Thursday, 12 August 1999, 5:29 AM
Stone Hedge Commons
Lancaster, New York
It was damned dark in the basement, which was just the way Tomasz liked it. From his position at the top of the stairs, he could see that there were bodies on the floor. Some were moving and some were not; it was the former that concerned him. The latter had been tossed in by a few of Lladislas’s bullyboy goons for the new childer to feed upon, otherwise they would have torn each other apart, rendering the whole exercise pointless. Briefly he wondered whom the victims had been. Homeless men and women, perhaps, or people whom Lladislas had wanted out of the way for some reason or other. It didn’t much matter in the grand scheme of things, not anymore.
Tomasz had seen Phoebe when she’d returned from her last hunt. She’d looked weary, and there was no way she could carry on any longer. He was glad that she was done; less pleased that his part in this little drama was beginning. Still, alea jacta est, as Father Andreas would have said once upon a time, in the Old Country.
Tomasz looked down into the gloom, still cloaked in the shadows of the mind he could call to himself. He was used to the dark, used to spotting small details in it, and could see the tableau beneath him clearly. There were ten figures moving about, some more active than others. Two sat huddled in corners, rocking back and forth as if terrified. Others sucked quietly at the corpses on the floor, nursing like monstrous infants at a corpse-mother’s breast. One pounded on a wall endlessly, senselessly, mindlessly. Another merely staggered about on his hands and knees, crying softly and promising anyone who might be listening that he would never do anything bad again. In the minuscule light available, they reminded Tomasz uncomfortably of worms, degraded and inhuman.
The sooner he got this over with, Tomasz decided, the better. So he let his mask of invisibility drop. Steeling himself in case the mob decided to rush him, he flicked the switch on the wall, and blinked furiously as the fluorescent bulbs on the basement ceiling flickered into life. At the sudden flare of light, all of the bestial things on the floor of the cellar stopped in their tracks and looked up at him. He could see fear in their eyes, and cold hatred as well. He had made no effort to disguise himself, so his full hideousness was on display. Hopefully it would be enough to frighten them into listening, or at least out of trying something foolish. The light showed the first warts beginning to blossom on the new vampires’ faces, the first signs of monstrosity blossoming.
He sat on the steps and smiled as gently as he was able.
“Hello,” he said. “My name is Tomasz, and I am here to help you.”
They all looked up at him, sudden, terrible hope in their eyes. They believed him, Tomasz knew. They believed him because they had no choice but to believe him. Not to believe him was to embrace a truth too horrible to be borne. Not to believe was to admit that they had become monsters like Phoebe.
Or him.
He took a deep, unnecessary breath, and launched into the story that he and Lladislas had grudgingly cobbled together while Phoebe was out doing the prince’s dirty work. It sounded clumsy to him, patchy and unbelievable, but he knew better already, and unlike the men in the room below, he was not desperate.
Desperate men will believe almost anything, after all.
Within a few sentences, Tomasz knew he had all ten in thrall. Part of him rambled on, but inside, he thought: They will fight for us. They will die for us. And I cannot help hut tell myself that it will be a kindness when they do.
Dawn was not far off when Tomasz finished his tale, and promised the men that someone would return for them the next evening to help them. He told them that they were being kept in the basement to protect them from the fatal sun, and that they would slumber without dreaming. Then he had left them to sprawl among the other corpses, and locked the basement door. Two ghouls stood there with shotguns, presumably to keep the vampires within from attempting escape. He nodded to them as he passed, “I do not think you need to worry about them, no,” Tomasz said. Upstairs, a bedroom had been sealed against the daylight when the house was built. Lladislas had graciously offered it to Tomasz, and sunrise was so close that he had no choice but to accept the invitation.
The room itself was comfortably furnished, with clean white sheets on a queen-sized bed and foil-wrapped windows. There was no other furniture in the room. Tomasz found himself drowsily disapproving of the decor as he locked the door behind him and lay down on the bed.
Tomorrow I gather Phoebe and my treasures, and we leave this place. And no one will ever know of this.
