by Jeff Seats
“Brother,” Alexei finally said.
Vladimir raised his head at the words. He was drenched in sweat. His internal organs on a slow burn already beginning to consume his body from the inside out. He gave a weak, sardonic smile, spit blood from his mouth, then answered, “Brother.” It was more exhalation of breath than a spoken acknowledgment of the being standing in the room with him. The exertion from speaking one word was enough to make him pass out. Yet he hung on.
Alexei moved closer to his younger brother. He reached out a hand and brushed Vladimir’s longish hair from his face, a gesture of comfort for his dying sibling.
“Your compassion is your weakness,” Vladimir coughed.
“Yet, it is not I who appears weak at the moment.”
Vladimir snorted out an agonizing laugh. “You call this weakness?” He gestured to the knife handle. “Your sense of humor has not been refined by your exposure to the Americans.” He took in a ragged breath then spit out, “Dullards.”
“I thought it more ironic than outright funny.”
“Yes. Ironic in so many ways.” Vladimir fought to take in a shallow breath. “Not the least of which is it appears you will have won, again. I suppose you and your CSC lords will be rounding up all of my people and taking them back to that . . . internment camp,” he coughed.
“That town is finished.”
Vladimir arched his right eyebrow at this.
“There are no more immortals left in the reservation. I released them of their obligations to me, to anyone claiming leadership of the families. From now on there will be no Khan.”
“What? You think that a single pronouncement can end a centuries-old behavior? That you can, with a mere flourish of the wrist, stop me from gathering my people into a force to be reckoned with?” Vladimir coughed more, the exertion of still trying to defy his older brother was too taxing.
“Most have never believed as you,” Alexei replied. “Yes, they resented the treaty. I now understand the hatred and frustration. I admit it was a mistake to use my power as Khan to force acceptance.” Alexei paused and waited for Vladimir’s reaction. “I believe if given a choice to live out eternity in a quiet, low-profile life, versus one of aggression and vile hatred, only a tiny few immortals will follow you.” He looked at his brother’s condition again. “Or should I say, would have followed.”
Vladimir coughed up more blood. “Enough with the bad jokes. Do you think they are prepared for the constant fear of being hunted?”
“Being hunted is a part of our lot. Just as to some humans being prey is a part of theirs.”
“And what of the Center for Specter Control?”
“Lycans, and mutants, and budget woes. We will always be in their sights as you have suggested. I will try to mitigate the fall-out.”
“It sounds a lot like an option I suggested several times. Live and let live. You rejected it I recall.” Vladimir said ending in a violent, coughing spasm.
“And I’m sure the church will more than likely resume its inquisition, seeking out our kind and hunting us with renewed vigor. But I didn’t come here to rehash old conversations, quarrels, decisions. As you say, I am too compassionate. But the fact remains, I am still your brother. I was tasked to look out for you.”
“A mortal’s sentiment.”
“That mortal was our mother.”
Vladimir snorted out more blood and steaming goo. His body was devouring itself quickly.
“I am dying,” He spat out the next word, “Brother. There is nothing to be done about it.”
“Oh, but there is.”
Vladimir tried to lift himself up in his chair. “You would do this for me?”
Alexei stepped back from Vladimir and rolled up his shirt sleeve. “As I told you, I made a promise.”
“One, I doubt, that I would keep for you in reverse circumstances.”
Alexei drew the razor-sharp nail of his little finger across the skin of his exposed wrist. Blood spurted out, pooled around the cut and dripped to the ground.
Vladimir’s eyes lit up. Alexei moved his wrist to Vladimir’s yearning mouth, swiftly grabbing his older brother’s bloodsoaked arm. The dying man accepting the outstretched hand of life, Vladimir clamped down on the offering of salvation and drank greedily. With each swallow, he could feel the fire being quenched inside and vitality returning to his depleted body.
