The Strain, the Fall, the Night Eternal

by Guillermo Del Toro

  His horse had been slaughtered at the head of the path, gutted, its body cold.

  The sky opened over him as he hurried back to the village. A farmer, one he had nodded to on the way up, traded for Setrakian’s broken wristwatch some water and rock-hard biscuits, and Setrakian learned, through intensive pantomiming, that he had been underground for three sunsets and three dawns.

  He finally returned to the villa he had rented, but Miriam was not there. No note, no nothing—entirely unlike her. He went next door, then across the street. Finally, a man opened his door to him, just a crack.

  No, he hadn’t seen his wife, the man told him in pidgin Greek.

  Setrakian saw a woman cowering behind the man. He asked if something was wrong.

  The man explained to him that two children had disappeared from the village the night before. A witch was suspected.

  Setrakian returned to his rented villa. He sat heavily in a chair, holding his head in his bloodied, broken hands, and waited for nightfall—for the dark hour of his dear wife’s return.

  She came to him out of the rain, free of the crutches and braces that had steadied her limbs all her human life. Her hair hung wet, her flesh white and slick, her clothes drenched with mud. She came to him with her head held high, in the manner of a society woman about to welcome a neophyte into her circle of esteem. At her sides stood the two village children she had turned, a boy and a girl still sick with transformation.

  Miriam’s legs were straight and very dark. Blood had gathered at the lower portion of her extremities and both her hands and feet were now almost entirely black. Gone were her infirm, tentative steps: the atrophied gait which Setrakian had tried nightly to alleviate.

  How completely and quickly she had changed from the love of his life into this mad, muddied, glaring creature. Now a strigoi with a taste for the children she could not bear in life.

  Crying softly, Setrakian rose from his chair, half of him desiring to let it be, to go down into hell with her, to give himself over to vampirism in his despair.

  But slay her he did, with much love and many tears. The children he cut down as well, with no regard for their corrupted bodies—though with Miriam, he was determined to preserve a part of her for himself.

  Even if one understands that what one is doing is mad, it is indeed still madness—cutting the diseased heart out of one’s wife’s chest and preserving it, the corrupted organ beating with the craving of a blood worm, inside a pickling jar.

  Life is madness, thought Setrakian, done with his butchering, looking about the room. And so is love.

  The Flatlands

  AFTER HAVING A last moment with his late wife’s heart, Setrakian uttered something that Fet barely heard and did not understand—it was “Forgive me, dearest”—and then went to work.

  He sectioned the heart not with a silver blade, which would have been fatal to the worm, but with a knife of stainless steel—trimming the diseased organ back and back and back. The worm did not make its escape until Setrakian held the heart near one of the UV lamps set around the edge of the table. Thicker than a strand of hair, spindly and quick, the pinkish capillary worm shot out, aiming first for the broken fingers that gripped the knife handle. But Setrakian was much too prepared for that, and it slithered into the center of the table. Setrakian chopped it once with his blade, splitting the worm in two. Fet then trapped the separated ends using two large drinking glasses.

  The worms regenerated themselves, exploring the inside rim of their new cages.

  Setrakian then set about preparing the experiment. Fet sat back on a stool, watching the worms lash about inside the glass, driven by blood hunger. Fet remembered Setrakian’s warning to Eph, about destroying Kelly:

  In the act of releasing a loved one … you taste what it is to be turned. To go against everything you are. That act changes one forever.

  And Nora, about love being the true victim of this plague, the instrument of our downfall:

  The undead returning for their Dear Ones. Human love corrupted into vampiric need.

  Fet said, “Why didn’t they kill you in those tunnels? Since it was a trap?”

  Setrakian looked up from his contraption. “Believe it or not, they were afraid of me back then. I was still in the prime of life, I was vital, I was strong. They are indeed sadists, but, you must remember, their numbers were quite small back then. Self-preservation was paramount. Unbridled expansion of their species was a taboo. And yet they had to hurt me. And so they did.”

  Fet said, “They are still afraid of you.”

  “Not me. Only what I represent. What I know. In truth, what can one old man do against a horde of vampires?”

  Fet did not believe Setrakian’s humility, not for a moment.

  The old man continued, “I think the fact that we don’t give up—this idea that the human spirit keeps going in the face of absolute adversity—puzzles them. They are arrogant. Their origin, if confirmed, will attest to that.”

  “What is their origin, then?”

  “Once we get the book, once I am completely certain … I will reveal it to you.”

  The radio started to fade, and Fet first thought it was his bad ear. He stood and turned the crank, powering the unit, keeping it going. Human voices were largely absent from the airwaves, replaced by heavy interference and occasional high-pitched tones. But one commercial sports radio station still had broadcast power, and though apparently all of its on-air talent were gone, a lone producer remained. He had taken up the microphone, changing the format from Yankees-Mets-Giants-Jets-Rangers-Knicks talk to news updates culled off the Internet and from occasional callers.

  “… the national Web site of the FBI now reports that they have Dr. Ephraim Goodweather in federal custody, following an incident in Brooklyn. He is the fugitive former New York City CDC official who released that first video—remember that? The guy in the shed, chained like a dog. