In the hard seat of the Jeep, surrounded by tangible, physical evidence of the so-called real world, Stroud had moments when he wondered if he truly believed any of it, if he had not simply hallucinated his grandfather's spirit and that of Magaffey's there in the magical room. All that baloney about the circle protecting the soul. That although there might be danger to the body, their souls were safe while they remained within the safety of the inner circle. The circle chamber had the double function of concentration and protection. It was akin to the church, the mosque, the synagogue, and its ancestor was Stonehenge where a former Stroud had vanquished a former vampire colony.
Stroud knew now that the circle, at least in his head, had stood for the microcosm and macrocosm--both infinity and the focus within infinity. According to the disembodied voice of his own ancestor, it was the Akashic Egg--the egg containing the spiritual ether. It was the consecrated sanctuary, the barrier set up by ritualized, amplified willpower.
Maybe it was just a psychological aid. Even on that level, Stroud had to concede that it was a valid and effective one--that the church was just as much a manmade environment as the circle. Man always feels both holier and safer on consecrated ground, even though it is only he who has declared it so, by whatever criterion he might recognize. Certainly the Ashyers, Lonnie, and Stroud himself had felt the power of their combined wills when they had miraculously held back the hordes of vampires, and had they been stronger in their faith, perhaps Dolph Banaker could not have broken through.
I left Chicago for this? Stroud asked himself as he stared at his motley little army. He said instead, “Are we ready, Ashyer? Lonnie?”
“We are, sir,” said Ashyer.
Lonnie nodded and swallowed hard. The cargo bay now held the pods. “See you at the rendezvous point,” said Stroud. “Follow the route we agreed on. Use your weapons only if you must. Remember your prime directive.”
Stroud then tore out for Andover and Magaffey's old place before going to the Banaker Institute. It would be daylight in a few hours. He hoped that his plan had a chance.
Sheriff Bill Briggs sat up, the muscles of his face twitching uncontrollably. He lifted off the slab he liked to sleep on. It wasn't as posh as the mausoleum where all the muckety-mucks slept, all the guys in cozy with Banaker, but it beat the hell out of the morgue at Banaker Institute. His big problem with his digs was the distance between here and the Institute, should he want for more blood. He thought the Bloody Mary Banaker had concocted was a hell of a lot easier than roaming about all night hunting for prey, and years ago he'd gotten sick to death of cattle and horse blood, which Banaker said was the cause of his neurological disorder, why the tick kept coming back. The only thing that calmed the tick was a good replenishing of his food supply. But he, like most here at the communal sleep warehouse, had run low. He'd have to drive over to the Institute, display his card, and the broad there would have to punch it up on computer to see if he had had his monthly ration or not, and then and only then could he get more of the good stuff.
He pulled on his uniform pants over his human form and brought the folds of his skin under control and tucked them away with the shirttail. As an afterthought he pulled on his gunbelt and gun. Alongside his slab was a cardboard box with an address on it for Chicago that couldn't be read due to the ice crystals that had formed over the thing. All around Briggs there was a fog, an ice fog. In the fog were hundreds of others of his kind at shaky peace with the world, enjoying the much needed rest after the useless trashing of Stroud's in which they'd gotten nowhere. Here, in the cold, they could shut down their palpitating minds and hearts just far enough to sleep the sleep of the dead, to awaken refreshed and energized, so long as the temperature was a comfortable 22 F.
It was nearing dawn and Briggs marveled at Banaker's liquid miracle, the agent that made it possible for all of them to rise as the human's did with the sun instead of the moon, to cast a shadow, and barge in unbidden onto the premises of even the most faithful human who that day bowed his head to his so-called god. Banaker's elixir made it possible for them all to cohabit the earth with humankind until which time as they would take over.
Dolph Banaker'd nearly ruined everything, and now with another Stroud to contend with every pire knew that the fate of his kind lay in what would happen in the next twenty-four hours.