Alexei could also feel his brother regaining health. He tried to disengage his wrist from Vladimir’s mouth but it was attached firmly to the bleeding wound like a leech. His brother was going to drink him dry. Was his brother going to kill him? Or was he just trying to weaken him sufficiently to keep him in check? Either way, this had to stop and stop now. He reached for the knife handle still protruding from Vladimir’s rib cage. The handle burned his hand and the harder he gripped it, the more he could feel the acidic bite of the wood on the flesh of his palm and fingers. Nevertheless, he ignored the discomfort and gave the stake a wrenching twist.
Vladimir’s reaction was immediate. He howled, releasing the suction on his brother and instinctively grabbed at the source of the pain. Alexei gave the handle of the knife one last twist causing steaming liquid to spill out, further staining Vladimir’s shirt. He looked up accusingly at his older brother.
“Oh, weren’t you finished?” Alexei asked acerbically. “Do you know,” he began to pace around the usurper’s throne, “I actually thought you might love me, in spite of what you said or did.” He stood in front of his wounded brother. “Even as children, I believed that—hidden behind your visual display of resentment—you loved me as I loved you. But now I see you never did. Nor do I believe you even liked me.”
“You just tried to kill me. Is that your idea of brotherly love?” Vladimir hissed.
“And what of your attempt to deplete me? Were you trying to kill me? Or just weaken me so you could make your escape easier?”
Vladimir sat back and arched his neck, so he could look up at Alexei. He held a hand covering the seeping wound and firmly clutched the arm of the chair with the other, white knuckles revealing the pain he was fighting. “Father always fawned over you. You, his little general, could do no wrong. And you followed through with that moniker; ordering me around like a soldier in your little army. An army of one.”
“I have always suspected you had an ulterior motive for taking me into the old monk’s lair,” Alexei said as he paced around his brother. “It is strange how we have never discussed that, even once. You thought Lazar would drink me dry. Consume me. Toss my drooping body to the side and then give you everything. But that didn’t happen. And when he passed on the power and knowledge enabling me to become Khan, you saw that as the final straw.
“The last time I came to fetch you from this city, to fulfill the terms of the treaty, I knew you were resisting my call and my physical presence was required. But even with all the fresh blood at your disposal here, you weren’t able to draw up enough strength to break the imprinted code that would have allowed you to defy me, your Khan and off to the reservation you slunk in defeat. How that must have galled you the most.”
“But I have broken the imprint. I did rise up and challenge, and you backed down.” Vladimir contested.
“Yes. Vamp Town. So it appeared.”
“Appeared? Hah! I defeated you.”
Alexei took in a breath before he revealed the truth to Vladimir and to himself as well. “I became complacent. I found a comfortable niche to live in but ignored that others were not content and chaffed at the confines of the agreement with Roosevelt. I restrained you all from obeying natural urges. I spent my time in pursuits that made me feel . . . human—star-gazing, literature, music. I drank the blood provided, but I did so infrequently and without relish. I became weak. When the bus passengers found our town, you took advantage of the fresh blood, which strengthened and emboldened you,” he paused, “You did not defeat me. I defeated myself.”
Enraged, Vladimir tried to stand, but his weakened state made
the attempt at forceful indignation seem pathetic.
“Farewell, brother. I leave you as you wanted, on your own, the master of your own domain.” Alexei turned to leave.
“You cannot leave me with this dagger sticking out of my chest . . . I will die.”
“Perhaps, or maybe you drank enough of me to weather this storm. One day you may regain your strength, but it will be a very long time before you are able to carry out anything near the final solution you planned for humanity.”
Vladimir grit his teeth and spit out, “Let us hope that we do not meet again. If we do, I will finish you! Ah!” The pain was too much, and Vladimir collapsed back against the chair.
“Yes, possibly. Then again . . ..”
“HELLO CALLER, THIS is Dr. Gwen. You are on the air.”
“First-time caller long time listener—”
“Yes, yes I get that a lot. What’s your name?
