The Night Eternal (Strain Trilogy 3)

by Chuck Hogan

  Nora unclipped the Luma lamp hanging from her pack, switching on the battery-powered black light. The ultraviolet rays repelled the vampires, the feeler snarling and backing away on all fours. Kelly remained still, only turning as Nora circled away from them, backing away to the stairs. She was using the mirrors to check behind her, which was how she saw the blurred figure darting up from the handrail.

  Nora spun and drove her blade deep into the mouth of the boy feeler, the searing silver releasing him almost immediately. She jerked the blade out and spun back, ready for the attack.

  Kelly and the girl feeler were gone. Vanished—as though they had never been there in the first place.

  “Nora!”

  Eph called to her from the floor below. “Coming down!” she yelled back, descending the wooden steps.

  He met her there, anxious, having feared the worst. He saw the slick white blood on her blade.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She nodded, grabbing a scarf off a nearby rack to clean off her sword. “Ran into Kelly upstairs. She says hi.”

  Eph stared at the sword. “Did you . . . ?”

  “No, unfortunately. Just one of her little foster monsters.”

  Eph said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Outside, she half-expected a swarm of vampires to greet them. But no. Regular humans moving between work and home, shoulders hunched against the rain.

  “How did it go?” asked Nora.

  “It’s a bastard,” said Eph. “A true bastard.”

  “But do you think it bought it?”

  Eph could not look her in the eye. “Yes,” he said. “It bought it.”

  Eph was vigilant for vampires, scanning the sidewalks as they went.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Keep moving,” he said. Across Thirty-sixth Street, he pulled over, ducking under the canopy of a closed market. He looked up through the rain, eyeing the rooftops.

  There, high across the street, a feeler leaped from the edge of one building to the next. Tracking them.

  “They’re following us,” said Eph. “Come on.” They walked on, trying to lose themselves in the masses. “We have to wait them out until the meridiem.”

  Columbia University

  EPH AND NORA returned to the empty university campus soon after first light, confident they were not followed. Eph figured that Mr. Quinlan had to be underground, probably going over the Lumen. He was headed that way when Gus intercepted them—or, more accurately, intercepted Nora while Eph was still with her.

  “You have the medicine?” he asked.

  Nora showed him a bag full of their loot.

  “It’s Joaquin,” said Gus.

  Nora stopped short, thinking vampire involvement. “What happened?”

  “I need you to see him. It’s bad.”

  They followed him to a classroom where Joaquin was propped up on top of a desk, his pant leg rolled up. His knee was bulbous in two places, considerably swollen. The gangbanger was in great pain. Gus stood on the other side of the desk, waiting for answers.

  “How long has it been like this?” Nora asked Joaquin.

  Through a sweaty grimace, Joaquin said, “I dunno. A while.”

  “I’m going to touch it here.”

  Joaquin braced himself. Nora explored the swollen areas around the knee. She saw a small wound below the patella, less than an inch in length and crooked, its edges yellowed and crusty. “When did you get this cut?”

  “Dunno,” said Joaquin. “Think I bumped it at the blood camp. Didn’t notice it until long after.”

  Eph jumped in. “You’ve been going out on your own sometimes. You hit any hospitals or nursing home facilities?”

  “Uh . . . probably. Saint Luke’s, sure.”

  Eph looked at Nora, their silence conveying the seriousness of the infection. “Penicillin?” said Nora.

  “Maybe,” said Eph. “Let’s go think this through.” To Joaquin, he said, “Lie back. We’ll be right back in.”

  “Hold up, doc. That don’t sound good.”

  Eph said, “It’s an infection, obviously. It would be fairly routine to treat this in a hospital. Problem is, there are no more hospitals. A sick human is simply disposed of. So we need to discuss how to care for it.”

  Joaquin nodded, unconvinced, and lay back on the desk. Gus, without a word, followed Eph and Nora out into the hallway.

  Gus said, looking mostly at Nora, “No bullshit.”

