ventilation slats onto the closet floor was suddenly obscured by a shadow.

  It’s right outside the door.

  Is it looking in?

  Can it see me right now?

  Jerome didn’t dare to look up. Didn’t dare to move a muscle for fear that the creature would pick up the sound of tendons stretching and cartilage creaking. With every passing moment he feared that his uniform would brush against the supplies in the closet, knocking over a broom, alerting the demon to his presence.

  He stayed frozen; trembling: his eyes fixed only on the floor, his mind pointed at the space where the faint pattern of red light had been; praying that he would live to see it again.

  Click. Click. Click.

  The demon began to move away slowly.

  The shadow lifted.

  The patch of red light returned. The demon was continuing on down the hallway, past Jerome’s hiding spot.

  His nerves sizzled.

  Somewhere on the floor above, an inhuman voice screeched. Jerome thought he heard something that sounded sickeningly like glee in the hideous cry.

  Clickclickclickclickclickclickclick—

  At the distant shriek, the demon in the maintenance corridor charged away, the sound of its clawed feet receding fast as it raced up one of the nearby sets of steps which led toward the floor above.

  And after what felt like a long time, Jerome finally allowed himself to breathe.

  He shifted his weight, sitting heavily with his weapon facing the door, his finger curled around the trigger. He wasn’t going to go back outside, now, he decided. The supply closet would be his world, until the real world either righted itself or the fires of Hell scrubbed it clean.

  He sat back, leaning on the brooms and mops, and wiped the sweat from his brow before touching the transmit button on his comms.

  Sending out a message that nobody would hear.

  “This is Master Sergeant Jerome Mills of the 190th Chemical Recon out of Draper, Utah. Coming to you live from a closet under the Bellagio hotel. I think I’m all that’s left. There are demons here, and I don’t think I’m getting out alive. Get away, if you can. Stay away. I repeat: there are demons in Las Vegas.”

  29

  Dan twisted away from the hand that was digging into his shoulder and started to turn.

  Rage bubbled up inside him, spitting like hot oil, filling his mind.

  Herb had been right. There was only one way to show the sarcastic old bastard who ran things at NORAD: the hard way.

  He had no idea what he would do to the soldier who’d laid hands on him: no thought beyond unleashing the fury inside; getting it out before it burned through him like acid.

  He didn’t get a chance to find out. Before he could turn fully to look at the soldier, another hand was on him, equally strong, but not digging into his flesh this time. Herb’s hand cupped Dan’s face gently, almost tenderly, falling over his eyes, blocking out the light.

  Before Dan was fully upright, Herb was at his back, wrapping his arms around him and pinning him in a firm embrace.

  Defusing me.

  Like an active landmine.

  “Easy, Dan.” Herb muttered the words in a tone a rider might use to soothe an unbroken horse. “Easy. Not like that.”

  For a moment, Dan’s fury spiked and he struggled wildly. Yet it was his mind that was the weapon, not his frail body. His muscles were no match for Herb’s bulk. After a moment of coruscating rage, sense began to return. Dan’s shoulders dropped in defeat, the sudden rush of fury subsiding almost as quickly as it had arisen.

  He nodded.

  Herb held on for several more seconds, and then released him.

  Dan blew out a long breath as Herb’s hand lifted away from his eyes, letting the light in once more.

  What was I just about to do?

  It was impossible to know. He had been operating on animal instinct, and though he couldn’t bring himself to admit it, it was unlikely that he had been about to put on a show to persuade General Armitage to believe in what he was saying. He didn’t have that level of control. He never had, and with each passing hour, the amount of control he had over his emotions didn’t get better—it got worse.

  No, he hadn’t been about to demonstrate his power before Herb stepped in. He was going to spill blood.

  A faint aftershock rippled through him.

  What have I become?

  Red eyes reflected in dark glass.

  My eyes.

  I’m the monster.

  He dropped his eyes to the floor, suddenly afraid to point them at the men in the room with him.

  No, he thought. I’m becoming a monster. I’m not a monster yet.

  Somehow, that seemed worse. Perhaps because he knew that he couldn’t stop it; perhaps because some part of him suspected that he didn’t even want to.

  “What in the hell was that?”

  The general’s voice.

  “I don’t think you’d believe us if we told you,” Herb said.

  “Try me.”

  “He can do what the vampires do,” Herb said quietly. “Take a person’s mind. Make them...do things.”

  “Huh, is that right?” Armitage sounded unconvinced. “Convenient that you stopped him then, I suppose? Just when he was about to show off this little magic trick of his?”

  Dan’s eyes flicked up. He caught the general’s gaze and held it.

  “Convenient for you, General,” he said. “I can’t control it. I was probably just about to have your soldier do something that we all might have regretted.”

  The general waved a dismissive hand.

