The Night Eternal (Strain Trilogy 3)

by Chuck Hogan

  Through the years, the Master learned to use its skills and tactics to suit its needs for secrecy and stealth. The land was inhabited by fierce warriors and the places where it could hide were limited to caves and crevices that were well-known to hunters and trappers. The Master seldom transmitted its will into a new body and only did so if the stature or strength of a new host was overwhelmingly desirable. And through the years it gained in legend and name and the Algonquian Indians called it the wendigo.

  It longed to commune with the Ancients, whom it naturally sensed and whose empathic beacon it felt across the sea. But every time it attempted to cross running water its human body would fail and be struck by a seizure, no matter the might of the occupied body. Was this tied to the place of his dismemberment? Trapped within the flowing arms of the river Yarden? Was it a secret alchemy, a deterrent written upon his forehead by the finger of God? This and many other rules it would come to learn during its existence.

  It moved west and north looking for a route to the “other land,” the continent where the Ancients were thriving. It felt their call—and the urge inside it grew, sustaining the Master over the grueling trek from one edge of the continent to the other.

  It reached the forbidding ocean in the frozen lands at the uppermost northwest, where it hunted and fed on the inhabitants of that cold wasteland, the Unangam. They were men of narrow eyes and tanned skin, who wore animal pelts for warmth. The Master, entering the minds of its victims, learned of a crossing to a great land on the other side of the sea, at a place where the shores almost touched, reaching like outstretched hands. It scouted the cold shore, searching for this launching point.

  One fateful night, the Master saw a cluster of narrow, primitive fishing ships near a cliff, unloading the fish and seal they had hunted. The Master knew it could cross the ocean aided by them. It had learned to ford smaller bodies of water with human assistance, so why not a larger one? The Master knew how to bend and terrorize the soul of even the hardest man. It knew how to gain and feed upon the fear of its subjects. The Master would kill half the group and announce itself as a deity, a fury of the wood, an elemental force of grander power than his already amazing one. It would suffocate any dissidence and gain every alliance either by pardon or by favor . . . and then it would travel across the waters.

  While hidden beneath a heavy coat of pelts, lying upon a small bed of soil, the Master would attempt the crossing that would reunite it with those closest to its nature.

  Picatinny Armory

  CREEM HID IN another building for a while, scared of that Quinlan dude and what his reach was. Creem’s mouth still hurt from the elbow he had taken, and now his silver teeth wouldn’t bite right. He was pissed at himself for going back to the maintenance garage at the university for the guns, for being greedy. Always so hungry for more, more, more . . .

  After a while, he heard a car go past, but not too fast, and quiet. It sounded like an electrical car, one of those plug-in compacts.

  He headed out toward the one place he used to avoid, the front entrance of Picatinny Armory. Darkness had fallen again, and he walked toward a cluster of lights, wet and hungry and holding the cramp in his side. He turned the corner and saw the smashed gate where they had entered and beings clustered near the Visitor Control building. Creem put his hands up and walked until they saw him.

  He explained himself to the humans, but they put him in a locked bathroom anyway, when all Creem wanted was something to eat. He kicked at the door a few times, but it was surprisingly solid; he realized the restroom had doubled as a secret holding cell for problem visitors to the armory. So he sat back on the closed toilet seat and he waited.

  A tremendous crash, almost like a blast, shook the walls. The building had taken a blow, and Creem’s first thought was that those assholes had hit a speed bump on the way out and nuked half of Jersey. Then the door opened and the Master stood there in its cloak. It carried a wolf’s-head walking stick in one hand. Two of its little critters, the blind children, scampered around its legs like eager pets.

  Where are they?

  Creem sat back against the tank of the toilet, oddly relaxed now in the king bloodsucker’s presence.

  “They’re gone. They hit the road. Little while ago.”

  How long?

  “I don’t know. Two vehicles. At least two.”

  Which direction?

  “I was locked in a fucking bathroom here, how would I know? That vampire they got on their side, the hunter, Quinlan—he’s an asshole. Dented my grille.” Creem touched the unaligned silver in his mouth. “So, hey, do me a favor? When you catch them? Give him and the Mexican an extra kick in the head from me.”

  They have the book?

  “They got that book. They have a nuclear bomb too. And they know where they are headed. Some Black Site or something.”

  The Master stood there, saying nothing. Creem waited. Even the feelers noticed the Master’s silence.

  “I said they’re heading for—”

  Did they say where?

  The Master’s speech pattern was different. The timing of his words was slower.

  Creem said, “You know what I could use to jog my memory? Some food. I’m getting weak with fatigue here—”

  At once the Master swooped in and gathered Creem in its hands, holding him up off the floor.

  Ah yes, said the Master, its stinger slipping from its mouth. Nourishment. Perhaps a bite would help us both.

  Creem felt the stinger press against his neck.

  I asked you where they are going.

  “I . . . I don’t know. The doc, your other little friend there—he read it in that book. All I know.”

  There are other ways to ensure your total compliance.

  Creem felt a soft, piston-like thump against his neck. Then a pinprick, and a gentle warmth. He shrieked, expecting to be emptied.

