The President's Vampire

by Christopher Farnsworth

  He had to admit, he’d been stalling on the report. He didn’t like the way Barrows had spoken to him. Hustling the woman out of the room, like Everett had upset her. Even in this job, he was considered the freak.

  I’m not the one who works with a vampire on a daily basis, Everett thought. He’d met Cade several times, and despite his comfort level with the macabre, he was always left shuddering by the experience.

  Although he wouldn’t mind having Cade on the slab sometime. It had been years since anyone working in the government had Cade under the knife. There were all kinds of new discoveries waiting to be made . . .

  A loud bang made Everett jump in his chair. He nearly knocked his wireless keyboard to the ground.

  He looked around. No one was in the morgue with him. He would have heard. The place echoed. Every footstep was like a bass drum beat on the tiled walls and concrete floor.

  Another loud bang. The unmistakable sound of flesh against metal.

  He looked around. Nobody there. The autopsy tables were empty. Everett looked at the wall with the drawers, lined up in a perfect checkerboard.

  He reached for his phone, ready to call security. The banging noise stopped him cold.

  There was no mistaking it. The sound was coming from one of the drawers.

  The drawers were airtight, kept at a constant thirty-six degrees to retard decomposition. Each one locked from the outside. Because why would a corpse need a sudden exit?

  He wanted to laugh. This was the kind of juvenile prank he would have expected back in med school. As if he’d fall for something so stupid.

  Everett didn’t fear the dead. He’d spent countless late nights in the morgue. He’d seen everything that could be done to a human body.

  Other people didn’t have his experience, so they were still afraid. Fear of dying wasn’t irrational, but fear of the dead was idiotic. It wasn’t like you could catch death from a corpse (excluding some very nasty pathogens and viruses, of course). But people still didn’t realize: it was the living you had to watch. The dead were reliable. They were quiet.

  The loud banging started to beat steadily now. He could even see the metal door shake on its hinges.

  Sneaking into a morgue, getting into one of the drawers might seem like a really scary idea in theory. But in practice, it wasn’t that bright.

  Because now the idiot inside the chamber realized he was about to run out of air.

  Well, Everett didn’t want another corpse on his hands. He decided to open the drawer. Although it would serve the joker right.

  The banging stopped.

  Uh-oh.

  Everett hustled over to the wall. He hadn’t anticipated this. Without the noise, he wasn’t sure which drawer was occupied. He didn’t know where to look.

  He assumed the joker had passed out. He had to hurry. He started throwing open drawers. First, the one he thought had rattled.

  Nobody there. He slammed it shut and started on the ones nearby.

  Nothing.

  After two minutes, he was sweating. He knew he was opening drawers he’d already checked, but he hadn’t found anyone, and he was starting to panic. He began leaving the drawers open. Then he started ducking down and peering inside each one.

  Still nothing.

  He realized only one drawer was left. The one holding the body of the reptilian.

  He walked over to it, hand out for the lever.

  He stopped. He’d just told Barrows: reptiles and amphibians could hibernate, remain in a near-death coma for months, even years.

  He had not done a full autopsy on the corpse. He had simply examined the hole that he assumed was the cause of death.

  No, he had to be kidding himself. There was no way. Then he thought of the things he’d seen in this room, on these tables. He decided it would be better to call security first. He didn’t care if they laughed at him.

  He turned away from the metal door just as it burst outward, torn off its hinges.

  The door tagged him on the shoulder, knocking him to the floor. His mind was flooded with pain, and he was surprised to learn you really did see stars when you were hit hard enough.

  Another loud bang echoed in his ears. The rack shot out of the drawer. The creature sprang to its feet and hissed. It didn’t sound happy.

  Everett wanted to run, but he couldn’t move.

  As the reptilian leaned over him, claws and fangs out, he could not escape an overwhelming sense of betrayal. The dead were not supposed to do this. The dead were supposed to be quiet. They were supposed to be safe.

  EIGHTEEN

  1931—Antarctica—The Pabodie Expedition, sponsored in part by the Nathaniel Derby Pickman Foundation, is wiped out, except for two survivors, after discovering unusual fossils and perfectly preserved corpses of previously unknown animals from millions of years in the past.

  —BRIEFING BOOK: CODE NAME: NIGHTMARE PET

  CAMP LEMONNIER, DJIBOUTI

  Cade woke one second after the sun dipped below the horizon. He rose to the surface, soil streaming off him, walking straight out of the ground.

  He took out his phone, shook off the dirt and dialed Zach.

  “I need answers,” he said.

  “Someone got up on the wrong side of the grave this morning,” Zach said. An old joke between them now.

  “What do you have?”

  “Not much.” Zach explained what he’d heard from Everett. No way to trace the virus to its maker, no cure yet. Related to Innsmouth; but not exactly the same as the outbreak there. The virus looked like it contained Marsh family DNA, but modified.

  “Speaking of the Marshes, is there any chance we could talk to them?”

