“Mama?”
His voice doubled back on him in a startling echo. He remembered her as he had left her: sitting in the bottom of her bedroom closet, under a great pile of clothes. Staring up at him with the leering hunger of a newly turned them.
Vampires, the old man said.
Gus turned, trying to guess in which direction the voice might have originated. He had nothing else to do but follow this voice.
He walked to a stone wall, feeling his way along its smooth and slowly curving face. His palms remained sore where the glass had cut him—the shard he had wielded in the murder (no—the destruction) of his brother-turned-vampire. He stopped to feel his wrists, and realized the handcuffs he had been wearing at the time of his escape from police custody—the ones whose chain the hunters had split—were now gone.
Those hunters. They had turned out to be vampires themselves, appearing on that street in Morningside Heights and battling the other vampires like two sides in a gang war. But the hunters were well equipped. They had weapons, and they were coordinated. They drove cars. They weren’t just the bloodthirsty attack drones like the ones Gus had faced and destroyed.
The last thing he remembered was them throwing Gus into the back of an SUV. But—why him?
Another puff of wind, like Mother Nature’s last breath, brushed against his face, and he followed it—hoping he was moving in the right direction. The wall ended at a sharp corner. He felt for the opposite side, his left, and found it the same: ending at a corner, with a gap in between. Just like a doorway.
Gus stepped through, and the new echo of his footsteps told him that this room was wider and higher-ceilinged than the rest. A faint smell here, familiar to him somehow. Trying to place it.
He got it. The cleaning solution he’d had to use in lockup, on maintenance detail. It was ammonia. Not enough to singe the inside of his nose.
Then something started to happen. He thought his mind was playing tricks, but then realized that, yes, light was coming to the room. The slowness of the illumination, and the general uncertainty of the situation, terrified him. Two tripod lamps set wide apart, near the far walls, were coming up gradually, diluting the thick blackness.
Gus drew his arms in tight, in the manner of the mixed-martial-arts fighters he watched on the Internet. The lights kept brightening, though so gradually that the wattage barely registered. But his pupils were so widely dilated by the darkness, his retina so exposed, that any light source would have caused a reaction.
He didn’t see it at first. The being was right in front of him, no more than ten or fifteen feet away, but its head and limbs were so pale and still and smooth that his eyes read them as part of the walls of rock.
The only thing that stood out was a pair of symmetrical dark holes. Not black holes, but almost black.
The deepest red. Blood red.
If they were eyes, they did not blink. Nor did they stare. They looked upon Gus with a remarkable lack of passion. These were eyes as indifferent as red stones. Blood-sodden eyes that had seen it all.
Gus glimpsed the outline of a robe on the being’s body, blending into the darkness like a cavity within the cavity. The being stood tall, if he was making it out correctly. But the stillness of this thing was deathlike. Gus did not move.
“What is this?” he said, his voice coming out a little funny, betraying his fear. “You think you’re eating Mexican tonight? You wanna think twice about that. How ’bout you come and choke on it, bitch.”
It radiated such silence and stillness that Gus might have been looking at some clothed statue. Its skull was hairless and smooth all over, lacking the cartilage of ears. Now Gus was aware of something, hearing—or, rather, feeling—a vibration like humming.
“Well?” he said, addressing the expressionless eyes. “What you waiting for? You like to play with your food before you eat it?” He pulled his fists in closer to his face. “Not this fucking chalupa, you undead piece of shit.”
Something other than movement drew his attention to the right—and he saw that there was another one. Standing there like part of the stone wall, a shade shorter than the first one, eyes shaped differently but similarly emotionless.
And then, to the left—gradually, to Gus’s eyes—a third.
Gus, who was not unfamiliar with courtrooms, felt like he was appearing before three alien judges inside a stone chamber. He was going out of his mind, but his reaction was to keep shooting off his mouth. To keep putting up the gangbanger front. The judges he had faced called it “contempt.” Gus called it “coping.” What he did when he felt looked down upon. When he felt he was being treated not as a unique human being
We will be brief.
but as an inconvenience, an obstacle dropped in someone’s way.