  But the Master just held his stinger there and squeezed Creem’s shoulders together, Creem feeling pressure against his shoulder blades and his clavicle, as though the Master was about to crush him like a tin can.

  You know these roads?

  “Do I know these roads? Sure, I know these roads.”

  With an effortless pivot, the Master threw Creem bodily out through the restroom door into the greater Visitor Control building, the big gang leader sprawling on the floor.

  Drive.

  Creem got up and nodded . . . unaware of the small drop of blood forming on the side of his neck where the stinger had touched him.

  Barnes’s bodyguards walked into his outer office inside Camp Liberty without knocking. Barnes’s assistant’s throat-clearing alerted him to stash the detective book he had been reading in a drawer and pretend to be going over the papers on his desk. They entered, their necks darkly patterned with tattoos, and held the door.

  Come.

  Barnes nodded after a moment, stuffing some papers into his attaché case. “What is this about?”

  No answer. He accompanied them down the stairs and across to the guard at the gate, who let them through. There was a light, dark mist, not enough to warrant an umbrella. It did not appear that he was in any kind of trouble, but then again it was impossible to read anything into his stone-faced bodyguards.

  His car pulled up, and they rode sitting next to him, Barnes remaining calm, searching his memory for some mistake or unintended slight he might have made. He was reasonably confident there had been none, but he had never been summoned anywhere quite this way before.

  They were heading back to his home, which he thought was a good sign. He saw no other vehicles in the driveway. They walked inside and there was no one there waiting for him, most especially the Master. Barnes informed his bodyguards that he was going to visit the bathroom and spent his alone time in there running the water and teaming up with his reflection in the mirror to try to figure out this thing. He was too old for this level of stress.

  He went into the kitchen to prepare a snack. He had just pulled open the refr
igerator door when he heard the helicopter rotors approaching. His bodyguards appeared at his side.

  He walked to the front door and opened it, watching the helicopter rotate overhead and descend. The skids set down gently on the once-white stones of his wide, circular driveway. The pilot was human, a Stoneheart; Barnes saw that instantly from the man’s black suit jacket and necktie. There was a passenger, but not cloaked, therefore not the Master. Barnes let out a subtle breath of relief, waiting for the engine to turn off and the rotors to slow, allowing the visitor to disembark. Instead, Barnes’s bodyguards each gripped one of his arms and walked him down the front steps and out over the stones toward the waiting chopper. They ducked beneath the screaming rotors and opened the door.

  The passenger, sitting with twin seat belts crossed over his chest, was young Zachary Goodweather.

  Barnes’s bodyguards boosted him inside, as though he might try to escape. He sat in the chair next to Zack, while they took facing seats. Barnes strapped on his safety restraints; his bodyguards did not.

  “Hello again,” said Barnes.

  The boy looked at him but did not answer. More youthful arrogance—and maybe something more.

  “What’s this about?” asked Barnes. “Where are we going?”

  The boy, it seemed to Barnes, had picked up on his fear. Zack looked away with a mixture of dismissal and disgust.

  “The Master needs me,” said Zack, looking out the window as the chopper started to rise. “I don’t know why you’re here.”

  Interstate 80

  THEY DROVE ALONG Interstate 80, west through New Jersey. Fet drove with his foot to the floor, high beams all the way. Occasional debris, or an abandoned car or bus, slowed him down. A few times they passed some skinny deer. But no vampires, not on the interstate—at least, none they could see. Eph sat in the backseat of the Jeep, next to Mr. Quinlan, who was attuned to the vampires’ mental frequency. The Born was like a vampire radar detector: so long as he remained silent, they were okay.

  Gus and Nora followed in the Explorer, a backup vehicle in case one of them broke down, which was a real possibility.

  The highways were nearly clear. People had tried to evacuate once the plague reached true panic stages (the default human response to an infectious disease outbreak—escape—despite there being no virus-free zone to escape to), and highways jammed all across the country. However, few had been turned in their cars, at least not on the highway itself. Most were taken when they pulled off the main routes, usually to sleep.

  “Scranton,” said Fet, passing a sign for Interstate 81 North. “I didn’t think it would be this easy.”

  “Long way to go,” said Eph, looking out the window at the darkness rushing past. “How’s our fuel?”

  “Okay for now. I don’t want to stop anywhere near a city.”

  “No way,” agreed Eph.

  “I’d like to get over the border into New York State first.”

  Eph looked out at Scranton as they navigated the increasingly cluttered overpasses to the north. He noticed a section of one block burning in the distance and wondered if there were other rebels such as themselves, smaller-scale fighters in smaller urban centers. Occasional electric lights shining in windows drew his eye and made him wonder at all the desperation going on there in Scranton and in similar small cities all across the country and the world. He wondered also where the nearest blood camp was.

  “There must be a list of Stoneheart Corporation meatpacking plants somewhere, a master list that would clue us in to the blood camp locations,” said Eph. “Once we get this done, there’s going to be a lot of liberating to do.”

