City Of The Damned: Expanded Edition

by Stephen Knight

Chiho cleared her throat and looked away. She was caught off-guard by Claudia’s succinct—and to her shame, accurate—analysis.

  “I… I would not characterize it that way, Claudia.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t! You just waited it out, until the tension did its job and broke him. And in the meantime, you found yourself some pussy to taste at night, because you knew if you went with another man, he’d never come around to you again!”

  “That isn’t so. It was never like that. Never. Ever.”

  Claudia must have felt the hurt that Chiho radiated, and as quickly as it had come, the anger seemed to ebb out of her. Claudia stepped toward Chiho and lowered herself to her knees. Chiho couldn’t meet her eyes, so Claudia took Chiho’s hands in hers.

  “I’m not stupid, Chiho,” Claudia said quietly. “I know that a lot of people think I’m a vacant, flower-child airhead, but I’m not. I knew this would happen. I’d just hoped that… that maybe you would have enough respect for me to tell me before you allowed it to happen.”

  Chiho remained silent.

  Claudia refused to let her off the hook. “So what’s going to happen now?”

  “I have no idea,” Chiho said. “I have no idea how things will work—if they even can work now—between you and I and Mark. Things are… incredibly complex.”

  “He’ll try to keep you. There’s no way he can turn his back on you this time.” Claudia squeezed Chiho’s hands. “Will you allow him to keep you?”

  Chiho squeezed her eyes shut and was surprised to find hot tears sliding down her cheeks. She realized the damage she had caused was irreparable, and she prayed the damage that lay ahead of her would not be fatal. She pulled her hands away from Claudia and swept her up into a tight hug, her face against Claudia’s cheek.

  “I love you and respect you,” she whispered, her throat tight and constricted. “You are one of the most important people in my life. But Mark has no choice but to keep me. I belong to him, and he belongs to me.”

  Claudia released a sobbing sigh. She held Chiho even closer, and kissed her forehead.

  “I know,” she whispered. “I just wish I didn’t.”

  ***

  For Jonathan Shafer, the bright day was more of a nuisance than anything else. He had just arrived on the first flight from New York City’s JFK International, and he hadn’t been able to claim the business class seat he’d been assigned due to overbooking, which meant that he was consigned to the ignominious fate of coach class—though he had scored a free travel voucher for first class, should he ever need to make the trip to the Big Apple again in the near future. Shafer had no doubt that being issued the voucher and actually trying to use it were two entirely different things.

  He caught a limousine from LAX which ferried him to his home in Encino. The traffic wasn’t terrible, and it took only forty minutes to reach his home, one of several large Craftsman-style homes in a fashionable neighborhood with some views of the San Fernando Valley (though not one of those views were visible from his particular house). He granted the limo driver a $25 tip, and hauled his suitcase to the front door.

  Which was not only unlocked, but open.

  Shafer frowned and pushed his way inside. His wife, Jillian, didn’t work; she was a fulltime mother to their two children, Marcus and Haley. At age 11, Marcus was heavily involved with soccer and most things athletic; Haley, just recently turned seven, was still in a world of dolls and cartoons, having just graduated from tea parties with imaginary friends. Jillian would have dropped them off at their respective schools some time ago, and had likely left the door open by mistake.

  “Babe?” Shafer called out as he horsed the heavy suitcase through the front door. “I’m home!” He set the bag on the tile floor and closed the door behind him. He shouted up the staircase that faced him.

  “Jill! I’m back! You up there, hon?”

  The house remained silent. Jill’s car, a Honda Odyssey—the typical soccer mom wagon—was parked in the driveway, he’d seen it on the way in. Was she napping?

  Typical. Shafer hefted the suitcase and trudged up the stairs, heading for the master bedroom. He stumbled slightly in the hallway over one of Haley’s dolls, a fluffy teddy bear with a pilot’s skullcap. He pushed it to one side with his foot, a little irritated, and made his way for the bedroom where, he had little doubt, his wife was snoozing away.