Gus’s hands shot up to his temples. Not his ears: the voice was somehow inside his head. Coming from that same part of his brain where his own interior monologue originated—as though some pirate radio station had started broadcasting on his signal.
You are Augustin Elizalde.
He gripped his head but the voice was tight in there. No off switch.
“Yeah, I know who the fuck I am. Who the fuck are you? What the fuck are you? And how did you get inside my—”
You are not here as sustenance. We have plenty of livestock on hand for the snow season.
Livestock? “Oh, you mean people?” Gus had heard occasional yells, anguished voices echoing through the caves, but imagined they were cries in his dreams.
Free-range husbandry has suited our needs for thousands of years. Dumb animals make for plentiful food. On occasion, one shows unusual resourcefulness.
Gus barely followed that, wanting them to get to the point. “So—what, you’re saying you’re not going to try to turn me into… one of you?”
Our bloodline is pristine and privileged. To enter into our heritage is a gift. Entirely unique and very, very expensive.
They weren’t making any sense to Gus. “If you’re not going to drink my blood—then what the hell do you want?”
We have a proposal.
“A proposal?” Gus banged on the side of his head as though it were a malfunctioning appliance. “I guess I’m fucking listening—unless I have a choice.”
We need a daylight serf. A hunter. We are a nocturnal race of beings, you are diurnal.
“Diurnal?”
Your endogenous circadian rhythm corresponds directly to the light-dark cycle of what you call a twenty-four-hour day. Your kind’s inbred chronobiology is acclimated to this planet’s celestial timetable, in reverse of ours. You are a sun creature.
“Fucking what?”
We need someone who can move about freely during daylight hours. One who can withstand sun exposure, and, in fact, use its power, as well as any other weapons at his disposal, to massacre the unclean.
“Massacre the unclean? You are vampires, right? Are you saying you want me killing your own kind?”
Not our kind. This unclean strain spreading so promiscuously through your people—it is a scourge. It is out of control.
“What did you expect?”
We had no part in this. Before you, stand beings of great honor and discretion. This contagion represents the violation of a truce—an equilibrium—that has lasted for centuries. This is a direct affront.
Gus stepped back a few inches. He actually thought he was starting to understand now. “Somebody’s trying to move in on your block.”
We do not breed in the same random, chaotic manner as your kind. Ours is a process of careful consideration.
“You’re picky eaters.”
We eat what we want. Food is food. We dispose of it when we are satiated.
A laugh rose inside Gus’s chest, nearly choking him. Talking about people like they were three for a dollar at the corner market.
You find that humorous?
“No. The opposite. That’s why I’m laughing.”
When you consume an apple, do you throw away the core? O
r do you conserve the seeds for planting more trees?
“I guess I throw it away.”
And a plastic receptacle? When you’ve emptied its contents?
“Fine, I get it. You throw back your pints of blood and then toss away the human bottle. Here’s what I want to know. Why me?”
Because you appear capable.
“How you figure that?”
Your criminal record, for one. You came to our attention through your arrest for murder in Manhattan.
The fat, naked guy rampaging through Times Square. The guy had attacked a family there, and at the time Gus was like, “Not in my city, freak.” Now, of course, he wished he had stayed back like all the rest.
Then you escaped police custody, slaying more uncleans in the process.
Gus frowned. “That ‘unclean’ was my compadre. How you know all this, living down here in this shithole?”
Be assured that we are connected with the human world at its uppermost levels. But, if balance is to be maintained, we cannot afford exposure—precisely what this unclean strain threatens us with now. That is where you come in.
“A gang war. That, I understand. But you left out something super-fucking important. Like—why the fuck should I help you?”
Three reasons.
“I’m counting. They better be good ones.”
The first is, you will leave this room alive.