Thursday, 12 August 1999, 9:42 PM
Guaranty Building Parking Lot
Buffalo, New York
The Kindred of Buffalo, those few who remained, were leaving. All save Lladislas, Tomasz and Phoebe had left the night before. Bell had been on his way out of town when the first Sabbat sighting had come in. He’d seemed slightly surprised, never mind the fact that he’d been the one preaching doom and gloom since he’d arrived. He’d paused only briefly, to make sure that Lladislas would follow shortly, before leaving for Baltimore. Baughman was remaining behind, as was Dustin (though without Lladislas’s consent or knowledge, in the latter instance). Ghouls were in place, leading the newly Embraced cannon fodder to strategic positions and arming them. Haraszty was on his headset, barking orders to his ghouls and pacing nervously.
Moving trucks had been leaving the city and heading southwest on I-90 all day, driven by ghouls and containing the evacuating vampires’ prized possessions. Most would switch drivers at least twice before arriving at their final destinations; those currently behind the wheel had no idea where their cargo was ultimately going. Most didn’t care: They were either well-paid or thoroughly conditioned not to be nosy. It made them better servants.
The few remaining vampires were escorted to chauffeured cars by heavily armed ghouls. More of the same took up places in cars that would pace the vampires’ vehicles on the road out of town. Tomasz and Phoebe were headed to Syracuse, until Dustin could catch up, while Lladislas was going to Baltimore to join forces with the Camarilla elders there. The city’s other Kindred of note had mostly elected to go into Ohio, at least temporarily. No doubt some would be returning east, while others would keep running.
Lladislas was about to climb into his Lincoln when Haraszty motioned him over. “Boss, we have another sighting.”
“Oh?” Lladislas did not move, perhaps wisely. “How far out?”
“About twenty minutes on 90 westbound; they’re better than I thought if they got that close without my people noticing. I’ve told the driver for the Nosferatu to cut down to US 20 and take that east instead. It’s a weird route they’re coming in on, but what do you expect?”
“How many?”
“Two vans so far. Probably advance scouts.” Haraszty paused and looked around. “You should probably get going, sir. It’s been a pleasure. I’ll see you in Baltimore.”
Lladislas nodded, suddenly uncomfortable. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Gustav. You know how much I value your service. Do what you need to do.”
“I always do, boss. Have a good trip.”
Without further comment, the Prince of Buffalo climbed into his car and slammed the door. His driver, Trietsch, waited a moment to see if his passenger was settled, and then pulled out. Three more cars, loaded with armed ghouls, pulled out after him.
The last Prince of Buffalo had officially abandoned his city.
Haraszty watched the cars go and suddenly felt very alone. He posed a few questions into the headset and got satisfactory answers. Baughman had been seen taking up his position with a few of his childer. The rest of the freshly made Brujah were in place in the downtown district, though one had insisted on positioning himself by the grain elevators. The Nosferatu had been more trouble, but the ghoul was convinced they’d fight better in the crunch. Most of them were in Delaware Park. Others were scattered throughout the city to give the appearance of a thriving defense. A few ghouls were placed
strategically, both to get the baby vampires’ asses in gear and to relay him accurate information.
Buffalo was as ready as it was ever going to be.
“And that ain’t ready at all,” said Haraszty to no one at all. The headset buzzed in response, and the moment of reflection was forgotten.
Thursday, 12 August 1999, 10:04 PM
Interstate 90
Just east of Buffalo, New York
“Buffalo: 13 Miles,” Adele read the sign with tangible excitement. “Beautiful.”
“Shit, Mary, did you know Adele could read? I didn’t know Adele could read.” The van rocked with a general round of laughter while MacEllen’s new second-in-command shrieked curses at her tormentor.
MacEllen glanced in the rearview at his pack. They were ready. They had their assignments—from steel factories to parks to churches. They’d even gotten a little bit of information on vampires they might be facing, the poor bastards liable to get left behind to anchor the smokescreen. That was his pack’s target—the remaining vampires. Einar’s was there to set up a ruckus to keep mortal authorities tied up, and to catch stragglers. Between them, they had just enough manpower to do the job right—if this was on the up and up, and not a screw job of the sort Polonia was famous for.
