One Foot in the Grave - The Halflife Trilogy Book I

by Wm. Mark Simmons

  Lupé, following behind in the Ford Bronco, had also extinguished her headlights, but where she had the advantage of night vision similar to my own, Victor had to wear a light-amplification device that looked like a cross between a starlight scope and virtual reality headgear. It was not a reassuring sight and I made sure my seat belt was securely buckled.

  We had just passed La Cygnes Lake and off to our left was Marais des Cygnes Massacre Park, commemorating the mass murder of Free-staters by Confederate sympathizers. A few miles ahead, just past Pleasanton, would be the Mine Creek battlefield. A land rich in the heritage of violence. I thought about the bloody footnote we were about to contribute to that history and tried not to feel overweening pride.

  “What the hell am I doing here?” I whispered.

  Bassarab stared straight ahead, his face cloaked in shadow. “You are fighting back. As every man must who would rule those about him.”

  “I don’t have the slightest interest in ruling anyone,” I said.

  “Then you will be ruled. A man either rules those about him or they, in turn, will rule him.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Then you are a fool. A man may hold another’s fate in his own grasp and then grant the other the ‘gift’ of choice. But he must first have mastery if he is to have his own freedom.”

  “ ’He is weakened by every recruit to his banner,’ ” I murmured; “ ’Is not a man better than a town?’ ”

  “Your Emerson had the truth of it. His essay on self-reliance would have served me well when I was Voivode of Walachia.”

  “But is a prince and warlord really free of obligation?” I asked. “As a ruler, isn’t there a plethora of responsibilities to those you rule?”

  He bowed his head. The silence was so long that I felt the question had been dismissed. And then he spoke.

  “I was born in an uncivilized time, in a primitive province, and raised to the throne under savage circumstances. By modern standards my people were barbarians. We were civilized only by comparisons to those who wished to enslave us. There was only one way to resist the armies and provinces that surrounded and outnumbered and sought to master us; we had to conquer such barbarians by becoming even more barbaric than they.”

  He raised his head and looked at me. “And it worked. Time and again we turned back the invaders with inferior forces. Armies that should have overwhelmed us, engulfed us, slaughtered us to a man—fled, Mr. Csejthe! Turned tail and ran! Killed each other to get away! And do you know why?”

  “They feared you,” I said.

  “Feared me? My own people feared me and I was their protector! What the Turks and Mongols felt at the mere mention of my name was beyond terror! For many, beyond sanity: the rumor of my arrival was enough to cause husbands to slay their wives, mothers their children, warriors to cut their own throats! Only death offered mercy and true safety from the unspeakable cruelties of the Devil’s own son!

  “My hands,” he said, lifting them like black claws in the darkness, “were stained with the blood of hundreds, thousands of acts of unnecessary cruelty! Unnecessary except that it put overwhelming forces to rout and saved my country when nothing else could!

  “All of the unspeakable tortures and deaths by impalement, all these horrors committed while I was still a mere mortal, heir to the life and frailties of flesh and blood, were for my people. Do you think I burned my own people alive for my own enjoyment? Do you believe that I erected a forest of bodies on stakes and poles to win the admiration of anyone? My most loyal officers, even my own family, plotted against me even while I was staining my hands and my very soul to preserve them against enemies who could not otherwise be defeated!

  “So do not presume to question whether I understand the responsibilities of a ruler! I know better than any man what obligations, what debts crouch in the dark nights of the heart like deranged and leprous beggars!”

  “And . . . New York?” I prompted when the silence had grown long, again.

  “I was the fool then,” he answered bitterly. “I had been a prince. I thought to be one again. But with the passing of the centuries I had forgotten the responsibilities of sovereignty and remembered only the glory. And with the passing of time, the world had changed, and I had changed, as well.

  “But not in the same directions. . . .

