The Night Eternal (Strain Trilogy 3)

by Chuck Hogan

  As I said, you may settle this any way you desire. But, after.

  It was apparent to all, even to Eph, that Mr. Quinlan was protecting him for some reason. That he was treating Eph differently than he might have treated the others—which meant that there was something different about Eph.

  I need your help, gathering one final piece. All of us. Together. Now.

  Mr. Quinlan released Gus, who surged toward Eph one last time, but with his knife down. “I have nothing left,” he said, up in Eph’s face like a snarling dog. “Nothing. I will kill you when this is all over.”

  The Cloisters

  THE HELICOPTER’S ROTORS fought off wave after wave of stinging black rain. The dark clouds had unleashed a torrent of polluted precipitation, and yet, despite the darkness, the Stoneheart pilot wore aviator sunglasses. Barnes feared the man was flying blind and could only hope that they remained at a sufficient altitude over the Manhattan skyline.

  Barnes swayed in the passenger compartment, hanging on to the seat belt straps crossing over his shoulders. The helicopter, chosen from among a number of models at the Bridgeport, Connecticut, Sikorsky plant, shook laterally as well as vertically. The rain seemed to be getting in under the rotor, slapping sideways against the windows as though Barnes were aboard a small boat in a storm at sea. Accordingly, his stomach lurched and its contents began to rise. He unclipped his helmet just in time to vomit into it.

  The pilot pushed his joystick forward, and they began to descend. Into what, Barnes had no clue. Distant buildings were blurred through the wavy windshield, then treetops. Barnes assumed they were setting down in Central Park, near Belvedere Castle. But then a hostile gust of wind spun the helicopter’s tail like a weather vane arrow, the pilot fighting the joystick for control, and Barnes glimpsed the turbulent Hudson River to his near right, just beyond the trees. It couldn’t be the park.

  They touched down roughly, first one skid, then the other. Barnes was just grateful to be back on solid ground, but now he had to walk out into a maelstrom. He pushed open the door, exiting into a blast of wet wind. Ducking under the still-spinning rotors and shielding his eyes, he saw, on a hilltop above, another Manhattan castle.

  Barnes gripped his overcoat collar and hurried through the rain, up slick stone steps. He was out of breath by the time he reached the door. Two vampires stood there, sentries, unbowed by the pelting rain, yet half obscured by the steam emanating from their heated flesh. They did not acknowledge him, nor did they open the door.

  The sign read, THE CLOISTERS, and Barnes recognized the name of a museum near the northern tip of Manhattan, administered by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He pulled on the door and entered, waiting for it to close, listening for movement. If there was any, the pounding rain obscured it.

  The Cloisters was constructed from the remnants of five medieval French abbeys and one Romanesque chapel. It was an ancient piece of southern France transported to the modern era, which in turn now resembled the Dark Ages. Barnes called out, “Hello?” but heard nothing in response.

  He wandered through the Main Hall, still short of breath, his shoes soaked, his throat raw. He looked out at the garden cloisters, once planted to represent the horticulture of medieval times, which now, due to negligence and the oppressive vampiric climate, had degenerated into a muddy swamp. Barnes continued ahead, turning twice at the sound of his own dripping but apparently alone within the monastery walls.

  He wandered past hanging tapestries, stained-glass windows begging for sunlight, and medieval frescoes. He passed the twelve Stations of the Cross, set in the ancient stone, stopping briefly at the strange crucifixion scene. Christ, nailed to the center cross, was flanked by the two thieves, their arms and legs broken, tied to smaller crosses. The carved inscription read PER SIGNU SANCTECRUCIS DEINIMICIS NOSTRIS LIBERA NOS DEUS NOSTER. Barnes’s rudimentary Latin translated this as “Through the sign of the Holy Cross, from our enemies, deliver us, our God.”

  Barnes had many years ago turned his back on his given faith, but there was something about this ancient carving that spoke to an authenticity he believed was missing in modern organized religion. These devotional pieces were remnants of an age when religion was life and art.