Briggs ran his hands through his hair two and three times, mussing it into a semi-combed pile atop his head before slipping on the police cap that distinguished him as sheriff. It had been a stroke of genius for Banaker and his father before him to place pires into politically powerful positions, and positions of social prominence.
Briggs went through a door with a sign on it for neptune frozen foods. He stretched when he got outside and he felt uncomfortable in the heat after the cold environment of the indoors. He lit a cigarette, the light illuminating his face which was covered in ice, a white maggot frozen there at the crook of his lower lip, and over his head the large letters of the building read andover cold storage.
Briggs didn't like--couldn't even taste--cigarettes, but it had become part of his human persona, along with the dumb act, which he quietly told himself wasn't all an act. He knew he wasn't so smart as Banaker, but he also knew that Banaker wasn't so smart as he thought he was either. Seeing Banaker frustrated by Stroud tonight, Briggs wouldn't've missed it for the world.
Briggs located his unmarked car in the lot, heaved a sigh, feeling his bursitis inflaming. He slid into the car with some difficulty, feeling stiff yet, and then drove for Banaker Institute. On his way he called into the office to ask if there was anything he should know about. Dispatch said all was quiet, except for the ruckus out at Stroud Manse. Briggs and the dispatcher laughed heartily together over this joke. Dispatch voice was Deputy Tyler and he said, “Rumor has it Dolph Banaker never came back.”
“Shithead, punk! Probably up in those fucking caves again, probably doing somebody right now!”
“You want me to send somebody out there, Chief?”
“No, no ... but I tell you, Tyler, I'm b'ginning to think Dolph Banaker's our big worry, not Doctor Abraham Stroud.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just can't get Banaker to see that.”
“No, sir.”
“Tell you, if I thought I could get away with it, I'd see that boy dead myself. What he did to the Cooper kid and the Meyers boy--and now I hear Pam and Doctor Cooper. His own kind!”
“Yeah, now that's sick.”
“Best let Banaker deal with it.”
“Sir?”
“You got Whiley and Buttrum over at Magaffey's place still?”
“All-night watch, yeah, but they're grumbling like hell.”
“Let 'em grumble.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Over and out, Tyler.”
“Yes, sir, good night, sir.”
Briggs cut off communications and grumbled to himself. “Night hell. Night's over and I got to get a drink.”
-21-
Abe Stroud didn't know who could be trusted any longer, but he hoped that his plan would give him some instant answers. Magaffey's place was an old Victorian home with a shingle out front. He'd maintained an office on the ground floor for general practice since setting up practice in his home town in 1954. His living quarters were above. He'd had little interest in grass and outward appearance, and so, as with his dress, the place looked much worse and older than it was. Still, it was old and rambling with the look of a house that was well-used, leaning leeward, and holding. Magaffey would open for GP hours at eight a.m. sharp, see his patients, be out by one for lunch, and then to the morgue by two where he concluded his coroner's duties by five. But all that would not happen today, and people all over Andover would be wondering where the old black doctor was, and what had happened to him. At the downtown offices of City Morgue he'd also be missed.
There were no lights on at Magaffey's. Stroud drove around the block twice with his own lights out before deciding that no one was w
atching the place. It remained dark, the storm clouds of earlier lingering, the smell of wet leaves and damp earth everywhere. Stroud pulled into the rear where an old garage stood, the door--a side-to-side one--flapping in the breeze, creaking like a wounded animal, invited him into a gaping black hole. He drove in quietly and shut down the motor. A few blocks away he'd seen the lights of a police car, but not a soul otherwise. The city streets were tidy and clean from the rain and the street cleaners, all the shops in neat rows locked against the night, people and vampires in their beds.
The sight of the garage door standing open only disturbed Stroud in that it led him to picture the old man whipping from the garage in an excited state some twenty or twenty-one hours before. He imagined Magaffey tearing off in too much heat to stop and close the door. He thought of Magaffey, alive only that morning. He thought of the spirit conjured up over the fumes of Magaffey's blood, of Magaffey's own spirit that had spoken to him there in the circular chamber.