  “Savagery remains, Mr. Csejthe. But it is a subtle, artful savagery now. The barbarians at the gate wear three-piece suits and sport fifty-dollar manicures. Warlords no longer defend countries and provinces but little plots of land designated as ‘turf.’ Their kingdoms have boundaries and borders that run down the middle of neighborhood streets and cut through the centers of playgrounds, parking lots, and old tenement buildings. Tribute is paid in pharmaceuticals and stolen goods.

  “And honor . . . bah!”

  “What about honor?” I asked.

  “The strong will ever prey upon the weak,” he answered quietly. “But there are those who cannot drink from the well without poisoning it for others. Who cannot take their needful prey without savaging half the flock and scattering the rest. When one is voivode, he cultivates his allies and makes war upon his enemies. He does not confuse the two. He demands tribute from those he conquers but does not destroy his own possessions once they are in his hands. . . .” He stared out the window.

  I cleared my throat. “Speaking of allies, why won’t you let us contact the Doman of Seattle?”

  “He is not my ally.”

  “But I don’t believe Pagelovitch is your enemy, either. And since New York seems to be your mutual enemy, isn’t that grounds for an alliance?”

  He brooded over that. “I have my reasons,” he said finally.

  “But couldn’t you let Dr. Mooncloud telephone, just to let him know that we’re all right?”

  He shook his head.

  “He wouldn’t have to know anything about you or where we are. Just a simple message saying we’re alive and well. How could—”

  “No! As I said, I have my reasons.”

  “And I have my concerns.”

  “Your only concern, right now, should be about what you are here to do.”

  “Yeah? Well, why don’t you make it easy on me: just what am I here to do?”

  He stared at me. “My mistake was walking away without cutting off the head of the serpent that had plotted to take my place. I had assumed they would leave me alone once I had left New York for them to squabble over as they saw fit. I had forgotten that your enemies are not only whom you say they are, but whom they say they are, as well.”

  “And my enemies?”

  “Whom do you say they are?” he asked mildly.

  “Why should I have enemies? I’ve done nothing to anyone.”

  “Mortal men are your enemies: they’ll hunt you down and dissect you if they think your body holds the secret of eternal life. The wampyr are your enemy: they’ll hunt you down and destroy you if they think your existence poses a threat to their own secret existence. The Doman of Seattle will add you to his stable of kept creatures. The Doman of New York will take you apart to learn your secrets and hope that you can tell them where to find me. If you would live free, then all of these are your enemies.”

  “Swell.” We were past the town of Prescott and nearing Fulton; Fort Scott was maybe ten or fifteen minutes ahead. “So, if they’re all my enemies, I’m back to my original question: what am I doing here?”

  Dracula turned and, as he looked at me, I felt a palpable force flow emanating from his eyes. “Serve me in this task and I will reward you with what you want most.”

  “And what is that?” I asked, fighting to keep my will independent from any external control.

  “Your freedom. The opportunity to live your life on your own terms.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do I do this? Because of the blood-bond. Because we both want the same thing.”

  “No, I mean: why does Dracula need the help of anyone else, particularly a man who is not fu
lly wampyr?”

  Before he could answer, the CB radio mounted under the Duesenberg’s dashboard crackled to life.

  “Breaker eleven, breaker eleven,” Lupé’s voice announced, “this is the wolf calling the bat. You got your ears on, good buddy?"

  Bassarab scowled and Wren reached over for the mike with an ill-disguised smirk. “This is the bat, pretty mama; come back.”

  “He’s sounding,” she answered, barely waiting for the invitation to talk. “I can hear him—faint, but up ahead!”

  “Who’s sounding?” Bassarab wanted to know. Victor relayed the question into the microphone.

  “Luath!” she cried, the volume of her voice distorting the words. “He’s still on the trail! And I can still hear him!"

  I looked at Bassarab. “The cu sith,” I said.

  Bassarab nodded, a thoughtful expression on his long, ancient face. “To answer your last question,” he said slowly, “I need you because I suspect that the task before us will be more difficult than Dr. Mooncloud and her associate may imagine. That, to achieve our goals, both of us will have to die. . . .”

