The President's Vampire

by Christopher Farnsworth

  On the screen, a smaller group of dots moved out into the great black field of the water.

  The young man looked behind him, to the seats behind the system operator.

  “Cade,” he said, “it’s confirmed. They’re moving now. They’re going to hit the yacht.”

  “I understand,” Cade said, and unlatched himself from the seat. He took off his helmet. Unlike the others, he didn’t need the oxygen. He walked through the cockpit door to the back of the plane.

  The massive cargo door was open, with nothing but thin air between him and the ocean far below.

  The wind began tearing at him and the plane lurched. Cade kept his feet. He narrowed his eyes and focused on a light on the black water as distant as a star in the night sky.

  Then he dove headfirst out of the plane.

  CARRILLO’S YACHT WAS SURROUNDED by an ever-shifting flotilla of pirate craft. The pirates buzzed back and forth from the shore in everything from speedboats to Zodiacs to Jet Skis. As the partying went on into the small hours, some of the Somalis and Carrillo’s bodyguards began firing automatic weapons into the air.

  That’s probably why Howard didn’t notice the new group of boats until it was right on top of them.

  The blip hit the edge of the yacht’s radar, moving fast toward the center of the screen. It somehow looked more purposeful than the usual traffic. Using night-vision binoculars—standard equipment on a drug lord’s boat—he saw a small group of jetboats, holding in a fairly tight formation.

  He swore to himself and tried to choose which was worse: interrupting Carrillo’s festivities with a false alarm, or failing to alert him to an incoming threat.

  The jetboats kept coming. They would be alongside the yacht in less than a minute.

  Howard swore again and ran down the stairs to the main lounge. Carrillo was probably going to kill him no matter what. At least this way, he could pretend he was still doing his job.

  CADE HAD REACHED TERMINAL VELOCITY—the point at which the pull of gravity was equaled by the resistance of the air against him. He fell toward the ocean at roughly four hundred miles per hour. His eyes were open. He blinked once and focused his gaze on the yacht. The small boats were pulling into a circle. He saw muzzle flashes in the dark.

  Cade literally could not go any faster. He still had nearly twenty seconds of free fall left.

  They were going to hit the boat first.

  HOWARD REACHED THE SALON just as the gunfire erupted. He realized, too late once again, that wading into a room of drunk, armed men was not the smartest move. One of Carrillo’s bodyguards struggled to get up from his place, shoving aside the woman giving him a lap dance. Carrillo’s clients reached for their own weapons, and made a dash for the exits. Screaming and bellowing drowned out the gunfire.

  It was an unholy mess. Howard was knocked to the floor and nearly trampled.

  A strong hand pulled him to his feet again, then slammed him to the wall. He looked into the eyes of Carrillo.

  “What the fuck is happening?” he demanded.

  “Pirates,” Howard said, and felt, for a moment, like he was in an old movie. “I think they’re trying to board.”

  “Cocksucker,” Carrillo screamed, and pulled out his ever-present sidearm. Unlike most of the men in the Mexican cartels, he didn’t go for anything showy. No gold plating or pearl handles or laser sights. Carrillo favored an old Colt .45 of his father’s, a World War II antique kept in pristine condition with a daily ritual of cleaning and maintenance.

  It was old, but it worked fine. Howard had seen it in action several times.

  For a moment, he looked down the barrel and thought Carrillo blamed him. Then the big gun swung away, to the head man of Carrillo’s clients.

  There was a deafening boom, and when Howard looked over at the Somali again, half his face was gone. Carrillo pumped another round into him for good measure, and the man’s body went down onto the carpet.

  “Double-crossing motherfucker,” Carrillo said, before lapsing into gutter Spanish. He saw Howard staring and slapped him. “What are you waiting for? Get us the fuck out of here!”

  Howard ran back up the stairs. The clients and crew ran around madly on deck, the bodyguards firing wildly at anything that moved, unsure who was on their side and who wasn’t. Howard had to dive to avoid a spray of bullets and ended up near the deck railing.

