“Thanks for that, Andrew.” Acheson smiled tightly at the scientist when he looked up. Kerr smiled back sadly.
***
The containment area of the Plant was active in a muted sort of way. The medical specialists went about their duties like machines programmed to set about their tasks. They barely glanced at Acheson as Kerr led him to the area. Even those he knew personally didn’t make eye contact. Acheson didn’t blame them. Even consummate professionalism wasn’t enough to keep at bay the terror of having to work on someone you knew. Or that any one of them might be next.
That was something Acheson had lived with for years, and it had never bothered him much.
Until now.
The containment area itself was vacant of all technicians. Only the solitary patient sat inside the recovery area, visible through the walls of thick Plexiglas that made up what was called the tank. It was Sharon, of course. She wore a pair of olive-drab cargo pants and a pale yellow T-shirt. Her head was bowed, her eyes fixed on her bare feet. Acheson’s heart leapt into his throat when he saw her. Her body language said it all. She was defeated.
“You can speak to her through the intercom,” Kerr murmured as they stopped by the tank’s airlock. “Per protocol, we’re recording everything, so if… if things become emotional or intimate, I’m sorry. You know we can’t have any gaps in the logs—”
“Fuck that. Can I go in?”
Kerr shook his head. “She’s in isolation, and her immune system is depressed while it’s trying to fight the virus. Any sort of ailment could lead to severe complications.”
Acheson clenched his teeth. “I think that’s the least of her worries right now, Doc.”
“What would you have me do, Mark? These are the procedures we came up with. We all agreed to them, and Washington insists they be followed.”
Acheson faced Kerr directly, his expression set into hard lines. “In that case, I expect you’d better return to your work.”
Kerr got the message. “Of course. Call if you need me.”
With that, the rotund researcher stepped away from the tank. He beckoned to some staffers standing nearby to follow him.
There was a telephone handset built into a support post near the tank. Acheson picked it up and dialed 777#, activating the intercom. He heard a click as the microphones inside the containment area went live.
“Sharon… it’s Mark. Can you hear me?” He approached the tank and peered through the heavy pane. She sat motionless on the hospital bed, her back half-turned to him.
“Baby… talk to me.”
She did not stir. If it weren’t for the slow rise and fall of her shoulders, she could have been confused for a mannequin.
“Sharon. You have to talk with me, hon. Please.” Acheson tightened his grip on the handset. Everything he said was being recorded, which didn’t make it any easier. He tried to push the sudden self-consciousness from his mind. It was absurd to feel this way, and he didn’t need anything else competing for his attention right now.
Sharon remained silent. Acheson replaced the telephone in its cradle and reached for the keypad once again. He typed in a six-digit code that he had memorized years ago, and was rewarded with a series of clicks and whirs as gears engaged and the outer airlock door cycled open.
“Sir, you can’t go in there!” shouted one of the technicians from his desk. “She’s in quarantine!”
Acheson didn’t look at the technician as he pushed through the open airlock door and pulled it shut behind him. The inner lock opened automatically, and his ears popped due to the pressure differential. The interior of the tank was kept in a slight overpressure condition to prevent external contaminants from entering.
Acheson walked into the recovery area where Sharon sat. Through the Plexiglas walls, Kerr’s staff peered in with frank curiosity tempered by the clinical reproach he expected. Even Kerr showed up, pushing his way through them.
For her part, Sharon did nothing but offer him a sad, vacant look. Her face looked gaunt, almost skeletal. Acheson’s heart felt heavy when he met her gaze, and he imagined for a moment he could see the unspoken accusations in her eyes.
Where were you, Mark?
“Sharon?” He felt like there was a lump the size of Mount Everest in his throat. “Baby…”
Sharon regarded him dully for a moment. She slowly straightened on the cot and favored him with a wan smile.
“I must look like total shit, right?” she asked, her voice weak.
Acheson stepped toward her. “You look great. Certainly a lot better than I expected.”