MacEllen was still convinced that the entire operation was a setup. However, he’d also convinced himself that even without Tolliver (and man, was he going to be pissed that he missed the fireworks), he just might beat the fix. If his team and Einar’s did their jobs, they’d break the frame and come out smelling like heroes. Beyond that, he had begun speculating on what the night’s work might net him. The Southeast might be overloaded with archbishops, but upstate New York was a hell of a long way from their jurisdiction. He would take Buffalo for a start.
The vans crossed into the city of Buffalo itself. Einar’s peeled off, flashing its brights once as a salute. MacEllen smiled. It was too late to turn hack. The battle for Buffalo was about to begin.
Thursday, 12 August 1999, 11:15 PM
Exit N2, Interstate I-190
Buffalo, New York
“You don’t want to be in that part of the city after dark, miss,” was what the old man had said. He’d been friendly and polite, things that Lucita hadn’t seen from a stranger in decades, and had actually seemed genuinely concerned for the welfare of a pretty young thing who was heading into a bad neighborhood. He looked about seventy-five, and was alone behind the counter of the convenience store-cum-gas station at a ridiculous hour of the night. Lucita guessed that either some local Kindred was protecting him, or he had an over-under stashed under the counter. Otherwise, there was no way he’d have survived long without getting mugged a few times and losing his sunny disposition.
Lucita had thanked him for his concern, paid for her gas, and left. Quickly, she climbed into the car and started it up. Normally she preferred a lower-profile vehicle, but something about this job told her that it would be wise to have a car that could flat-out scoot in an emergency. The engine purred to life and she pulled back onto I-90, heading north toward the center of Buffalo.
Younger Kindred often thought it was a big deal to steal stupid things just because they were vampires, but Lucita had found that it was the stupid things that most often led to trouble. Steal some gas and you piss off the station owner. Piss off the station owner and he calls the cops. The cops get called, they look for you, and all of a sudden feeding without complications becomes nigh impossible (because God knows that a cop would rather look for a gas thief than mix it up with someone likely to be packing, or interrupt a domestic disturbance). And so it went, and it was just easier to pay the twelve bucks and avoid complications. If the situation had demanded, she would have had no compunction about killing the old man and putting his blood to good use, but since the situation didn’t warrant such, there was no point to causing trouble for herself. After all, normal young ladies who did normal things tended to fade from the memory of those who saw them—and Lucita didn’t like to be remembered.
That was the whole logic behind the damn Masquerade, to be honest. It wasn’t because there were any vampires out there who were “good guys” (though some folks spent years, decades or even centuries trying to play the role) and the Masquerade was some great and altruistic thing done for the sake of humanity. No, it made working easier. It made feeding easier. And it meant less competition and fewer hassles from kine with torches and shotguns. So few Kindred on either side of the fence understood that. It wasn’t about kowtowing to the Antediluvians or keeping the world safe for poor fragile humanity.
It was about getting things done with a minimum of extra effort. There was no idealism involved. Lucita just liked avoiding unnecessary complications.
The top on the Beemer was up, but even through that and the sound of the engine Lucita could hear sirens wailing. A pair of pillars of smoke wafted upwards on the skyline ahead; no doubt the Sabbat was breaking things to distract the gendarmes while the local Kindred were rousted and put to the sword. It was all part of the basic modus operandi. Distract the mortal authorities, and it gave you a clear field to go Kindred hunting. The locals would have to protect both themselves and the Masquerade, and sooner or later their resources would stretch too thin. One or the other would tear, and then the city’s Kindred hierarchy would get eaten alive.
“Simple, but effective,” Lucita said to the night. On the passenger seat, the dossier on tonight’s target sat open. A head shot proved that he was unattractive by any standards but a Nosferatu’s or a mother’s, with a piggish, heavy face and a scowl that was almost petulant. He had thick black brows and thick black hair and a thick, bullish neck. The picture had apparently been taken at a point when the subject was in the midst of some sort of shouting fit, because his mouth was open and his lips were flecked with spittle.