  “I’ve been looking for the last of them for eighty-two years,” Cade said. “If you think you will have better luck in the next twenty-four hours . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Zach said. “The reason I asked, Bell had an idea about the Marsh connection—”

  “How does she know about it?”

  Zach paused, looking for a way to sugarcoat the answer that Cade already knew.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Hey. We’re working together. Prador said so. She’s smart. She’s dedicated. And she might be able to give us more inside information on A/A if we show her some trust.”

  Cade listened carefully as Zach spoke. He sounded more relaxed. His throat was less constricted by stress, and his breathing was more even. Or, to put it another way, he seemed almost happy.

  Cade knew this would have to be handled delicately. “You’re being an idiot,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  Zach sputtered for a moment. Then: “You can tell just from talking on the phone?”

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t know?”

  “Wow. You sound exactly like a girl I dated in eighth grade.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Zach.” Cade’s voice was tight. “You’re risking yourself, and the mission.”

  “Prador vouched for her.”

  “Which means nothing,” Cade said. “She has her own agenda. We don’t know what it is. She might even be Shadow Company herself.”

  “So what if she is?”

  Cade was actually stunned by that. No one could be that shortsighted, that stupid, that selfish.

  “She’s not,” Zach said quickly. “But I’m a little offended. I’ve been threatened, beaten, tortured and almost eaten since I started working with you. And you think I couldn’t handle myself if a girl turned out to be a snitch for the bad guys?”

  “You’re only human, Zach.”

  “So is she. That’s my point. I know people. I can read them. And you should trust me enough to let me make my own decisions and take the consequences if I’m wrong.”

  Cade forced himself to relax his grip on the phone before he cracked it open. “The consequences aren’t yours alone. The Other Side wants the end of all things. The things we fight are not supp
osed to exist. The human world cannot accommodate them. If there are people who have chosen to side with them, they have forfeited their human rights. You know what that means: we can never take anyone we encounter to trial. If she’s involved, she has to die.”

  Zach didn’t reply. Cade listened to the static for a moment.

  “Zach. You know how this works.”

  “Maybe you need to explain it again,” Zach said. “What gives you the right to decide who lives and who dies?”

  Cade’s mouth twitched. “You’ve been working with me a year, and you’re still unclear on my job description?”

  “I know what you do,” Zach said. “You want to kill things that go bump in the night? Fine. You kill people who summon them or help them? Hey, no problem. As far as I’m concerned, that’s written on the warning label when you make a deal with the forces of evil. But when you start talking about killing Bell, someone who’s help—”

  Cade cut him off. “Just because she’s helping us doesn’t mean she’s on our side,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because no one is on our side. If you can’t understand that, hard cheese.”

  “Hard cheese? No. Don’t explain.” Zach let out a long, angry breath. When he spoke again, it was the tone of someone giving his final answer. “I decided to bring her inside the loop. I’m not your Tonto, Kemo Sabe. Occasionally, I make my own calls. Deal with it.”

  Zach hung up on him.

  Cade switched off his phone and scowled. At least the whores would have been safer.

  IN THE CO’S OFFICE, he found Parrish, Graves and a few others huddled around a ship-to-shore radio. Parrish and Graves stood close together. The body language was unmistakable. The two men had been bonding. Parrish gave him a hostile look.

  “What?” Cade asked.

  Graves shrugged. “It’s probably nothing.”

  “What happened?”

  “The Marine never made it to the carrier,” Parrish said. “We called in, and heard the chopper made a detour. It dropped the kid off at the USNS Virtue.”

  “Hospital ship,” Graves explained. “I would have expected them back by now. We need the chopper.”

  “Where are they?”

  “That’s the problem,” Parrish said. “We can’t raise the Virtue. Nobody’s answering.”

  “They might be busy,” Graves said. “It’s a hospital ship, remember?”

  Cade ignored him. “When was the last time the Virtue made contact?”

  The men exchanged glances. Cade knew the sight he must present; covered in dirt and blood. He used it to full advantage.

  “When?” he asked again.

  The naval officer gulped. “It’s been almost six hours.”

  Cade turned to Parrish. “Get me out there.”

  Parrish looked like he was tired of taking orders. “It’s my man out there. I’m sending my own team.”

  “No. You’re not.”

  Parrish’s face turned red, and he began to build up steam for a bellowing lecture.

  Cade didn’t let him: “You send more men out there and they will die. They have no chance. And they will only spread the same disease that nearly took your camp last night. Listen to me: you do not know what you’re dealing with. Don’t be stupid. Don’t sacrifice any more men. This is inhuman.”

  Parrish huffed through his nose, apparently trying to calm down. He looked to Graves for guidance.

  “He would know,” Graves said.

  Parrish nodded. “You better bring my boy back alive,” he said to Cade. “Don’t make me regret trusting you.”

  Cade wanted to tell him this was not a rescue mission. But he’d wasted enough time arguing already. He needed transport to the ship, and Parrish could provide it.