Sharon smiled again, then dropped her gaze. She placed her elbows on her thighs and slouched forward.
“My family’s dead. They killed Keisha right in front of me,” Sharon whispered. “There was nothing I could do—” Her voice hitched, and she squeezed her eyes closed in an attempt to ward off the images that he knew were assaulting her mind’s eye. It wouldn’t help.
Acheson knelt before her and took a hold of her hands. They felt cool and dry, completely human. Sharon didn’t respond to his touch.
“Was Helena there?”
Sharon nodded after a moment’s pause. “Yes. It was Helena.”
Acheson licked his lips. “And… Osric?”
Sharon nodded again. When she spoke, her voice was a tight whisper. “He killed Keisha. And made me watch.”
Acheson raised his hands and grabbed Sharon’s upper arms gently, mindful of the IV lines. “Sharon,” he said as forcefully as he could, “we’re going to get him. We will avenge your family. I don’t know what game he’s playing, but it’s going to be the biggest mistake he ever made. I promise you that.”
Sharon said nothing, just sat on the edge of the bed with her eyes closed.
“You’re going to be fine, hon,” Acheson continued, wondering if the words sounded as hollow to her as they did to him. “We’re going to fight this thing, and we’re going to win.”
Sharon opened her eyes and looked at him sadly. She slowly shook her head, her expression one of utter defeat.
“I’m damned,” she whispered.
Acheson jumped to his feet, pulling her up with him. The motion was so violent that she let out a small gasp. The IV lines twirled in the air, and for a moment, he was afraid the metal tree holding the IV bags aloft would topple to the floor.
“God damn it, you are not damned! We can beat this thing, but if you don’t do your part, then you, me, all of us are going to lose!” Acheson shook her twice, roughly. “Do you hear me?” he yelled. “We’re not going to lose this one!”
Sharon looked up at him, startled. Then the mask of depression and defeat settled back into place, and she sank back to the edge of the bed. Acheson let her go.
“Oh Mark,” she said, her voice still barely a whisper. “You have no idea what you’re saying. No idea.”
Acheson cupped her chin in one hand and forced her to look up at him.
“Yes I do, Sharon. You’ve been fanged, and now you’re connected to Osric. And you are going to help us find him.”
PART THREE
THE DAMNED
“Awaken to darkness on this place we call Earth,
One vampire’s bite brings another one’s birth.
A vampire wakes with blood thirsty needs
On the warm rich sensation he feels when he feeds.
He stalks in the night like a disastrous beast,
And what once was alive will soon be deceased.
So when the last bit of sunlight disappears from the sky,
You better watch out unless you want to die.”
— VICTORIA BOATWRIGHT
1
The ride to Santa Barbara was a blur. Traffic was light, so the miles passed beneath the Tahoe’s tires effortlessly as the truck’s engine rumbled its basso song. For once, the stereo was off, and all the company Acheson had for an hour and a half was the wail of the off-road tires and the snort of eight cylinders.
He turned off an exit too ea
rly and wound his way through the exclusive community of Santa Barbara until he turned onto State Street. He headed north in stop-and-go traffic up one of the most expensive streets in America. While not intimately familiar with the town, Acheson was no stranger to it. On past trips, he had walked up State Street mostly to gawk at the women, who were lovely in a fresh-faced way he didn’t often see in Los Angeles. But today, he paid them absolutely no mind.
He turned right on East Sola Street. The Tahoe rumbled past Alameda Park, where red-ear turtles sunned themselves on rocks in the lily-covered pond. He slowed, scouting for an address as he eased the SUV past row after row of small homes perched on well-maintained lawns.
The house he sought was a low-slung Santa Festyle affair with a one-car garage. Parked in the driveway was a staid white Saab. Acheson parked the Tahoe at the curb and switched off the engine. He checked the battery level on his cell phone and slipped it into his shirt pocket.