  He heard splashes and thought that people were jumping overboard. But when he looked, he realized that the invaders were leaping from their boats and swimming right to the sides of the yacht. He didn’t understand. Without ropes, they’d never make it up the sides.

  Then he saw it, shooting out of the water, coming straight at him.

  It was the size of a man, and shaped more or less like one, but the head was narrowed down almost to a point in front, like a snake. Any nose it had was just a couple of slits in the skin. Rows of sharp teeth were visible behind the fishlike mouth, gaping open as if sucking in breath. Its skin was leathery and slick, dark as oil and shiny in the reflected light. The claws on its hands and feet dug into the Kevlar composite hull and it scrabbled up the side.

  But its eyes were the worst. They were yellow, staring straight ahead, and cold, despite a luminous glow that highlighted their dark, diamond-shaped pupils.

  Howard had been at sea for a while. He’d seen some things. He’d gone deep-sea fishing and pulled stuff out of the ocean that looked like it came from another planet.

  But he’d never seen anything like this.

  Its bulbous yellow eyes locked with his own, and it hissed.

  Howard rolled over, got his feet under himself and ran as fast as he could.

  There were more. They were coming over the railing, leaping onto the deck. They didn’t carry guns. They didn’t need to. One of Carrillo’s bodyguards gaped at the snake-headed things, and it swung an arm past the man’s gut. He saw a sudden gout of blood as the guard dropped his gun and tried to keep his entrails from falling to the deck.

  The creature leaped on the guard, slashing with both hands and feet, snapping with its jaws. It tore away great strips of flesh.

  Howard broke out of his frozen horror when another one of them nearly caught him. He dodged, but the thing tagged him on the arm. His whole side went numb and he ran.

  He got to the foredeck before he realized his arm was laid open to the bone from shoulder to wrist. The cut was so clean it looked like it had been done with a scalpel.

  Something blotted out the stars for a moment. It took him a second to realize it was a parachute. It wasn’t drifting lazily, the way he’d seen other skydivers come in for landings. It was dropping like it was tied to a rock.

  A second later, something hit the rear deck hard.

  Howard grabbed his arm and tried to stop the bleeding as best he could. His hand was slick and red in seconds. He kept moving, back to the bridge. He had to get out of here. Start the engines, raise the anchor, move the boat. Get out of here. Get free.

  By repeating that over and over, Howard thought he might stay sane.

  CADE OPENED HIS CHUTE eight hundred feet above sea level. It was not nearly enough time to disperse all the momentum from the fall, but he was out of time.

  Besides, he was a bit more durable than the average paratrooper.

  He hit the deck at close to seventy-five miles an hour, cracking the hand-rubbed oak planks. He popped the release on his harness.

  The chute billowed over the side and into the water. Cade took a second to survey the scene.

  It was a small slice of Hell.

  The Snakeheads were all over the deck, biting and slashing wildly at the human passengers. Some of the men had guns, and they emptied whole clips, trying to hit the reptilian creatures. A lot of bullets flew wide. Some hit the other people as the Snakeheads twisted and danced out of the way, impossibly sinuous and agile. Two of the things attacked each other, fighting over the carcass of a body with several hunks already bitten away.

  Cade heard the skitt
er of claws on the deck behind him. He turned to see the Snakehead already leaping at him, all of its limbs out and claws up, ready to tear him to shreds.

  It was very fast.

  Cade was faster.

  He stomped down harder on the plank under his foot, tearing it loose from the deck. The jagged edge came up into the air—right into the path of the creature.

  The Snakehead tried to change direction in midair. It didn’t work. Gravity and momentum did the rest.

  Cade moved before the thing stopped twitching. There was a whole boat of these creatures, and only one of him.

  And he could not allow a single one to get away.