  “And how,” said Fet. “If it’s like it was with the other Ancients, then the Master’s clan will die out with him. Vanish. People in the camps won’t know what hit them.”

  “Trick will be getting the word out. Without mass media, I mean. We’ll have all these little duchies and fiefdoms popping up across the country. People trying to take control. I’m not so sure democracy will automatically bloom.”

  “No,” said Fet. “It’s going to be tricky. Lots of work. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  Eph looked at Mr. Quinlan sitting next to him. He noticed the leather sack between his boots. “Do you die with all the others when the Master is destroyed?”

  When the Master is obliterated, his bloodline is no more.

  Eph nodded, feeling the heat of the half-breed’s supercharged metabolism. “Nothing in your nature prevents you from working toward something that will ultimately result in your own demise?”

  You’ve never worked toward something that went against your own self-interest?

  Eph said, “No, I don’t think I have. Nothing that could kill me, that’s for sure.”

  There is a greater good at stake. And vengeance is a uniquely compelling motivation. Revenge trumps self-preservation.

  “What is it you’re carrying in that leather pack?”

  I am sure you already know.

  Eph remembered the Ancients’ chamber beneath Central Park, their ashes set inside receptacles of white oak. “Why are you bringing along the Ancients’ remains?”

  You did not see that in the Lumen?

  Eph had not. “Are you . . . intending on bringing them back? Resurrecting them somehow?”

  No. What is done cannot be undone.

  “Why, then?”

  Because it is foretold.

  Eph puzzled over that one. “Is something going to happen?”

  Are you not concerned about the ramifications of success? You said yourself that you are uncertain democracy will spontaneously bloom. Humans have never truly had self-rule. It has been that way for centuries. Do you think you will be able to manage on your own?

  Eph had no answer for him. He knew that the Born was right. The Ancients had been pulling strings since near the beginning of human history. What would the world look like without their intervention?

  Eph watched out his window as the distant blaze, which was substantial, faded from view. How to put it all back together again? Recovery seemed like an impossibly daunting task. The world was already irretrievably broken. For a moment he even wondered if it was worth it.

  Of course, that was just fatigue talking. But what had once seemed like the end of their troubles—destroying the Master and retaking stewardship of the planet—would in reality be the beginning of a brand-new struggle.

  Zachary and the Master

  ARE YOU LOYAL? asked the Master. Are you thankful for all I have provided, for all that I have shown you?

  “I am,” answered Zachary Goodweather with not a moment’s doubt. The spiderlike shape of Kelly Goodweather watched her son, perched on a ledge nearby.

  The end of times is near. Where we define together this new earth. All that you knew—all of those that were close to you—will be gone. Are you to be faithful to me?

  “I will be,” answered Zack.

  I have been betrayed many times in the past. You should know that I am thus familiar with the mechanics of such plotting. Part of my will resides in you. You can hear my voice with distinct clarity, and in return, I am privy to your innermost thoughts.

  The Master got up and examined the boy. There was no doubt detectable in him. He was in awe of the Master, and the gratitude he expressed was genuine.

  I was betrayed once by those who should have been the closest to me. Those that I shared my very essence with—the Ancients. They had no pride in them—no real hunger. They were content living their lives in the shade. They blamed me for our condition and took shelter in the refuse of mankind. They thought themselves powerful, but they were quite weak. They sought alliance. I seek domination. You understand that, don’t you?

  “The snow leopard,” said Zack.

  Precisely. All relationships are based on power. Domination and submission. There is no other way. No equality, no congeniality, no shared domain. There is only one king in a kingdom.

  And here, the Master looked at Zac
k with calculated precision—enacting what the Master believed human kindness should look like—before adding, One king and one prince. You understand that too, don’t you? My son.

  Zack nodded. And with that he accepted both the notion and the title. The Master scanned every gesture, every nuance on the young man’s face. It listened carefully to the rhythm of his heart, looked at the pulse in his carotid artery. The boy was moved—excited by this simulated bond.

  The caged leopard was an illusion. One that you needed to destroy. Bars and cages are symbols of weakness. Imperfect measures of control. One may choose to believe they are there to subjugate the creature inside—to humiliate it—but in due time one realizes they also are there to keep it away. They become a symbol of your fear. They limit you as much as the beast within. Your cage is just bigger, and the freedom of the leopard lies in those confines.

  “But if you destroy it,” said Zack, developing the thought himself, “if you destroy it . . . there is no doubt left.”

  Consumption is the ultimate form of control. Yes. And now we stand together at the brink of control. Absolute domination of this earth. So—I have to make sure that nothing stands between you and me.

  “Nothing,” said Zack with absolute conviction.

  The Master nodded, apparently pensive, but in fact building a pause calculated long before for maximum effect. The revelation he was about to give to Zack needed that careful timing.

  What if I said to you that your father was still alive?

  And then the Master felt it—a torrent of emotions swirling inside Zack. A turmoil that the Master had thoroughly anticipated but that intoxicated him all the same. It loved the taste of broken hopes.

  “My father is dead,” said Zack. “He died with Professor Setrakian and—”