“I’ll give you that one.”
The second is, your success in this endeavor will enrich you beyond that which you ever thought possible.
“Hmm. I don’t know. I can count pretty high.”
The third… is right behind you.
Gus turned. He saw a hunter first, one of the badass vamps who had grabbed him off the street. Its head was cowled inside a black hoodie, its red eyes glowing.
Next to the hunter was a vampire with that look of distant hunger now familiar to Gus. She was short and heavy, with tangled black hair, wearing a torn housedress, the upper front of her throat bulging with the interior architecture of the vampire stinger.
At the base of the stitched V of her dress collar was a highly stylized, black-and-red crucifix, a tattoo she said she regretted getting in her youth but which must have looked pretty fucking boss at the time, and which, since his youngest days, had always impressed Gusto, no matter what she said.
The vampire was his mother. Her eyes were blindfolded with a dark rag. Gus could see the throbbing of her throat, the want of her stinger.
She senses you. But her eyes must remain covered. Within her resides the will of our enemy. He sees through her. Hears through her. We cannot keep her in this chamber for long.
Gus’s eyes filled with angry tears. The sorrow ached in him, manifested in rage. Since about age eleven, he had done nothing but dishonor her. And now here she was before him: a beast, an undead monster.
Gus turned back to face the others. This fury surged within him, but here he was powerless, and he knew it.
The third is, you get to release her.
Dry sobs came up like sorrowful belches. He was sickened by this situation, appalled by it, and yet…
He turned back around. She was as good as kidnapped. Taken hostage by this “unclean” strain of vampire they kept talking about.
“Mama,” he said. Although she listened, she showed no change of expression.
Slaying his brother, Crispin, had been easy, because of the longstanding bad feelings between them. Because Crispin was an addict and even more of a failure than Gus. Doing Crispin through the neck with that shard of broken glass had been efficiency in action: family therapy and garbage disposal rolled into one. The rage he accumulated through decades had evaporated with every slash.
But delivering his madre from this curse, that would be an act of love.
Gus’s mother was removed from the chamber, but the hunter stayed behind. Gus looked back at the three, seeing them better now. Awful in their stillness. They never moved.
We will provide you with anything you need to achieve this task. Capital support is not an issue, as we have amassed vast fortunes of human treasure through time.
Those who received the gift of eternity had paid fortunes over the centuries. Within their vaults, the Ancient Ones held Mesopotamian coils of silver, Byzantine coins, sovereigns, Deutsche marks. The currency mattered nothing to them. Shells to trade with the natives. “So—you want me to fetch for you—is that it?”
Mr. Quinlan will provide you with anything you need. Anything. He is our best hunter. Efficient and loyal. In many respects, unique. Your only restriction is secrecy. Concealment of our existence is paramount. We leave it to you to recruit other hunters such as yourself. Invisible and unknown, yet skilled at killing.
Gus bridled, feeling the pull of his mother behind him. An outlet for his wrath: maybe this was just what he needed.
His lips pursed into an angry smile. He needed manpower. He needed killers.
He knew exactly where to go next.
IRT South Ferry Inner Loop Station
FET, WITH ONLY one false turn, led them to a tunnel that connected to the abandoned South Ferry Loop Station. Dozens of phantom subway stations dot the IRT, the IND, and the BMT systems. You don’t see them on the maps anymore, though they can be glimpsed through in-service subway car windows on active rails—if you know when and where to look.
The underground climate was more humid here, a dampness in the ground soil, the walls slick and weeping.
The glowing trail of strigoi waste became more scarce here. Fet looked around, puzzled. He knew that the route down Broadway was part of the city’s original subway project, South Ferry having opened for commuters in 1905. The underwater tunnel to Brooklyn opened three years later.
The original mosaic tiling featuring the station initials, SF, still stood, high on the wall, near an incongruously modern sign—
NO TRAINS STOP HERE
— as if anyone would make that mistake. Eph moved into a small maintenance bay, scanning with his Luma.