  HOWARD WAS PRETTY SURE he was about to die. He was in an equipment locker just off the pilothouse. When he had tried to go inside, to get to the controls, one of the creatures had reared up through the broken window and spat at him. The spit—or venom or whatever it was—sprayed into his eyes, onto his skin and into his wound.

  He heard more hissing from the Snakeheads, but fewer screams. There was no more gunfire. Occasionally, he would hear the sound of claws on the deck as one of the Snakeheads ran by his hiding place. He may have blacked out for a time. He wasn’t sure.

  It was quiet when he opened his eyes again. He could see. And he didn’t feel as terrible. In fact, he was feeling strong enough to make a run for it. He listened closely, but heard nothing nearby. He decided to chance it.

  He carefully opened the locker and crawled out. His arm still hung limply at his side, but other than that, he could move. He carefully walked toward the pilothouse. Maybe he could make it to the speedboat that the yacht carried with it for short trips to shore, or, failing that, he could try one of the survival rafts.

  He saw a gun on the deck and picked it up. He didn’t know if it was loaded, but it made him feel better.

  Howard stepped over the body of one of his crew. The man looked like the carcass of a dog dragged under a car. But strangely, Howard didn’t feel the urge to vomit.

  It was weird, but he almost felt hungry.

  Howard stopped in his tracks. A man stood in front of him, blocking his path. Despite all the carnage, he looked at Howard with an expression of perfect calm.

  CADE FOUND THE LAST of the survivors on the upper deck. He’d been badly injured, but the bleeding had stopped. It hadn’t yet occurred to him that he shouldn’t be able to move, let alone walk.

  Still. Cade had to be sure.

  “Were you bitten?” he asked.

  The man looked at him strangely. He blinked twice. Cade repeated the question.

  The man looked down at his arm. “Oh. This. No. I was slashed. By one of those things. What happened to them?”

  “I happened to them,” Cade said. “This is important. Are you sure you weren’t bitten?”

  The man took a step back from Cade. “Isn’t this enough?” he asked. “They nearly took my arm off, and then one of them spat this shit into my eyes—”

  “It spat at you?”

  The man stepped back again, suddenly wary. He looked at the gun in his own hand, as if trying to decide what it was for.

  “Yeah. Are you going to tell me what the hell happened here? What were those things? And who are you?”

  “How do you feel now?” Cade asked, ignoring the questions.

  The man blinked again. “Uh . . . well . . . not bad, I guess. All things considered, I actually feel . . . pretty damned good.”

  Then he laughed. And blinked again. Cade saw his eyes. The pupils had already changed.

  They were diamond-shaped.

  Damnation, Cade thought. But he wasted no more time on regrets. He moved.

  HOWARD REALIZED he wasn’t just hungry. He was famished. A voice inside him was screaming at him, trying to tell him that there was something wrong with this intruder, that the man on deck was dangerous, but he didn’t really care. He was feeling better every second. He felt pretty fucking invincible, in fact.

  Above all, he felt hungry.

  He realized, in a split second, that the man had decided something.

  Howard dropped the gun. He didn’t know if it was empty or loaded. At that moment, he couldn’t have even told you what a gun was for.

  With a snarl, he readied himself to fight. But it was already over. The man vanished in the time it took Howard to blink.

  He stopped, confused. An instant later, he felt a crushing pressure around his neck from behind. The man somehow put him in a choke hold.

  Howard thrashed. He used the new claws that were emerging from his fingers to tear at the man’s arm, trying to escape.

  Just before the very last of his human mind departed, before everything in his head became nothing but smells and heat and instinct and rage, he heard the man say something.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  It meant nothing. It was noise. Aside from the sound of Cade snapping his neck, it was the last thing Howard—or the creature he’d become—would ever hear.

  THREE

  If it’s secret, it’s legal.

  —President Richard M. Nixon

  TODAY, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  A year before, Zach Barrows would have laughed in your face if you told him vampires were real.

  Now he sat next to one on a couch in the VIP waiting area of the West Wing.