His mouth felt dry, so he rummaged around in the center console until he found an old container of Tic-Tacs. He dropped three of them onto his tongue and sucked on them for a while. A Mercedes glided past on its technologically superior suspension. Acheson finally stepped out onto the pavement and locked the Tahoe behind him. He marched up the brick walkway to the house’s stoop, pressed the doorbell. Before long the door opened. Acheson and the gray-haired man standing in the doorway regarded each other wordlessly.
“Hello, Robert”
“Hello, Mark.” Robert Ellenshaw’s blue eyes gave no sign of what he might have been feeling at the moment. “You look well.”
“You look pretty good yourself,” Acheson said.
Ellenshaw nodded, examining Acheson openly for a moment longer before stepping back from the doorway.
“I was just having a cup of coffee out back. Care for one?”
“That would be great,” Acheson said.
***
After leaving the Group over two years ago Ellenshaw had taken a teaching job at UC-Santa Barbara. As with all departures, he had been contractually obligated to remain silent regarding the Group’s mission and existence. He was also to forgo any communication with the Group’s members, and likewise they were to avoid contacting him. There was no acrimony in the arrangement. It was merely one of a million standard operating procedures dreamed up in Washington.
As the university professor led him through the small house, Acheson saw no sign that the time leading the Group bore any special significance to Ellenshaw. There were no revealing photos on the walls, no tomes on vampirism or the undead in the otherwise well-stocked bookcase in the living room, no garlic on the walls or wooden stakes in the fireplace. It was as if the years Ellenshaw had spent chasing the darkest children of the night had never happened.
Ellenshaw led him to the small back yard, where a simple glass-topped patio table made from black wrought iron stood beneath a small awning that provided some welcome shade. An exquisite sterling silver coffee service sat in the center of the table, along with a book and a stack of papers. Two padded chairs made from the same iron flanked the table.
“I was just going over some student papers when you rang,” Ellenshaw explained. “Dreadful stuff, really. Er—the papers, not the coffee.”
Acheson smiled.
“Well then, have a seat. I’ll fetch you another cup. One second.” Ellenshaw gestured toward an empty chair, then disappeared inside the house. Acheson slowly sat, inhaling the muted scent of coffee as it mingled with that of nearby orchids. The yard was small but meticulously maintained. Ellenshaw obviously had something of a green thumb, judging from the copious arrangements of flowers and plants. Acheson leaned back against the white cushions and found that, if he concentrated hard enough, he could actually enjoy the bright sunny day.
Ellenshaw returned a moment later. Acheson cleared his throat as the older man poured coffee into the new sterling cup he held.
“Cream? Sugar?”
“A little cream, please.”
Ellenshaw added a shot of light cream, and gave the elixir a quick stir before handing it to Acheson.
“Indonesian. I hope you’ll like it.”
Acheson sipped the coffee. “It’s stellar. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Ellenshaw reclaimed his seat and leaned back slowly. He crossed his legs and freshened his own coffee. He brought the cup to his lips and looked over its brim at Acheson.
“So I presume that Fiedler told you where to find me,” Ellenshaw said after a couple of sips. He placed the cup on the table and crossed his arms.
Acheson enjoyed his coffee, trying to figure out how to set about what he had come to do. He stared down at his cup for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
“You remember Sharon Thomas?”
“Of course I remember her.”
“We’ve been… we’ve been in a relationship for some time. Since just before you left, I guess.”
“Yes, I remember that, too. Things going well on that front?”
Acheson set down his cup and rubbed his eyes. He was tired of dancing around already. He sighed and faced Ellenshaw directly.
“She was fanged last night, in our own house. Her sister and her sister’s family were visiting. They were killed, while Sharon was… infected.”
Ellenshaw’s lips parted in shock. He took a deep breath and released it in a long sigh.
“My God, Mark. that’s… that’s horrifying! Attacked in the house, you say? Was it random, or—”
“It was deliberate attack,” Acheson said.