  Nora shook her head. “Bacterium, multiresistant. He might have cut himself at the camp, but this is something he picked up at a medical facility. The bug can live on instruments, on surfaces, for a long time. Nasty, and trenchant.”

  Gus said, “Okay. What do you need?”

  “What we need is something we can’t get anymore. We just went out looking for it—vancomycin.”

  There had been a run on vancomycin during the last days of the scourge. Befuddled medical experts, professionals who should have known better than to feed a panic, went on television suggesting this “drug of last resort” as a possible treatment for the still-unidentified strain that was spreading through the country with incredible speed.

  “And even if we could find some vancomycin,” said Nora, “it would take a severe course of antibiotics and other remedies to rid him of this infection. It’s not a vampire sting, but, in terms of life expectancy, it might as well be.”

  Eph said, “Even if we could get some fluids into him intravenously, it just won’t do him any good, except prolonging the inevitable.”

  Gus looked at Eph as though he were going to hit him. “There’s gotta be some other way. You guys are fucking doctors . . .”

  Nora said, “Medically, we’re halfway back to the Dark Ages now. With no new drugs being manufactured, all the diseases we thought we had beat are back, and taking us early. We can maybe scrounge around, find something to make him more comfortable . . .”

  She looked at Eph. Gus did too. Eph didn’t care anymore; he pulled off his pack—where he had smuggled the Vicodin—and opened the zippered pouch and pulled out a baggie full of tablets. Dozens of tablets and pills in different shapes, colors, and sizes. He selected a pair of low-dosage Lorcets, some Percodans, and four two-milligram Dilaudid tabs.

  “Start him with these,” he said, pointing to the Lorcets. “Save the Dilaudids for last.” The rest of the bag he turned over to Nora. “Take it all. I’m through with them.”

  Gus looked at the pills in his hands. “These won’t cure him?”

  “No,” said Nora. “Just manage his pain.”

  “What about, you know, amputation? Cutting off his leg. I could do it myself.”

  “It’s not just the knee, Gus.” Nora touched his arm. “I’m sorry. The way things are now, there’s just not much we can do.”

  Gus stared at the drugs in his hand, dazed, as though he held there the broken pieces of Joaquin.

  Fet entered, the shoulders of his duster wet from outside. He slowed a moment, struck by the strange scene of Eph, Gus, and Nora standing together in an emotional moment.

  “He’s here,” said Fet. “Creem’s back. At the garage.”

  Gus closed the pills in his fist. “You go. Deal with that piece of shit. I’ll be along.”

  He went back inside to Joaquin, caressed his sweaty forehead, and helped him swallow the pills. Gus knew that he was saying good-bye to the last person in the world he cared for. The last person he really loved. His brother, his mother, his closest compas: all gone now. He had nothing left now.

  Back outside, Fet looked at Nora. “Everything all right? You took a long time.”

  “We were being followed,” she said.

  Eph watched them embrace. He had to pretend as though he didn’t care.

  “Mr. Quinlan get anywhere with the Lumen?” asked Eph once they parted.

  “No,” said Fet. “It’s not looking good.”

  The three of them headed across the Greek-amphitheater-like Low Plaza, past
the library, and on to the edge of the campus, where the maintenance building stood. Creem’s yellow Hummer was parked inside the garage. The blinged-out leader of the Jersey Sapphires had his fat hand on a shopping cart full of semiautomatic weapons that Gus had promised him. The gang leader grinned wide, his silver-plated teeth glowing Cheshire Cat–like inside his considerable mouth.

  “I could do some damage with these pop guns,” he said, sighting one out the open garage door. He looked at Fet, Eph, and Nora. “Where’s the Mex?”

  “He’ll be along,” said Fet.

  Creem, professionally suspicious, mulled this over before deciding it was okay. “You authorized to speak for him? I made that bean eater a fair offer.”

  Fet said, “We are all well aware.”

  “And?”

  “Whatever it takes,” said Fet. “We have to see the detonator first.”