  Never let anyone tell you Washington, D.C., is dull, he thought.

  Cade, as always, was perfectly still. Since Zach had become the liaison between the White House and Cade, he’d learned Cade was as motionless as a corpse in a casket most of the time. He had the unlined face of a college student, wearing a cheap suit with no tie. The only hint of anything unusual was the handmade metal cross on a knotted leather cord around his neck. It made him look like a rocker dressed up for a court hearing.

  At his feet was a leather case, something GIs used to call their AWOL bag. The zippered top was closed.

  Zach realized he was wringing his hands. He stopped. In the eleven months Zach Barrows had been working with Nathaniel Cade, he’d faced death more times than he could count. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d been sitting in a Combat Talon transport, tracking the movements of inhuman creatures off the coast of Somalia.

  But this meeting made him feel like calling in sick.

  It was late, but not so late that the West Wing was empty. People walked by, faces serious, clothes wrinkled, papers in their hands. Zach remembered doing the same walk himself when he worked here. Being inside the White House could make someone getting coffee feel like he was responsible for national security.

  Most of the staffers were too intent to notice Zach or Cade. But someone glanced at them, then did a double take. The staffer’s momentum carried him a few more feet, then his face lit up with a grin as he headed back to Zach.

  “Barrows, man, how are you?”

  Zach winced. He didn’t want to be recognized. Blake Thomas. He’d been an intern when Zach was still deputy director of White House political affairs.

  Zach was on his way up then. Or so he thought. He’d worked for the president when Samuel Curtis was still a senator, and was one of the tacticians who helped Curtis win the White House. But without warning, the president pulled him out of his job and partnered him with Cade.

  Blake looked way too happy. This is going to be painful, Zach thought.

  He stood and offered his hand anyway, blocking Blake’s view of Cade.

  “Blake. How have you been?”

  “Oh, terrific,” he said, grin spreading even wider. “I’m on the health care initiative now, spearheading the Medicare/Medicaid billing code review. Really interesting stuff. You’d be amazed at what they’re trying to pull in the subcommittees.”

  Oh God, Zach thought. He’d made the mistake of showing interest. Everybody in D.C. was doing vital work. They were all this close to changing the way the country worked. Just ask them.

  “That’s great,” he said. “Good seeing you.”

  “So what are you doing? You ju
st totally vanished, man.”

  “Not much,” Zach said. “A little consulting.”

  “Dude. That’s so unfair. After all you did, to get fired like that.”

  Zach clenched his jaw. His cover story. As far as anyone in the daylight world was concerned, Zach was a non-entity.

  “It’s not that bad,” he said.

  Blake leaned close. “Look, if you want, I can make a few calls. Maybe get you in with a lobbying firm or something.”

  Zach caught Blake’s joy at looking down on his former boss. The misery of others was always entertainment around here.

  He thought for a second about telling Blake the truth:

  Actually, I’m the latest in a long line of liaisons to a hundred-and-forty-year-old vampire who works for the President of the United States. See, there are things in this world much older than we are, and they don’t like us very much. About every week, there’s another attempt by them to break through and wipe out humanity like an ugly mildew stain in the shower. And my friend here? He’s the vampire. I call him my friend, but that only means he hasn’t tried to eat me. Yet.

  It would have been a serious breach of national security. But it would have shut Blake up.

  Blake finally noticed Cade.

  “Hey,” he said. “Blake Thomas. Nice to meet you.”

  Cade turned his full attention to Blake. Zach could feel it. He said nothing.

  But Blake’s expression went slack. His legs began to shake slightly.

  Zach knew what he was feeling: panic. The inexplicable urge to run, as fast and as far as he could.

  Cade had that effect on people. Mainly because he wasn’t people.

  “Um, well . . .” Blake said, struggling with the sudden onrush of anxiety as some vestigial part of his brain blared an alarm at him.

  “Don’t let me keep you, Blake,” Zach said.