  “I’ll do my best,” he said.

  In truth, Cade wondered if there was anyone left on the ship to save.

  THE MARINE’S BLOOD and gore had soaked everyone in the casualty ward. Prentice got the worst of it. She began to change almost immediately. Her colleagues, admirably, tried to save her. They put her on a gurney and treated what looked like a massive, full-body infection.

  She tore out the throat of the nearest orderly with her teeth, and used her claws to eviscerate a nurse and two corpsmen.

  Still driven by an immense, mindless hunger, she ran through the nearest doorway and into the recovery ward. The patients on their beds never had a chance.

  By the time she’d finished, she was fully changed. The few victims she’d left alive began to shed skin and hair, teeth dropping like seeds on the floor, to be replaced by scales and fangs.

  By the time anyone thought to organize a defense, it was too late. As a hospital ship, Virtue was forbidden from carrying any weapons whatsoever. Some blockaded themselves into cabins. Others fought with fire axes, scalpels, bone saws, whatever they could find. They blocked sections of the ship, barricaded themselves into a smaller and smaller area. Inevitably, someone on the barricade side would turn out to be infected, and they would turn.

  By sunset, the ship was boiling with the creatures. Hundreds of them. The humans on board could be counted in double digits.

  NINETEEN

  THE CHAIRMAN: Mr. Colby, I’d like to turn your attention to a budget item under the document, “BLACK CHAMBER, Goals and Accomplishments.”

  MR. COLBY: Mr. Chairman, as I stated, I cannot verify the authenticity of that document.

  THE CHAIRMAN: It was my understanding that the Black Chamber was an intelligence group abandoned during the Hoover administration.

  MR. COLBY: That was my understanding as well.

  THE CHAIRMAN: Then how do you explain the continued payments under this budget in the amount of several hundred thousand dollars?

  MR. COLBY: I’m at a loss, Mr. Chairman.

  THE CHAIRMAN: Sir, you’re the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. If you don’t know, who does?

  COUNSEL: Mr. Chairman, if I may, I believe this can be explained, but we should move to closed session.

  THE CHAIRMAN: I have to warn you, counselor, I’m running out of patience. The goal of these hearings is to shed more light on these subjects, not push them back into the dark.

  COUNSEL: Yes, sir. And we are doing everything we can to cooperate.

  THE CHAIRMAN: Very well. Clear the room, please.

  —Transcript, Senate Select Committee to Study Governmental Operations with Respect to Intelligence Activities, also known as the Church Committee, 1975

  CHANTILLY, VIRGINIA

  This is what I get for showing up early in the morning, Candle thought.

  No one else was there. Not Bell, not Book, not even Barrows. He was alone in the office.

  He was surfing for Internet porn, bored out of his skull, when Hewitt reappeared.

  He nearly jumped out of his skin. He’d never get used to that.

  “Where’s Book?” Hewitt asked.

  “Out,” Candle said. “What’s up?”

  Hewitt looked unhappy. “I need Book. I found the place where Barrows took Bell.”

  “Why don’t you handle it?”

  “Not supposed to engage. Graves’s orders.”

  Candle knew better than to argue. The Shadowmen were for surveillance, not combat. He’d asked why once. “You don’t want them getting a taste for blood” was all Graves had said.

  Candle stood up. “Well, he’s not here. Let’s go.”

  Hewitt looked at him. He didn’t say anything.

  Candle puffed up his chest. “Dude. I said let’s go.”

  Hewitt wavered. “It could be messy.”

  Candle opened his desk drawer and took out a government-issue SIG Sauer. He racked the slide and leered.

  “I hope so. I’m ready to do some damage.”

  Hewitt just looked at him again.

  “What?” Candle said. “What? You think I’m some kind of pussy? I’ve done things, man.”

  Hewitt still didn’t speak. He just turned around and headed for t
he door.

  “Well, I have,” Candle said, jamming the gun into his belt at the small of his back, then hurrying to catch up.

  CANDLE NEVER REALLY FELT like a secret agent, despite his fervent hopes when Graves recruited him. When they first met, he’d tried to introduce himself. The older man cut him off. “First rule,” he said. “Never give your real name. True names have power. You can call me Graves. And from now on, you’re Candle. Got it?”

  Candle loved it. A code name. He thought he was going to get a gun and a license to kill. Instead, he got a desk and a computer.

  Before he joined the Company, Candle received a regular stipend from the CIA as part of its psy-ops division.

  In plainer language, he lied. He wrote op-eds for friendly politicians, distributed talking points and cash to talking heads in the media, and engineered cover-ups when necessary, like when a precision-guided Predator drone mistook an elementary school in Iraq for a terrorist hideout.

  After he jumped, he did the same thing, but on a much bigger scale. He generated reports to make Archer/Andrews look like a vital piece of the national security machine. He’d been personally responsible for two elevations of the threat level. One of those times had been with a story about female suicide bombers having surgery to get plastic explosive breast implants.