  “Escort our guests back to the holding cell,” he said to the soldiers who stood behind Dan. “I’ll figure out what to do with them lat—”

  The door burst open, cutting off the general’s words mid-sentence, and a young soldier charged breathlessly into the command facility, his expression apologetic.

  “Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you asked me to tell you if we received word out of Las Vegas.”

  The general’s heavy brow knitted.

  “Las Vegas has been silent for the best part of an hour, son.”

  “Not anymore, General. We still have men alive in there. A man.”

  The soldier raced to one of the computers, jabbing at the keyboard, and moments later the room filled with the sound of a radio message, playing through heavy static.

  ...Master Sergeant Jerome Mills of the 190th Chemical Recon out of Draper, Utah….closet under the Bellagio...get away, if you can. Stay away…I repeat: there are demons in Las Vegas…

  The soldier replayed the message, trying to clea
r up the words that had been lost in blasts of interference, but shook his head. “That’s the best I can do, sir. I’ll have a tech try to clean it up for you.”

  The general waved the soldier’s words away.

  “Demons,” he said softly, staring at Dan with interest.

  “That word serves just as well as vampires,” Dan said with a shrug. “And I’m sure you don’t want to admit it, but I’m willing to bet you’ve heard the word monster at least once in the last few hours.”

  General Armitage turned away, plucking a radio mike from the desk he perched on.

  “Tell the raptors to circle around Vegas. No permission to fire yet. Repeat: no permission to fire. Stand by for further orders. Armitage, out.”

  He dropped the mike back onto the desk and heaved a sigh, scratching at his chin and staring at Dan, Herb and Mancini thoughtfully.

  “Raptors,” Mancini said. “Airstrikes have been sanctioned?”

  Armitage glanced at Mancini.

  “Why did you leave Force Recon, son?”

  “I’m sure you already know why, General. Sure you’ve already seen the files.”

  The general nodded.

  “In your words,” he said.

  “I left for the money,” Mancini said. There was no hint of remorse in his tone. No trace of shame. “Figured killing folks should command a better salary.”

  “Yeah,” Armitage replied. “You ain’t the first. Which makes me wonder...why are you here? Ain’t got a heroic bone in your body, Mr Mancini, not from what I heard about you. A capable soldier, but you’re a mercenary, balls to bones. So what are you doing turning up on my doorstep with a tale about vampires? Where’s the money? What’s your angle?”

  Mancini held the general’s gaze for a moment.

  “Money’s no use if there’s nowhere left to spend it, General.”

  Armitage snorted.

  “You really believe all this hogwash about vampires. The end of the world is nigh?”

  “I’ve seen them,” Mancini said with a shrug. “And I’ve seen what Bellamy can do. You don’t realise it, but Rennick probably just saved your life, General. Bellamy’s dangerous. To vampires, to himself. To everyone in the same room as him. He’s a weapon. If you want my advice, you should use him, before it’s too late.”

  General Armitage switched his gaze back to Dan, peering at him intently for a long time.

  “Is that right?” he said at last, his tone soft. “So, Dan Bellamy, tell me: if you’re a weapon, how exactly should I use you?”

  “Get me to Las Vegas,” Dan said. “Get me face-to-face with a vampire. I’ll do the rest.”

  Armitage shook his head and laughed ruefully.

  “Didn’t you hear that message, son? Master Sergeant Mills said ‘stay away’.”

  Dan grinned.

  “I heard.”

  Armitage stood.

  “I can get you boys there in a C-160, but be aware that you will have a small window to do whatever the hell it is you think you can do before I turn that city to rubble. Go find Master Sergeant Mills, if he is still alive, and get him out if you can. If you can’t, well, it was...interesting, fellas.”

  The general didn’t believe their story, Dan thought, but he was desperate enough to try their method anyway.

  “You need to know how to fight them, General,” Dan said, standing. “If we die in there, remember one thing. Don’t look at them. Send in drones, send in blind men. Make sure your troops are flooded with light at all times. Light that can’t be easily switched off.”

  The general waved a dismissive hand.

  “You can record your...uh, intel en route, Mr Bellamy. I’ll take it all under advisement. For now, get moving. Once you get to Vegas, I’m giving you thirty minutes before I turn that shithole into a parking lot, understand?”

  Dan nodded.

  “We’ll need to land as close to the hotel your soldier mentioned as possible, then.”

  “Land?” The general blinked, and then barked a genuine laugh. “Ain’t gonna be landing, son; not in my C-160.”

  Dan stared at him, puzzled.

  “I hope you’re not afraid of heights,” the general said, waving at the soldiers by the door, who started to usher Dan, Herb and Mancini away from the command facility.

  Afraid? he thought, as he allowed himself to be marshalled through the door and out into the cold half-light of the giant cavern. No, General, I’m not afraid. Not anymore.

  30

  Frank Mather hacked out a cough, and tasted blood.

  It had been that way for months and, though he hadn’t ever been afforded the luxury of seeing doctors who might accurately diagnose what was happening in his lungs, Frank knew.