  He moved on to a smashed display case. Inside were two illuminated books, their vellum pages ruffled, the gold leaf flaking, the hand-detailed artwork filling the pages’ lavish borders smudged with dirty fingerprints. He noticed one oversized oval that could only have been left by a vampire’s large talonlike middle finger. The vampire had no need for or appreciation for hoary, human-illustrated books. The vampire had no need for or appreciation for anything produced by a human.

  Barnes passed through open double doors underneath a giant Romanesque archway, into a large chapel with an immense barrel-vault ceiling and heavily fortified walls. A fresco dominated the apse over the altar at the northern end of the chamber: the Virgin and Child together, with winged figures poised at either side. Written over their heads were the archangel names Michael and Gabriel. The human kings below them were depicted as the smallest figures.

  As he stood before the empty altar, Barnes felt the pressure change inside the cavernous room. A breath of air warmed the back of his neck like the sigh of a great furnace, and Barnes turned slowly.

  At first glance, the cloaked figure standing behind him resembled a time-traveling monk arrived from a twelfth-century abbey. But only at first glance. This monk gripped a long, wolf-headed staff in its left hand, and the hand contained the telltale vampire-talon middle finger.

  The Master’s new face was just visible inside the dark folds of the cloak’s hood. Behind the Master, near one of the side benches, was a female vampire in tatters. Barnes stared, recognizing her vaguely, trying to match the bald, red-eyed fiend to a younger, attractive, blue-eyed woman he once knew . . .

  “Kelly Goodweather,” said Barnes, so stunned he uttered her name out loud. Barnes, who had believed himself inured to any further new-world shocks, felt his breath go out a bit. She lurked behind the Master, a slinky, pantherlike presence.

  Report.

  Barnes nodded quickly, having anticipated this. He related the details of the rebels’ break-in exactly the way he had practiced, perfunctorily, aiming to minimize the incursion. “They timed it to occur in the hour before the meridiem. And they had assistance from one who was not human, who escaped before the sun appeared.”

  The Born.

  This surprised Barnes. He had heard some stories and had been directed to structure the camps with segregated quarters for pregnant women. But before this moment he had never been made aware that any actually existed. Barnes’s mercenary mind saw immediately that this was good for him, in that it removed much of the blame for the disruption from him and his security procedures at Camp Liberty.

  “Yes, so they had help entering. Once inside, they took the quarantine crew by surprise. They went on to do great damage to the letting facilities, as I reported. We are working hard to resume production and could be back up to twenty percent capacity within a week or ten days. We did claim one of theirs, as you know. He was turned but self-destroyed a few minutes after sundown. Oh, and I believe I have uncovered the true reason for their attack.”

  Dr. Nora Martinez.

  Barnes swallowed. The Master knew so much.

  “Yes, I had just recently discovered that she had been placed inside the camp.”

  Recently? I see . . . How recently?

  “Moments before the upheaval, sir. In any event, I was actively engaged in trying to derive information from her pertaining to Dr. Goodweather’s location and his resistance partners. I thought a less formal, more congenial exchange might be advantageous. As opposed to direct confrontation, which I believe would only have given her the opportunity to prove her fidelity to her friends. I hope you agree. Unfortunately, it was at that time that the marauders entered the main camp, and the alarm was given, and security arrived to evacuate me.”

  Barnes could not help
but glance at the former Kelly Goodweather now and then, standing in the distance behind the Master, her arms hanging slack. So strange to be talking about her husband and yet see no reaction from her.

  You located a member of their group and failed to inform me immediately?

  “As I said, I barely had any time to react and . . . I . . . I was quite surprised, you understand, caught off guard. I thought I might get farther using a personal approach—she used to work for me, you realize. I had hoped I might be able to leverage my personal relationship with her to derive some helpful information before turning her over to you.”

  Barnes maintained a smile, even the fake confidence behind it, as he felt the Master’s presence inside his mind, like a thief rummaging through an attic. Barnes was certain that human prevarication was a concern well beneath the vampire lord.