“Bret from Portland. As in Bret Maverick—from the TV show?”
“Yes. Have we talked before?”
“No. First time like I said.”
“I cut you off the last time, Bret.”
“Swear to God. This is my first time calling.”
“Well, Bret, how can I help you?”
“Listen Doc I know your show isn’t about this kind of stuff— ”
“Tell me, and I’ll decide.”
“Okay. I saw something strange earlier tonight, and it freaked me out. This swirling black cloud, like a mini tornado, appeared across the street from me in the shadow of a building.”
“I believe what you saw was a dust devil.”
“This wasn’t no dust devil, Doc. As it twisted around, I could see through it, but the more I watched, the less transparent it became. Then in a matter of a few seconds the tornado turned into a man!”
“That is not possible.”
“A human! And then it stepped out of the shadow and—”
“That’ll be enough of that! I know all you frat boys seem to think that my show is some kind of a joke, but I am trying to help—”
The door at the back of the control room buzzed open. Paul immediately clicked off the radio show.
“Craig liked that show, too.”
Paul and Ellie shot up from their chairs and turned to great Commander Cole.
“Just something to listen to pass the time.”
“No, I understand. The night shift can seem a bit long at times.” She looked at her watch. “But I see the sun must be up somewhere outside these walls.”
“Quittin’ time!” Paul said enthusiastically and started gathering up his belongings. Then he looked back to the boss. “I mean, not that I don’t love working in this coffin . . . Eh, box . . . Oh, you know what I mean ma’am.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” Cole stepped down to the workstation. She looked around the otherwise empty room. Then as if she suddenly noticed she said, “Our ranks are getting thinner.”
The obviousness of the statement left Ellie and Paul with nothing to add except awkward silence as they stood with their commander. Without further acknowledging the agents, Cole silently continued to look around the room lost in an introspective loop, flashing back to the busy command center this place once was.
“We’re sorry for the loss of your friends’ ma’am,” Ellie said softly.
“Thank you, though I can’t rule out that Liz hasn’t survived. Since I asked Alex to help, I have heard nothing from him and the action team hasn’t reported in since they arrived in Portland. Though I have to admit, it isn’t looking so good.” She took in a deep, steadying breath. “They should be back soon with the remains of the master sergeant and Agent Wright. It’s possible that they found something regarding Liz’s fate while clearing out the tunnels. But until we have something definite, we will continue on with the idea she’s MIA.”
The phone on Ellie’s desk buzzed. She answered and hung up.
“The front gate says the action team has arrived and is heading straight here.”
“Any word on Liz?”
“Nothing. Just said they drove up in the mobile command rig Liz and Craig took to Portland, followed by the team’s Humvee.”
As if some signal had been sent throughout the Asylum, others of the remaining CSC staff began to wander into the control room. They quietly gathered around the perimeter and stood motionless, focused on their commander.
Cole smiled shaking her head, “The master sergeant and I went way back, and Craig—” Cole set a small brown bag on the top of the desk, “—and that potty mouth Craig . . ..” She reached into the bag and removed a yellow bathtub duck, caressing it once just hard enough to make it squeak ridiculously before setting it down on the desk. “Fucking, goddamned Ducks,” she said wistfully.
“Ma’am?” Ellie wondered.
Almost under his breath, Paul said to Ellie. “Craig was a Ducks fan, and Commander Cole’s a Broncos fan.”
“Uh?”
“College football. Oregon Ducks and Boise State Broncos.”
“Oh! Sorry.”
“I never want this moved. Or there will be shit to pay,” she said, lips cracking into a smile. “Copy?”
“Copy ma’am,” the two answered together.
And still more people entered the room. Ellie considered the growing size of the crowd might appear to a random observer that the agency was not as deficient in personnel as had been painted. But these were the worker bees that made the hive hum. But the number of field agents had been thinned, due to attrition as well as the ranks of the Action Teams. Now, with the deaths of Craig, Terry, and likely Liz—three in one hunt alone— it was clear the line of defense between humanity and the monsters was getting thin, indeed.