  The bedroom was vacant, and the bed unmade. More than unmade, he saw; the sheets and thin blanket were half on the floor. Shafer didn’t know what to make of that right away, because if Jill wasn’t in the bed sleeping, she would have made it before taking the kids to school. She was that fastidious, and sometimes Shafer marveled that she waited for him to get up before making it.

  “Jill?”

  Shafer left the suitcase in the bedroom and checked the bathroom. Empty. The kids’ rooms—also empty, and beds unmade. The nightstand beside Marc’s bed was twisted a bit, the lamp lying on the floor. Shafer stood and examined the scene for a moment, a slight sense of dread welling in his chest. Jonathan Shafer was a solid, pragmatic, and at times inflexible man; creative thought outside of his business, which was technology consulting, was not something he was known for. But there were clearly things out of place in his son’s room…almost as if there had been a struggle?

  “Jill!”

  Shafer checked the entire upstairs, his movements growing quicker as the level of dread increased. “Jill! Marc!”

  He charged down the stairs and almost tripped, but caught himself on the railing. It creaked beneath the additional stress of halting his 200-plus-pound frame, but it held fast, preventing him from flying headlong to the landing below.

  “Haley!” he shouted. The kitchen, living room, den, all were vacant and generally undisturbed—

  The message light on the cordless telephone was blinking. Shafer darted to it and pressed the play button. He was greeted with an electronic voice:

  “Tuesday, eleven-fifty a.m.” A pause before a woman’s voice blared from the speaker: “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Shafer, this is Lorena Woods from Encino Middle School. Your son Marcus has been absent from classes for the past two days, and we’ve not heard from you regarding this. Please call me at—”

  Shafer stabbed the play button again, advancing to the next message. Tuesday? But today’s Thursday!

  “Tuesday, twelve-nineteen p.m.” Another woman’s voice: “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Shafer, this is Dottie from the elementary school. We’re calling about Haley Shafer, she’s been absent and we were wondering if she’s perhaps ill—”

  Shafer’s heart leapt into his throat. He pressed the button again.

  “Wednesday, ten-twenty-three a.m….Hello, this is Lorena Woods—”

  “Wednesday, eleven-forty-two a.m….This is Dottie Hansen from—”

  “Thursday, ten-eleven a.m….This is Lorena Woods again from Encino Middle School. Mr. and Mrs. Shafer, unless we hear from you immediately, we’re going to have to contact child welfare services to determine…”

  “What the fuck is going on here?” Shafer exploded, beset by worry. He spun around, and his attention came to rest on the two dog dishes—the food dish was empty, and water dish had specks of dust floating in it.

  “Riley!” he shouted, but he wasn’t rewarded with the joy of his Labrador retriever’s greetings. The house remained quiet.

  And empty.

  Don’t panic. Don’t panic. There’s got to be an explanation.

  Shafer charged out of the house in his rumpled blue suit and hurried to the house next door. Jill and Trish Hashimoto were good friends, and their kids were always involved in some sort of activity with Trish’s two boys and one girl. If anyone knew where Jill and kids had gone off to, it would be Trish.

  Shafer hurriedly mounted the slate stoop of the Hashimoto’s home and rang the doorbell. He waited for ten seconds, then rang it again, once, twice, three times. When there was no activity, Shafer frankly pounded on the wooden door with his beefy fist—

  —
and jumped back when the door flew open beneath the force of the blows and swung back into the doorstop. Like his own door, it hadn’t been fully closed. Shafer stood his ground on the front porch, not sure of what to do. He called into the house, but no one answered his hails.

  The Hashimoto residence was as empty as the Shafer’s.

  3

  When Erskine Fiedler’s office line rang, the small technocrat answered it with his usual immediate efficiency, which meant he snatched it up before the second ring.

  “This is Erskine Fiedler,” he said into the mouthpiece.

  “Hello, Erskine. It’s been a long time,” said a familiar voice. Fiedler ran a hand over his shaved head. How would this go, he wondered?

  “Yes, it has. Hello, Robert. How are you doing?”

  There was a long pause, so long that Fiedler wondered if the call from Santa Barbara had dropped.