“God. My God.” Ellenshaw shook his head, clearly stunned. His head snapped up suddenly, and he looked at Acheson with wide eyes. “Wait—Sharon was infected? Not killed?”
“That’s right.”
Acheson could see Ellenshaw was already attacking that fact with every ounce of analytical skill he could muster. His face was composed but his blue eyes had that far-off look that Acheson remembered so well.
“There’s more to it, Robert. A lot more.”
Ellenshaw met Acheson’s gaze. “You think there’s something I can do to help?”
“Not really,” Acheson answered truthfully. “Honestly, I almost didn’t bother coming up here. You have a right to your privacy, but I figured you deserved to hear the whole story—or, at least what we know of it.”
Ellenshaw’s eyes narrowed. He stared at Acheson for a full thirty seconds before finally nodding curtly.
“Tell me, Mark.”
“It was Osric. You were right all along, Robert. It was Osric, and he’s apparently more powerful than any of us gave him credit for.”
Ellenshaw’s face turned ashen when he heard the name, even though Acheson felt he’d known it was coming. Ellenshaw shook his head slowly, looking through the glass tabletop at the concrete patio beneath.
“I hoped I’d never hear that name again,” he whispered. “Of all the times I wish I’d been wrong, this is the one.”
“It’s worse,” Acheson said.
Ellenshaw slowly raised his eyes back to Acheson. It became immediately plain to Acheson that the older man didn’t want to hear any of it, but it was too late for that now.
“Go on,” Ellenshaw said. It was clear that he realized there was no going back now.
“Helena was captured that evening in Arizona,” Acheson told him. “She was Turned. She was at the house last night, and participated in the attack on Sharon.”
Ellenshaw squeezed his eyes closed. He covered his mouth with one hand and rose to his feet. He lurched away from the table and into the yard. Into the sunlight. He buried his face in his hands.
Acheson helped himself to some more coffee, uncertain of what to do next.
When Ellenshaw lifted his face toward the sun Acheson saw a sudden sparkle on the older man’s cheek… a single tear, shining like a radiant jewel as it slowly rolled down the contour of his cheek. Ellenshaw wiped it away with an unsteady hand. Acheson realized that the older man had probably never stopped loving Helena. The n
ews that she was a walking plague on the face of the Earth must have wounded him to the core.
“The sun—” Ellenshaw said before his voice broke. He cleared his throat and tried again, eyes closed. “It always seemed to make me feel better after that day in Arizona. Always seemed to make me feel safe, even when I wasn’t. You know that some vampires, some masters… according to some of the texts, when they’re powerful enough, they can become daywalkers. They can’t expose themselves to pure daylight, of course, but they can remain conscious during daylight hours. Perhaps even walk in shadows. Did you notice that where the RV was parked, it would have been in shadow as the sun set, Mark? Had you noticed that?”
“No. I hadn’t.”
“I did. But I kept it to myself. I’d always dismissed the daywalker story as legend, since we’d never come across anything to indicate it might actually be grounded in fact. But over the months that I’ve relived that damned day, I’ve come back to that moment we found the RV. And it was in shadow.”
Ellenshaw turned and faced Acheson. The torture in his eyes was depthless.
“Osric’s a daywalker, Mark. You’ve got to be ready for that. The more powerful he gets, the less we can consider daylight a sanctuary. Even if he can’t face it directly, he can still operate, can still manipulate, can still scheme and plan.”
Acheson merely nodded.
Ellenshaw swung away from him again, and his shoulders sagged.
“God damn you for telling me this,” he sobbed. “God damn you!”
Acheson got to his feet slowly. He had nothing more to say. Through the haze of his own guilt and remorse, he knew he’d basically stabbed Ellenshaw through the heart with a corkscrew. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He produced a plain white card with a telephone number printed on it.
“When you decide what you want to do,” he said, placing the card on the coffee service. “We’ll come to an arrangement. Fiedler agrees that…”
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