  “Yeah, sure, of course. We can arrange that.”

  “Arrange it?” said Nora. She looked at his ugly yellow truck. “I thought you were bringing it.”

  “Bringing it? I don’t even know what the fuck it looks like. What am I, MacGyver? I show you where to go. Military arsenal. If this place don’t have it, I don’t know that anyplace does.”

  Nora looked at Fet. It was clear she didn’t trust this Creem. “So, what, you’re offering us a ride to the store? That’s your great contribution?”

  Creem smiled at her. “Intelligence and access. That’s what I bring to the table.”

  “If you don’t have this thing yet . . . then why are you here now?”

  Creem brandished the unloaded weapon. “I came for my guns, and for the Mex’s answer. And a little matter of ammunition to load up these babies.” He opened his driver’s-side door, reaching for something between the front seats: a map of Jersey, with a hand-drawn map paper-clipped to it.

  Nora showed the maps to Fet and then Eph. “This is what you’re giving us. For the island of Manhattan.” She looked at Fet. “The Native Americans got a better deal than we are.”

  Creem was amused. “That’s a map of the Picatinny Arsenal. You see there, it’s in the northern New Jersey skylands, so only about thirty, forty miles west of here. A giant military reserve that the bloodsuckers now control. But I got a way in. Been raiding munitions for months now. Drawn down on most of their ammo—why I need this here.” He patted the weapons as he loaded them into the back of his Hummer. “Started out in the Civil War as a place for the army to store gunpowder. It was military research and manufacturing before the vamp takeover.”

  Fet looked up from the map. “They have detonators?”

  Creem said, “If they don’t, nobody does. I seen fuses and timers. You gotta know what type you need. Your nuke here? Not that I know what I’m looking for.”

  Fet didn’t answer that. “It’s about three feet by five feet. Portable, but not suitcase-small. Heavy. Like a small keg or a trash can.”

  “You’ll find something that works. Or you won’t. I don’t make any guarantees, except that I can put you there. Then you take your toy far away and see how she goes. I don’t offer any money-back guarantees. Duds are your problem, not mine.”

  Nora said, “You are offering us next to nothing.”

  “You want to shop around for a few more years? Be my guest.”

  Nora said, “I’m glad you find this so funny.”

  “It’s all fucking funny to me, lady,” said Creem. “This whole world is a laugh factory. I laugh all day and night. What do you want me to do, bust out weeping? This vampire thing is one colossal joke, and the way I see it, you’re either in on the joke, or you’re out.”

  “And you’re in on it?” said Nora.

  “Put it to you this way, bald beauty,” said silver-toothed Creem. “I aim to have the last laugh. So you renegades and rebels better make sure you light the fuse on this fucking thing away from my island here. Take a bite out of . . . fucking Connecticut or something. But stay off my turf here. Part of the deal.”

  Fet was smiling now. “What do you hope to do with this city once you own it?”

  “I don’t even know. Who can think that far ahead? I never been a landlord before. This place is a fixer-upper but a one of a kind. Maybe turn this fucker into a casino. Or a skate rink—it’s all the same to you.”

  Gus entered then. His hands were deep in his pockets, his face set tight. He was wearing dark glasses but if you looked carefully enough—like Nora did—you could see his eyes were red.

  “Here he is,” said Creem. “Looks like we have a deal, Mex.”

  Gus nodded. “We have a deal.”

  Nora said, “Hold on. He’s got nothing except these maps.”

  Gus nodded, still not really in the room yet. “How soon can we get it?”

  Creem said, “How about tomorrow?”

  Gus said, “Tomorrow it is. On one condition. You wait here tonight. With us. Lead us to it before first light.”

  “Keeping an eye on me, Mex?”

  “We’ll feed you,” said Gus.

  Creem was won over. “Fair enough. I like my steak well-done, remember.” He swung his trunk door shut. “What’s your great plan, anyway?”

  “You don’t really need to know,” said Gus.