Out of the darkness, a voice cackled, “Are you IRT?”
Eph smelled the man before he saw him. The figure emerged from a nearby alcove stuffed with ripped and soiled mattresses—a toothless scarecrow of a man dressed in multiple layers of shirts, coats, and pants. His body scent patiently distilled and aged through all of them.
“No,” said Fet, taking over. “We’re not here rousting anybody.”
The man looked them over, rendering a snap judgment as to their trustworthiness. “Name’s Cray-Z,” he said. “You from up top?”
“Sure,” said Eph.
“What’s it like? I’m one of the last ones here.”
“Last ones?” said Eph. He noticed, for the first time, the shabby outline of a few tents and cardboard housings. After a moment, a few more spectral figures emerged. The “Mole People,” denizens of the urban abyss, the fallen, the disgraced, the disenfranchised, the “broken windows” of the Giuliani era. This was where they eventually found their way to, the city below, where it remained warm 24/7, even in the dead of winter. With luck and experience, one could camp at a site for as many as six months at a time, even more. Away from the busier stations, some resided for years without ever seeing a maintenance crew.
Cray-Z looked at Eph with his head turned to favor his one good eye. The other one was covered in granulated cataracts. “That’s right. Most all the colony is gone—just like the rats. Yeah, man. Vanished, leaving them fine valuables behind.”
He gestured at discarded piles of junk: ragged sleeping bags, muddy shoes, some coats. Fet felt a pang, knowing that these articles represented the sum total of the worldly possessions of the recently departed.
Cray-Z smiled a vacant smile. “Unusual, man. Downright spooky.”
Fet remembered something he had read in National Geographic, or maybe watched one night on the History channel: the story of a colony of settlers in the pre-America era—in Roanoke, maybe—who vanished one day. Over a hundred people, gone
, leaving behind all of their belongings but no clues to their sudden and mysterious departure, nothing except two cryptic carvings: the word CROATOAN written into a post on their fort, and the letters CRO whittled into the bark of a nearby tree.
Fet looked again at the mosaic SF tiled onto the high wall.
“I know you,” said Eph, keeping a polite distance from the reeking Cray-Z. “I’ve seen you around—I mean, up there.” He pointed toward the surface. “You carry one of those signs, GOD IS WATCHING YOU, or something like that.”
Cray-Z smiled a mostly toothless smile and went and pulled out his hand-drawn placard, proud of his celebrity status. GOD is WATCHING YOU!!! in bright red, with three exclamation points for emphasis.
Cray-Z was indeed a semi-delusional zealot. Down here, he was an outcast among outcasts. He had lived underground as long as anyone—maybe longer. He claimed that he could get anywhere in the city without surfacing—and yet he apparently lacked the ability to urinate without splashing the toes of his shoes.
Cray-Z moved alongside the tracks, motioning for Eph and Fet to follow. He ducked inside a tarp-and-pallet shack, where old, nibbled extension cords wound away up into the roof, wired into some hidden source of electricity on the great city grid.
It had begun to drizzle lightly within the tunnel, weeping ceiling pipes wetting the dirt, their water splattering onto Cray-Z’s tarp and running down into a waiting Gatorade bottle.
Cray-Z emerged carrying an old promotional cutout of former New York City Mayor Ed Koch, flashing his trademark “How’m I Doing?” smile. “Here,” he said, handing the life-sized photo to Eph. “Hold this.”
Cray-Z then walked them to the far tunnel, pointing down its tracks.
“Right into there,” he said. “That’s where they all went.”
“Who? The people?” said Eph, setting Mayor Koch down next to him. “They went into the tunnel?”
Cray-Z laughed. “No. Not just the tunnel, shithead. Down there. Where the pipes at the curve go under the East River, across to Governor’s Island, then over to mainland Brooklyn at Red Hook. That’s where they took them.”
The Fall tst-2 Page 6