It all seemed impossible--supernatural--on the one hand, and yet so simple and natural on the other. How else might the ethereal soul of man show itself but amid the lifeblood? Hadn't Christ himself risen from the blood of man in his veins to his final destination?
Somehow, via some unnatural, sinister alchemy, dark forces had appeared in the world, beings that learned the lessons of the vulture, but their aim was not carrion but this same lifeblood. With the stolen lifeblood of the dead, they also stole the soul of a man or woman, like Pamela Carr's soul.
All via the abiding power given them by God's opposite number in the universe. Via satanic genius, nature--or super nature--had created a thing like Banaker on the very lifeblood as that which fed mankind. Good and evil, evolution and mutation, and all that lie between the two....
Whether he actually saw and spoke to Magaffey's ghost or not, he knew somehow that here, in Magaffey's lab, was enough S-choline to suffocate and destroy all of Banaker's minions. He also knew that it was too dangerous to get within a hypodermic needle's length of one of them. They needed a more effective weapon than that. In fact, they needed more than one weapon. To this end, Stroud had fashioned a lance that would carry the deadly needle the length of a room. Taking his grandfather's spear-stakes, he intended to fashion such spear-darts. “Aim for the heart,” he heard his grandfather's voice roiling around in his head.
He got down from the Jeep and quietly hefted several spear-length stakes taken from the manse. Anyone watching him except a vampire would think him quite mad, he assumed. He made his way as quietly as possible to Magaffey's back door, fumbling with the dead man's keys when he realized this door, too, was left unlocked. He thought again of Magaffey's haste to stop the Bradley embalming, and his haste to rush out to the manse.
Stroud silently entered Magaffey's sensing something was wrong, a sour fear coming over him, like that he'd encountered at the bat cave, a raw, animal fear. One of them, if not more, was here!
As if he had his own sonar, Stroud felt the rush of air and force of the creature as it came in the dark at him, like a wall of water or heat. Stroud instantly reacted, dropping all but one of the stakes, dropping to his knees and bracing it against the wall. The monster slammed into Stroud, the stake, and the wall, knocking Stroud near senseless, it was so huge. Stroud rolled out and away from the frigate of the thing bent on killing him when he heard its wail in the dark, a terrifying, sickening, keening sound. His eyes adjusting somewhat to the light, he saw the outline of the vampire as it wreathed and twisted against the enormous stake that'd gone through its chest. Stroud was hit again by the weight of the smelly thing when it rolled onto him, trapping him beneath. He felt the weight as if it would crush him. Then, suddenly, it stopped moving and was dead atop him and decaying over him. The foul stench became acrid and unbearable as the monster's body began to liquify and dissolve, some of its fluids burning a hole in Stroud's shirt and skin.
Stroud heaved to free himself, sending soupy and lumpy parts of the creature in various directions, the odor and shock still sending waves of disgust through Stroud. Barely had he got to his knees when another monster attacked from behind, taking his throat in its talons. This one had dropped from overhead where it had been clinging to the ceiling. Stroud felt the talons lock into his throat like two enormous meat hooks; he felt the blood gush up and out, draining down his back and chest. He was in its clutches, and it had him from the rear. He was unable to find a hold on it as it lifted him from his knees and was about to hang him suspended in air until he should bleed to death when he recalled the hypo of S-choline he'd placed in his shirt pocket inside its leather safety container. Stroud fought for his senses, fought back the pain of the monster's grip, and now the sickening flutter of ice down his spine as the thing bent its mouth to his throat wounds to lick at the geyser of blood.
His hands fought with his mind and emotions to do what they must. He found the hypo case, tore at it, fumbled it, and almost dropped the needle along with the case. At the same instant, his limbs were growing weak and he felt as if he might black out, or go into a peace of uncaring. His hands, however, driven by some power beyond what he felt he had, plunged the hypo straight up and into the private parts of the creature perched on his neck and bent completely over to feed on him.