  “You can’t ambush this motherfucker.” Creem looked at them all. “Hope you know that.”

  Gus said, “You can if you have something it wants. Something it needs. That is why I’m keeping my eye on you . . .”

  Extract from the Diary of Ephraim Goodweather

  Dear Zack,

  This is my second time writing a letter that no father should ever have to write to his son: a suicide note. The first one I crafted before putting you on that train out of New York City, explaining my reasons for staying behind and fighting what I suspected was a losing battle.

  Here I remain, still fighting that fight.

  You were taken from me in the cruelest manner possible. For nearly two years now, I have pined for you, I have tried to find a way to set you free from the clutches of those who hold you. You think me dead, but no—not yet. I live, and I live for you.

  I am writing this to you in the event that you survive me and that the Master survives me as well. In that case—which is for me the worst-case scenario—I will have committed a grave crime against humanity, or what was left of it. I will have traded the last hope for the freedom of our subordinated race in order that you, son, will live. Not only live, but live as a human being, unturned by the plague of vampirism spread by the Master.

  My dearest hope is that you have by now come to the realization that the Master’s way is evil in its basest form. There is a very wise saying: “History is written by the victor.” Today I write not of history but of hope. We had a life together once, Zack. A beautiful life, and I include your mother in this also. Please remember that life, its sunlight, laughter, and simple joy. That was your youth. You have been made to grow up much too fast, and any confusion on your part as to who truly loves you and wants the best for you is understandable and forgivable. I forgive you everything. Please forgive my treachery on your behalf. My own life is a small price to pay for yours, but the lives of my friends, and the future of humanity—enormous.

  Many times I have given up hope in myself, but never in you. I regret only that I will not see the man you will grow to be. Please let my sacrifice guide you onto the path of goodness.

  And now I have one other very important thing to say. If, as I say, this plan comes off as I fear it might, then I have been turned. I am a vampire. And you must understand that, due to the bond of love I feel for you, my vampire self will be coming for you. It will never stop. If, by the time you read this, you have already slain me, I thank you. A thousand times, I thank you. Please feel no guilt, no shame, only the satisfaction of a good deed done well. I am at peace.

  But if somehow you have not released me yet—please destroy me the next chance you get. This is my last request. You will want to cut down your mother too. We love you.
<
br />   If you have found this diary where I intend to leave it—on your boyhood bed, in your mother’s house on Kelton Street in Woodside, Queens—then you will find, beneath the bed, a bag of weapons forged of silver that I hope will make your way easier in this world. It is all I have to bequeath you.

  It is a cruel world, Zachary Goodweather. Do anything you can to make it better.

  Your father,

  Dr. Ephraim Goodweather

  Columbia University

  EPH HAD SKIPPED Gus’s promised meal in order to compose his letter to Zack in one of the empty classrooms down the hall from Joaquin. In doing so, Eph despised the Master at that moment more than he had at any other point in this long, terrible ordeal.

  Now he looked over what he had just written. He read it through, trying to approach it as Zack would. Eph had never before considered this from Zachary’s perspective. What would his son think?

  Dad loved me—yes.

  Dad was a traitor to his friends and his people—yes.

  Eph realized, reading this, how saddled with guilt Zack would be. To have the weight of the lost world upon his shoulders. His father having chosen slavery for all for the freedom of one.

  Was that really an act of love? Or was that something else?

  It was a cheat. It was the easy way out. Zack would get to live as a human slave—if the Master fulfilled its end of the bargain—and the planet would become a vampire’s nest for eternity.

  Eph had the sensation of awakening, as though from a fever dream. How could he ever have considered this? It was almost as though, having allowed the Master’s voice into his head, he had also allowed a bit of corruption or insanity. As if the Master’s malignant presence had mentally nested inside Eph’s mind and started to metastasize. Thinking of this actually made him fear for Zack more than ever: he feared Zack being alive next to that monster.

  Eph heard someone approaching from the hallway and quickly closed his diary and slid it underneath his pack—just as the door opened.