  Cancer.

  He welcomed the disease for what it was.

  A blessing; not even remotely a curse.

  Freedom at last.

  For the better part of two decades, Frank had been a prisoner at a jail run by the insane. When he had first encountered Jennifer Craven, she had been little more than a girl, but her ruthless cruelty had been full grown. It was Craven herself who had punctured Frank’s body with bullets at a dig site in Kentucky; Craven who had overseen his laughably insufficient ‘treatment’ and recovery. In more than one way, Frank thought it was Craven who had bestowed cancer upon him. His once-strong body—muscles made wiry with the physical exertion of a hundred archaeological digs—was now withered; little more than a husk. Now in his mid-fifties, he looked more like a man of eighty.

  He had spent years underground, moving like a ghost among the Craven family’s archives, working. Earning another day of life for a salary.

  In that time he had, on occasion, seen others much like himself come and go: scientists who the Craven family had kidnapped and forced into slavery. He had watched them work until their last breath. Some had committed suicide. A couple had tried to escape, and their parting words to Frank—reassurances that they would bring the authorities—had been the last he ever heard of them.

  There was no escape from Craven’s labyrinthine underground prison. Certainly not for a man as frail as Frank had been ever since the gun had inflicted such terrible damage on his torso. And so Frank did what Craven had asked of him. He worked.

  The work itself was fascinating, of course—and had Frank stumbled on such a treasure trove during the course of his normal life, he would have been ecstatic. Uncovering information like that which he had at his fingertips every day now would have virtually guaranteed him the respect and adoration of the academic peers which he had once sought so fervently. Frank was now privy to the real history of the world; he could fill in the gaps that left the minds of other scholars blank.

  Frank knew what had really happened to the Incas. He knew what truly befell the colony at Roanoke. Hell, he even knew where the inhabitants of far-flung Easter Island had gone.

  Jennifer Craven and those who preceded her in her apparently hereditary insanity had been devout in their search for information on the creatures that Craven called vampires. The Craven archives contained an astonishing collection of facts scoured from around the globe across recent centuries; the secret history of mankind, and the enemy which it had been unknowingly pitched against for millennia.

  A history that would sink back into the shadows when Frank’s shrivelled lungs finally collapsed in on themselves.

  A terrible waste of all that knowledge.

  He couldn’t fucking wait.

  Frank was attempting—not for the first time—to decode a fragile parchment scrawled with an early bastardisation of Latin when he heard footsteps heading toward the research floor, and his heart sank. Nobody had bothered him while he worked in months: Craven was the only one who had ever visited the bunker and even she had given up on her routine checks for updates a long time ago.

  Frank had lived in blissful isolation for a long, long time.

  The approaching footsteps—more than one set—could only mean trouble.

  He mentally braced hims
elf, praying that this was nothing more than the delivery of some newly-discovered artifact; knowing in his weak gut how unlikely that scenario was.

  When he caught movement in the corner of his eye, Frank glanced in the direction of the entrance, and arched an eyebrow in surprise when he saw who walked in, even as he felt hatred gathering momentum.

  Andrew Lloyd. Craven’s laughably-monickered Grand Cleric. It was a role that Craven had once upon a time earmarked for Frank himself. He had turned it down without pause, despite the tempting promise of human contact. In his previous life, Frank had been an educator, and some part of him would always yearn for the company and energy of young, inquiring minds. But it wasn’t an educator that Craven wanted, not really. It was a brainwasher and a puppet, and Frank would have no part of that.

  The real surprise, though, was that Lloyd was not alone. He wasn’t flanked by Jennifer Craven, nor by some armed teenager in ridiculous paramilitary attire, either, but by a woman wearing a torn and bloody British police officer’s uniform, and a huge German Shepherd.

  Frank blinked.

  Rubbed at his eyes.

  The Grand Cleric and his strange companions were still there.

  *

  “There is barely a culture that has ever existed which didn’t have some variation of the vampire myth,” Frank said quietly. “Mesopotamians, Persians, the ancient Greek and Roman empires. Vampires predate Christianity by a great distance, of course, though the word itself, as far as I have been able to tell, was originally coined some time during the seventeenth century. Still, creatures that feast on human blood—or on human souls—have been talked about for as long as humans have been talking. Of course, that phenomenon was always assumed by the academic community to be a straightforward case of shared subconscious fears. I know now that that is not the case.”

  Frank coughed, and wiped hurriedly at his mouth with bony fingers.

  Conny sat at Frank’s long, cluttered desk—grateful to be sitting on a chair again—listening to the old man deliver his gravelly history lesson.

  She had been taken aback at first by the research lab: unlike the rest of the bunker, which mostly felt like a barely-decorated cave, the lab felt ultra-modern. Machines that looked almost like surgical devices and numerous computers were gathered around a central showpiece: a vast glass display cabinet, inside which sat the skeletal remains of a human.