  A sign flashed past, proclaiming Fort Scott was just another five miles up the road.

  “My God,” I whispered, “it’s the old Tremont House.”

  The building was located at the corner of State and Wall Streets, at the north end of town and just a mile from the historic landmark that gave the town of Fort Scott its name. Three stories high, it had a mustard-colored, stucco-over-brick exterior that looked younger and newer under the actinic wash of the streetlamps. Closer inspection revealed that it had been closed up for a long time. The boards over the windows and across the doors looked as old and weathered as the wood frames they were nailed across.

  Over its one-hundred-and-twenty-some year history it had served the city as a grand hotel and housed a variety of businesses, including the Eagles Lodge, the People’s College, and a Greyhound bus depot. According to local rumor it had even been a bordello back in the sixties.

  Now it was daynest for the undead.

  We parked at the end of the block and gazed back up the hill. “So, what’s the plan?” I asked as we huddled between the Bronco and the Duesenberg.

  Everyone looked at me.

  “Well, do we go in and get them or wait for them to come out?” This wasn’t really such a stupid question, was it?

  “I will need a closer look,” Bassarab announced abruptly. He pulled at his black duster, wrapping the long coat around himself like a cape, and strode up the street.

  “A reconnoiter is definitely called for,” Lupé agreed, and began disrobing. A moment later a large, grey canine form was loping toward the hillside nest in Bassarab’s wake.

  Mooncloud crutched over to me while Wren opened the rear boot on the Duesenberg. She whispered: “I don’t like this.”

  “Hey,” I said, “we’re about to attack a bunch of immortal creatures who can’t be killed or even hurt in most of the conventional ways, who are superhumanly strong and highly motivated to kill and hurt us back—what’s not to like?”

  “I’m talking about Bassarab,” she hissed, pulling on my arm. We moved away from Wren as he began unloading equipment.

  “What are you complaining about? I’m the one who had to ride with him.”

  She pulled me farther away. “This mission is possibly the most difficult and dangerous one I’ve ever undertaken and that was before these guys—” she jerked her head toward the antique auto “—came along and complicated everything.”

  “As I remember it, we’d lost our transportation, our weapons, our equipment, supplies, and pretty much our self-respect before these guys came along. I should think you would feel a little more gratitude, Doctor.”

  She turned away, her arms stiff against the metal tubing of the crutches, and grunted. “He won’t permit us to contact Stefan. He insists that we do things his way. And he won’t discuss strategy with us until the last minute. And maybe not even then.” She turned back to me. “I don’t trust him, Chris. Even if he is who he says he is. Maybe I trust him even less if he is the real Dracula.” She grasped my arm. “I’ve sworn my allegiance to Pagelovitch—no one else. And the Doman has always allowed me to run my missions my way. I won’t take responsibility for the lives at risk, otherwise.” She glanced back at Wren. “So if and when push comes to shove, you’re gonna have to decide.”

  “Decide what?”

  “Whether you take orders from him or from me. If I give the signal, Lupé will neutralize Wren and I’ll take down Bassarab myself. I hope I can count on you.”

  “To take orders from you?”

  She looked at my face and was not reassured. “You’d side with him?”

  “What if I side with me?” I asked quietly. “What if I decide to follow some orders of my own?”

  “Chris, he’s the one responsible for your condition! Directly or indirectly, he’s the cause of your wife and daughter’s deaths!”

  “You’re missing the point.” Now it was my turn to steer her a few feet farther from the Wren. “That day I drove through Weir and saw a column of smoke—well, it was the last day that my life was my own. I was summoned into that barn. And ever since that moment, I’ve been sleepwalking through an ongoing nightmare.”

  “We’ve tried to help—”

  “Oh, yeah!” I snapped. “I was abducted, kept under house arrest, and basically told how my life was going to be from now on!”