  The head within the hood lifted a moment, and Barnes realized the Master was regarding the religious fresco.

  You lie. And you are terrible at it. So—why don’t you try telling me the truth and see if you’re any better at that?

  Barnes shuddered and before he realized it, he had explained all the details of his clumsy attempts at seduction and his relationship to both Nora and Eph. The Master said nothing for a moment, then turned.

  You killed her mother. They will seek you. For revenge. And I will keep you available for them . . . that will bring them to me. From this time forward, you may commit your attention fully to your assigned duty. The resistance is nearly at an end.

  “It is?” Barnes quickly closed his mouth; he certainly had not meant to question or doubt. If the Master said it was so, then it was so. “Good, then. We have the other camps coming into production, and as I say, repairs on the letting facility at Camp Liberty are ongoing—”

  Say no more. Your life is safe for now. But never lie to me again. Never hide from me again. You are neither brave nor smart. Efficient extraction and packaging of human blood is your mission. I recommend that you excel at it.

  “I plan to. I mean—I will, sir. I am.”

  Central Park

  ZACHARY GOODWEATHER WAITED until Belvedere Castle was quiet and still. He emerged from his room into the sickly sunlight of the meridiem. He walked to the edge of the stone plaza at the top of the rise and looked out at the vacant land below. The vampire guards had retreated from the wan light into caves specially blasted into the schist that formed the foundation of the castle. Zachary returned inside the castle to retrieve his black parka before jogging down the walk into the park in violation of the human curfew.

  The Master enjoyed watching the boy break rules, test boundaries. The Master never slumbered in the castle, deeming it too vulnerable to attack during the two-hour sun window. The Master preferred his hidden crypt at the Cloisters, buried in a cool bed of old soil. During the downtime of the daylight slumber, the Master had taken to seeing the surface world through Zachary’s eyes, exploiting their bond formed by the Master’s blood treatment of Zachary’s asthma.

  The boy unplugged his all-terrain Segway Personal Transporter and rode silently along the park path south to his zoo. At the entrance, he made three circles before opening the front gate, part of his developing obsessive-compulsive disorder. Inside, he rode to the locked case his rifle was kept in, producing the key he had stolen months before. He touched the key to his lips seven times and, properly reassured, undid the lock and pulled out the rifle. He checked the four-round load, double- and triple-checking it until his compulsion was satisfied, and then set off through the zoo with the weapon at his side.

  His interest did not lie with the zoo anymore. He had created for himself a secret exit in the wall behind the Tropic Zone and now got off the Segway and emerged into the park, walking west. He stayed off the trails, preferring the tree cover as he walked past the skating rink and the old baseball fields, now mud fields, counting his steps in multiples of seventy-seven until he reached the far side of Central Park South.

  He emerged from the trees, venturing out as far as the old Merchant’s Gate entrance, remaining on the sidewalk behind the USS Maine monument. Columbus Circle stood before him, only half of the fountain shoots working, the rest clogged with sediment from the polluted rain. Beyond it, the high-rise towers stood like the smokestacks of a closed factory. Zachary sighted the figure of Columbus atop the fountain statue, blinking his eyes and smacking his lips in unison seven times before he was comfortable.

  He saw movement across the wide traffic circle. People, humans, striding across the far sidewalk. Zachary could only make out their long coats and backpacks at that distance. Curfew breakers. Zachary ducked behind the monument at first, flushed with the danger of being discovered, then crept to the other edge of the monument base, peering around it.

  The group of four people continued, unaware of him. Zachary sighted them with his weapon, blinking and lip-smacking, using what he had learned about shooting to gauge trajectory and distance. They were tightly grouped, and Zachary thought he had a clear shot, a good chance.

  He wanted to fire. He wanted to open up on them.

  And so he did, but purposefully pulled his aim high at the last second before squeezing the trigger. A moment later the group stopped, looking his way. Zack remained low and still next to the monument base, certain he would blend in with the backdrop.

  He fired three more times: Crack! Crack! Crack! He got one! One was down! Zack quickly reloaded.