He had had no idea his feet were off the ground or that he'd been lifted halfway to the second floor when the creature, after a moment's inspection, began a wretched sound from its guttural regions and dropped Stroud hard to the floor. In midair, it burst like a balloon, sending a rain of blood and other bodily fluids down over Stroud and what was left of the first vampire.
That had been the last of his supply of the S-choline. If a third attack came now, he knew he was a dead man. He lay on the floor on his back, the wounds to his neck throbbing, his head pounding. He dared not look at the damage, recalling that such wounds had killed Magaffey. He lay there in the pool of dead beasts on either side when his hand touched something rock solid. He lifted the object and held it up to his eyes. It was a Police Special .38 revolver.
Briggs's men had had the place staked out, and now one of them was exploded, and the other was himself staked out. The pole stake now creepily fell over, having nothing to ground itself in.
The fact the two vampires had guns and could simply have shot him to death as he entered told Stroud a great deal about his enemy. They must enjoy rendering their prey helpless with their venomous attack; they must enjoy the attack itself, not unlike some psycho killers he'd had to deal with. They must enjoy inflicting pain and seeing and smelling and lapping at the blood the way their kindred little cousins in that bloody cave by the river did. They were bats at heart.
“You're okay,” he told himself as he lay there still stricken, feeling a numbness down his spine from the pain inflicted by the creature. “You're okay....”
“Much work to do,” he heard his grandfather's voice, encouraging him on.
“Come on, son.” He heard Magaffey as clearly as if he was standing at the entranceway to his office. “We're counting on you.”
But when he tried to get up the intense pain sent him into a faint. His last conscious thought was of being late to the rendezvous point and letting Wilson and Ashyer down.
* * * *
When he awoke, Stroud had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but he recalled vividly what he had been thinking the entire time. As a former policeman working his way up to detective status, he'd had to do a lot of reading. For reasons obvious, he had thought anew about a book by Cesare Lombroso, a man some considered the father of modern criminology. It had been his lifelong belief that there existed among the human species the type of born criminal who was a throwback to his primordial ancestors.
Lombroso, who lived between 1836 and 1909, had to have been a vampire hunter, for his description of such types as the “primordial” killer resembled Banaker and his people so closely: low cranial capacity, retreating forehead, a thick-boned skull, tufted, almost crispy hair--animallike--and large ears.
The nose was his finest feature, aqualine like the beak of a bird of prey, Lombroso wrote in his famous Criminal Man. Lombroso said that the primordial killer's eyebrows tended to be bushy and would meet across the nose. He'd thought again of Banaker and of something Dr. Magaffey had said about Banaker: a man who can kiss a woman's hand even as he counts her pulse ought to raise questions of confidence. Even more so, it ought to raise questions of ancestry. How old was the vampire?
It was obvious that modern times and discoveries had pleased the primordial breed, making the attractive fascination of the monster ever stronger to the unwary. The blood exchange between monster and mankind had over the years, no doubt, poisoned the hearts and minds of the human race as well. If this were the case might not evil reign everywhere on the face of the earth like a disease, spread to all corners? Might this not explain the condition of a world which had never known peace? A world rife with murder, poverty, hunger, hatred, and malice? Would it explain the bizarre: showers of blood and spontaneous combustion of human beings? The supernatural and the preternatural?
As an anthropologist and archeologist the questions raised by the startling conclusion fascinated Stroud, but at the same time he hadn't the time to waste worrying over them. He must rifle through Magaffey's offices for the large jar of S-choline said to be here. He must then race to his second stop before dawn would fully break.
He got to his feet, whoozy and wobbling on his legs. His shoulders and neck where the talons had dug in and lifted him off the ground were still throbbing with pain. He crashed into a wall and held onto his head and his equilibrium, wondering if the beast had injected some sort of stunning venom into him at the point of contact as many creatures in nature were apt to do. He recognized the symptom's of an alcoholic hangover. He tried to shake the grogginess and the headache, and he wondered if a third vampire were anywhere on the premises.
Vampire Dreams (Bloodscreams #1) Page 22