  “I thought you understood the reasons for—”

  “Your reasons,” I said harshly, “not mine. I’m not ungrateful and I do understand the necessities as you and the others saw them. But I’m through taking orders. From now on, I’ll cooperate when it’s the obvious and meaningful thing to do.” I curled my fingers into a fist. “But it’s my life,” I said, thumping my chest. “Such as it is. And it’s long past time for me to start taking responsibility for it again.”

  The gesture was obviously meant to be conciliatory. But, as she laid her hand upon my arm, I felt a surge of resentment. “We need you, Chris. And you need us.” A sense of manipulation there. “Think of the research—”

  “Since you are so fond of research, Doctor, let’s try something right now. Look in my eyes.”

  “What?” She looked up at me, startled but unafraid.

  “I’m a member of the Master Race now. Maybe a half-breed bastard by analogy, but definitely something beyond human.” I smiled, feeling hollow. I looked into her eyes, forbidding her to look away. “You, Taj, are merely human.”

  A puzzled frown tugged at her lips and forehead. “Why are you talking this way?”

  I swallowed, the taste of ashes was in my mouth. “Kiss my feet.”

  “What?”

  “It’s very simple, Doctor: I want you to get down on your knees and kiss my feet.”

  The frown was fully formed, but her eyes were still clear. “And why should I do such a thing?”

  “Why? Because I command you,” I said in a reasonable tone. And all the while forced the image of her compliance to the forefront of my thoughts. “You will obey me because I wish it. Because your will is no longer yours, but mine.”

  “I-I don’t understand. . . .” Now there were clouds gathering in her eyes. She trembled a bit.

  “It’s not important that you understand, Taj. It’s only important that you obey me. Kiss my feet.”

  “I don’t want to.” Her voice was shaky and her eyes were starting to unfocus.

  “It doesn’t matter what you want, my dear. It only matters what I want.” I pushed at the image in my mind, made the mental image of Mooncloud drop to her knees. “Get down on the sidewalk and kiss my feet.”

  The woman in front of me slid the crosspieces from under her arms and, gripping the stems of the crutches, lowered herself to one knee. “No,” she whispered.

  “Yes.” I pushed the mental image further, felt the bile rise in my throat. “Do it!”

  The other knee came down. “Please,” she
whispered. The crutches clattered to the ground on each side of her.

  “I can make you do it,” I said. “You can’t resist my will.”

  “Please. . . .” She was swaying on her knees and suddenly fell forward, arms rigid and hands splayed, catching herself before her face landed on the sidewalk.

  “Taj,” I said, speaking gently but holding the command in unyielding mental subjugation, “say ‘uncle.’ ”

  “It’s the virus,” she grunted through clenched teeth. “It’s already begun to affect your mind—your personality—”

  That wasn’t the reason I was doing it, but I released her, anyway.

  “You bastard!” she said, red-faced and struggling to pull herself back up on her crutches. “What the hell did you do to me?”

  “Research, Doctor. Vampires are supposed to have the power to cloud men’s minds, to dominate another’s will. To bind mental slaves and hold them in thrall. I wanted to see if I could do it. I think I can.” I easily intercepted the slap aimed for my face, held her wrist in my grasp. “Do you agree or do I need to repeat the experiment and carry it out to an undeniable conclusion?”

  “Yes, damn you!” Her eyes were no longer clouded; the fear was gone, replaced by anger.

  “Hell of thing, research,” I remarked, still holding her wrist in my grasp. “And a hell of thing when people can control you, make your decisions for you.” I released her wrist. “Well, what have we learned here, Doctor? I’ve learned that my brain chemistry is, indeed, changing. What have you learned?” I turned and walked back toward the Duesenberg.

  “I thought we were friends, Csejthe,” she called to my back.

  I stopped. “I thought we were friends, too,” I said quietly. “But tonight I realized that you would still be my keeper.” I walked on over to the Duesenberg and found Bassarab already returned and in conversation with his chauffeur.

  “Problem?” he asked as I approached.

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” I said. “Didn’t notice your return.”