  The targets ran, turning down the avenue and out of Zack’s view. He drew aim on a traffic light they had passed, just able to make out a sign indicating one of the old police security cameras posted there. He turned and ran back into the cover of the park trees, chased only by the sensation of his secret thrill.

  This city in daylight was the domain of Zachary Goodweather! Let all trespassers be warned!

  On the street, bleeding from the bullet wound—being dragged away—was Vasily Fet, the rat exterminator.

  One Hour Earlier

  THEY HAD DESCENDED into the subway at 116th Street a full hour before daylight, in order to give themselves plenty of time. Gus showed them where to wait, near a sidewalk grate through which they could hear the approach of a 1 train, minimizing the amount of time they would have to spend on the platform below.

  Eph stood against the nearest building, his eyes closed, asleep on his feet in the pissing rain. And even in those brief intervals he dreamed of light and fire.

  Fet and Nora whispered occasionally, while Gus paced and said nothing. Joaquin declined to accompany them, needing to vent his frustration over Bruno’s passing by continuing their program of sabotage. Gus had tried to dissuade him from going out into the city on a bad knee, but Joaquin’s mind was set.

  Eph was roused to consciousness by the subterranean shriek of the approaching train, and they bustled down the station steps like the other commuters rushing to get off the streets before the sunlight curfew. They boarded a silver-colored subway car and shook the rain from their coats. The doors closed and a quick glance up and down the length of the car told Eph that there were no vampires on board. He relaxed a bit, closing his eyes as the subway took them fifty-five blocks south beneath the city.

  At Fifty-ninth Street and Columbus Circle, they disembarked, rising up the steps to the street. They ducked inside one of the large apartment buildings and found a place to wait behind the lobby, until the dark shroud of night lifted just enough, the sky becoming merely overcast.

  When the streets were empty, they emerged into the faded glory of day. The orb of the sun was visible through the dark cloud cover like a flashlight pressed against a charcoal-gray blanket. Street-level windows of certain cafés and shops remained smashed since the initial days of panic and looting, while glass in the upper-story windows largely remained intact. They walked around the southern curve of the immense traffic circle, long since cleared of abandoned cars, the central fountain spewing black water out of every second or third nozzle. The city, during curfew, had a perpetual early-Sunday-mo
rning feel to it, as though most of the residents were sleeping in, the day slow to start. In that sense, it gave Eph a feeling of hope that he tried to savor, even though he knew it to be false.

  Then a sizzling sound creased the air overhead.

  “What the . . . ?”

  The loud crack followed, a gunshot report, sound traveling more slowly than the round itself. The delay said the shot had been fired from a distance, seemingly from somewhere inside the trees of Central Park.

  “Shooter!” said Fet. They ran across Eighth Avenue, quickly but not panicked. Gunshots at daylight meant humans. There had been a lot more insanity in the months following the takeover. Humans driven crazy by the fall of their kind and the rise of the new order. Violent suicides. Mass murders. After those died out, Eph would still see people out during the meridiem especially, ranting, wandering the streets. Rarely would he see any people out during the curfew now. The crazies had been killed or otherwise dispatched, and the rest behaved.

  Three more shots were fired, crack, crack, crack—

  Two of the bullets hit a mailbox, but the third one hit Vasiliy Fet squarely in the left shoulder. It made him twirl, leaving behind a ribbon of blood. The bullet traveled clean through his body, tearing muscle and flesh but miraculously missing the lungs and the heart.

  Eph and Nora grabbed Fet as he fell and, with the help of Mr. Quinlan, dragged him away.

  Nora pulled Fet’s hand back from his shoulder, quickly examining the wound. Not too much blood, no bone fragments.

  Fet eased her back. “Let’s keep moving. Too vulnerable here.”

  They cut down Fifty-sixth Street, heading for the F-line subway stop. No more gunfire, no one following them. They entered without encountering anyone, and the underground platform was empty. The F line ran north here, the track curving underneath the park as it headed east to Queens. They jumped down onto the rails, waiting again to make sure they were not followed.