  “Mark Acheson visited me today.”

  “Yes. I’d thought he might.”

  “You’re obviously up to speed on the situation,” Ellenshaw said. “I’m wondering why Acheson left me your number.”

  Fiedler leaned back in his office chair and switched the phone to his right ear. “There’s a limit to what I can say over an unsecure line, but Acheson thought that, given what’s happened, you might want to come in for a while. Lend him your expertise in these matters.”

  “Acheson has no need of my ‘expertise’, Erskine. At this point, I’d imagine he’s more on the ball than I ever was, seeing as I was always just a back office type.”

  “Not always,” Fiedler reminded him. “Back in the day, you were the man in the field, Robert. Acheson is a hard-charger who’s very good at what he does, but he might need some help with this one.” Fiedler paused. “And now, both of you have a personal stake in this. No pun intended, of course.”

  “How long has this track been on the plot?”

  “Only since last night’s attack. We’re well behind the power curve on this one. The infestation’s likely been growing for some time, but we have no idea where, or for how long. We’re approaching it with the worst-case scenario in mind.”

  “You mean a full takeover,” Ellenshaw said.

  “This line isn’t secure.”

  Ellenshaw fell silent once more. Fiedler tried waiting him out, but his officious nature didn’t allow for it.

  “Robert, are you interested in coming back in? If so, we can make the necessary arrangements. Of course, you’d be acting as a special consultant to the Group, and you will be compensated for your time. I’ll even—”

  “Are you absolutely certain that Helena is one of them?”

  Fiedler heard the undercurrent of emotion in Ellenshaw’s voice, and it made him uncomfortable. He was a technocrat, not someone used to dealing with the vagaries of the human condition. He fidgeted in his chair.

  “That’s what’s been reported to me. All I know is what I’ve been told, and those reports are being amended here and there as more evidence comes in. So far, it does seem that Helena is in fact one of the Undead.” Fiedler switched ears again. “I’m very mindful of the personal toll this must be taking on you. Please understand, the offer to come back in is just that—an offer. Don’t feel obligated to accept. You can decline and remain where you are. We don’t believe your personal safety has been compromised.”

  “I’m not worried for myself,” Ellenshaw said. “Not in the slightest. Osric’s playing a game while setting about his work, Erskine. This is how he is. We’re like animals to him, and he enjoys torturing us for as long as he’s able.”

  “And we intend to put a stop to it this time. But as I was saying, you’re under no obligation.”

  “No obligation.” Ellenshaw snorted. “That’s hilarious, Erskine. I had no idea you’d developed such a sophisticated sense of humor while I’ve been gone.”

  “Robert, really. There’s no need for—”

  “I’m in,” Ellenshaw said. “I’m in for the whole game. And I’m not going to step out of it until it’s done. Do you understand me, Erskine?”

  “Yes. Perfectly.”

  “I’ll fly down to Los Angeles as soon as possible. I’ll arrange my own transportation, as I’m sure the Group has more pressing items on its agenda right now. I’ll need the address.”

  “Everything will be taken care of, Robert. And you’ll be met at the airport. I’ll see to that.” Now it was Fiedler’s turn to pause. “Robert… I truly am sorry for all of this. We’d hoped for the best, but—”

  “The Russians have a saying: ‘We’d hoped for the best, but things wound up as usual.’“ With that, Ellenshaw hung up.

  Fiedler removed his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes. And to think the day was just beginning.

  ***

  When Acheson returned to the Plant, he was surprised to find Sharon out of the tank. Through Kerr’s glass-walled office, he watched as she and Kerr examined something on the researcher’s computer screen. Acheson knocked on the door and pushed it open when Kerr waved him in.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” He looked at Sharon significantly.

  “If I’m going to help you track Osric, I need to be operational again,” Sharon said.

  Acheson looked at Kerr, who leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers across his stomach.

  “I disagreed at first,” Kerr said. “But it makes some sense. We know that there’s a psychic connection of sorts between… well, between the vamps. And even though it appears the regimen we’ve started Sharon on has showed phenomenal promise, I can’t guarantee she’ll be cured.”