The name at the bottom of the picture was Roger MacEllen.
Friday, 13 August 1999, 12:47 AM
Bethlehem Steel Plant
Buffalo, New York
Hell, Baughman decided, was built entirely out of abandoned steel plants. And the one at the very heart of the whole thing was clearly modeled after the monstrosity he was currently wriggling through. Bethlehem had abandoned the place years ago, but it was simply too big to tear down. They’d left it sitting there, an open invitation to kids looking for trouble, gangs, dealers and of course, vampires.
Baughman had, like every other Anarch-wannabe Buffalo had ever spawned, havened in the plant at one point. This was before he realized that Prince Lladislas and his advisors kept the place standing as somewhere the rebellious teens of the Camarilla could go to perform the vampiric equivalent of smoking dope behind the garage before coming home, growing up and getting a respectable job manipulating the local media or some such.
However, at the moment it was a deathtrap. Baughman was sure of it. He’d been suckered—How exactly did I get talked into this again? he found himself wondering—into remaining behind with the skeleton force that was to hold the city after Lladislas and the big guns pulled out. In other words, he was there to get killed noisily and take out as many of the enemy as possible in the process, just to keep the Sabbat from realizing that they’d been had.
The situation, he concluded after due reflection, profoundly sucked.
Unfortunately, it was too late now to do anything about it. He’d heard the others enter the building a few minutes ago, and that meant that there wasn’t any way out any longer. He’d also heard a few of his so-called support troops going down noisily and quickly, and that didn’t exactly help his mood either.
Instead, he wriggled closer to the edge of the platform he was on and carefully got his AK-47 in line to cover the entrance to the room. The gun was a Chinese-made piece of shit, but it was all he’d been able to get his hands on when the orders came down. It was about as accurate as the local weather forecast, but once he hit someone with it, they tended to stay down, at least long enough for him to make sure of the job. He was positi
ve he didn’t have the personal firepower to handle one Sabbat badass, let alone a whole pack, but a really big gun, as his sire had been fond of saying, was a hell of a way to even the odds.
The room itself was a jumble of catwalks, walkways, abandoned blast furnaces and other, less identifiable things. Once upon a time this room had housed planning meetings, parties and the like for Baughman and his friends; now he’d come back to it because it had more potential escape routes than anywhere else in the building.
Voices in the next room snapped Baughman out of his reverie. Someone, no, two someones were coming, and they were arguing.
“…Could have sworn I saw him duck in here,” came a male voice, damaged by cigarettes and whiskey.
“You’d better be right. We’re behind schedule as is, and there aren’t enough of us on this ride to afford unexpected delays.” The response caught Baughman by surprise. He’d been told that the city was going to be swamped by waves of Sabbat. If what he’d just heard was true, then there weren’t that many Sabbat in the city. In that case, there might actually a chance of holding them off.
More to the point, the fact that there weren’t that many in place for a supposedly major offensive against a big target was a sign that someone’s intelligence wires had gotten crossed somewhere. Either the council advising Lladislas had vastly overestimated the force lined up against him…
“Or we’ve been sold out. Son of a bitch.” He cursed himself for speaking as he heard a scramble down on the floor. While he’d been lost in reverie, the Sabbat vampires had entered the room and crossed out of his field of fire. And now they’d heard him speak and knew where he was.
Well, the hell with it. What he’d figured out was more important than taking one or two shovelheads with him as he went. His first order of business was to escape; his second to bring word to someone, anyone higher up in the Camarilla to let them know that the whole operation had been compromised. He eased to his feet silently while his pursuers stomped about, backing toward a patch of darkness that he knew concealed a fire door to a stairwell with an outside exit. If he made it to the stairs and out the back, he could find a car to steal and run like hell. Quietly thanking God that he didn’t have to breathe any longer, he silently lifted one foot, then the other, taking minuscule steps to avoid making any further noise.
Clan Novel Lasombra: Book 6 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 11