The door buzzed open again, and four somewhat scraggly looking people entered. They seemed exhausted as they made their way down to Cole. The first time Ellie had met these operatives they were rescuing her and Paul from the vampire town. Back then, their faces were flush from the rush of battle, adrenaline flowing through their systems.
Now they just looked beat-up. After several nights making sure the lycans remained contained at RES-SITE-DELTA, they were sent directly out to Portland for clean-up. It had to have been demoralizing to retrieve the remains of three of their own, and in the prescribed manner called for in the regs. It wasn’t really any wonder they kept silent after their gruesome task of incinerating piles of congealing vampire viscera, and then removing their comrade’s heads before their remains were also burned.
They gathered around the workstation looking defeated. Heads hung low, standing quietly in an almost protective formation around commander Cole.
“If you’d pardon my unrequested input ma’am, but we’ve got something to say,” Sergeant St. Jean said quietly breaking the silence.
Cole looked into the eyes of this action team. So many of its original eight members had been lost. First Swanson some months ago at DELTA, then Timmons, Evers, and Todd trying to save those from the lost bus in RES-SITE-ALPHA. Four out of eight. A terrible toll.
“What’ve you got to say, sergeant?”
“We . . . want to get Vlad.”
“What do you mean? Get Vlad?” Cole was confused. “I watched Agent Adams stake him in the heart. He had to have been one of the piles you scooped up to burn.”
St. Jean just shook his head. “Sorry to tell you this but there was no sign of either him or Alex. I mean, not that we could scientifically say for certain. You know? Aside from clothing that is.”
Cole looked at their faces. Something wasn’t adding up. They weren’t telling her the whole story. “And now that we’re talking about it . . . I didn’t actually see Vlad die and I didn’t say anything about Alex being there.”
The defeat and exhaustion that was drawn across the faces of the action team slowly turned into slight grins and smirks as though they were holding back on some private joke.
“What the fuck is going on here sergeant?” Cole demanded.
Most everyone looked dow
n at the floor, inspecting shoes, not wanting to come into eye contact with an overly agitated commander.
The buzzer at the back sounded; breaking the tension of the moment. The door leading into the control room slowly opened, and a figure of a woman filled the opening. She wore black slacks, a black flight jacket that was zipped up to her chin, and black leather gloves. A tactical scarf with a woven black-andwhite middle eastern pattern—what was known as a shemagh or keffiyeh—wound around her head and face and protectively covered her neck, with the remainder draped off the shoulders; showing off its hand-tied fringe in a rather elegant way. A pair of large-framed Jackie O type dark glasses covered her eyes.
“This looks like quite the pity party,” The mystery woman said, stopping in front of Cole. The woman began to unwrap the scarf; revealing the lower half of her face. Then she pulled the fabric completely off her head, and a thick mane of hair spilled out and down around her shoulders blazing as red as the rising sun in the brightly lit space. She put a hand on her glasses but stopped. “Could you lower the light level a bit, please?”
Paul touched the lighting control on the desk in front of him, and the room dimmed. “How’s that?”
“Thanks, Paul, this is perfect.” Then she removed her glasses, and—like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis—Liz Adams fully revealed herself. Smiled. “I’m not dead yet,” she said in her best Monty Python voice.
Those watching the whole incident play out would always remember Commander Cole’s reaction. No one had ever seen her smile in such a genuine manner. Even those who had shared a moment in the lounge with her, watching the Bronco’s beat up on a supposedly better team, had never seen such unreserved joy. And then to see her embrace Liz in an affectionate motherchild-like hug was too much to have been expected.
Cole opened her eyes in mid-embrace and saw the room full of people watching her in awe. But also sharing in the relief of seeing Agent Adams alive. Then she saw Sergeant St. Jean with the biggest grin of all along with his other team members.