  “So what are you telling me?” Acheson asked.

  “We have samples of her blood and snapshots of her DNA, both pre-and post-infection. We have all the raw materials we need to keep tweaking the serum until we can refine it enough to approach 100 percent effectiveness.”

  Acheson looked back at Sharon. “You always were a persuasive lady.”

  “Everyone needs a talent, as you like to say.”

  Acheson grunted. “And you’re for this, Andrew?”

  Kerr shrugged. “The reality of the situation is we don’t really need her here to continue our work. We were just going over a schedule for treatment. Provided she sticks to it, I see no need to keep her confined to the Plant.” Kerr paused, stroking his full beard for a moment. “Security implications aside, that is.”

  “There are no security implications,” Sharon said. “I feel fine. Still human.”

  “That’s not Kerr’s call,” Acheson told her. To Kerr: “Have you run this past Washington?”

  Kerr shook his head.

  “Were you at least considering it?”

  “I’d thought we’d speak about that before we finalized things,” Kerr said. “At the end of the day, the decision rests with you. You’re accountable.”

  “Thanks for keeping that in mind,” Acheson said acidly.

  “Mark.” Sharon stood up and approached him. Acheson crossed his arms, ready for the harangue he believed was unavoidable. Instead, Sharon reached out and put her hand on his wrist.

  “I need to do this,” she told him softly. “Andrew can’t vouch for anything medically because he’s breaking new ground. But he’s right about the psychic link. I can… I can already feel something in my mind.”

  Acheson was surprised, and so was Kerr. He leaned forward in his chair, placing his palms on his desk.

  “You didn’t mention this to me earlier.”

  Sharon looked over her shoulder at him, then back at Acheson. “I’ve only become aware of it over the past hour or so. It’s nothing I can put my finger on…”

  “Can you describe it?” Acheson asked.

  Sharon thought about it for a long moment. “It’s like I can sense something out there, but it’s all in my head.”

  Kerr rose to his feet. “This might change things.”

  “It changes nothing, Andrew!” Sharon said. “We knew this was going to happen—hell, you brought it up yourself a few
minutes ago! That it’s happening—or even might be happening—shouldn’t be that much of a shock to anyone!”

  Kerr walked around his desk and stood beside her and Acheson. “At the very least, we need to run an EEG. We have a baseline from before, of course, and we need something to compare it to. This could be a very significant event, Sharon. It should be monitored and studied extremely carefully.”

  “How long will it take to run an EEG?” Acheson asked.

  “An hour,” Kerr said. “But running a series over the next couple of days would be extremely beneficial.”

  “I agree,” Acheson said.

  Sharon looked up at him, her expression one of betrayal. Acheson put a hand on her shoulder before she could get wound up any further.

  “It’s just an EEG, Sharon.”

  “The neurological aspects of infection are very poorly understood,” Kerr said. “This could be a goldmine of knowledge.”

  Sharon looked at Acheson. “I really need to get out of here.”

  “Andrew, you said you needed an hour?”

  “Yes, to start with. I’ll know more once I review the results.”

  Acheson squeezed Sharon’s shoulder. She was as tense as a bowstring.

  “You can give him sixty minutes, can’t you?” he asked.

  Sharon nodded almost imperceptibly. “I guess,” she mumbled.

  “Once it’s over, I’ll get you out of here. I promise,” Acheson said. He cupped her face in his hands gently and held her that way until she looked at him. “I promise, all right?”

  She nodded a little more earnestly this time. “Okay.”

  Kerr walked past them. “I’ll make things ready. It shouldn’t take very long. I’ll come back for you when it’s time, Sharon.” With that, he left the two of them in his office.

  Acheson pulled Sharon into his arms. She put her hands on his hips and, after a moment, rested her head on his shoulder. She touched the lapel of his suit jacket.

  “Your green suit,” she said. “I always liked this one, but you almost never wear it.”

  “Green kind of bores me after ten years in the military. How’re you feeling, babe?”

  “I’m pretty fucked up, Mark,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m coming or going, and I’m scared shitless.”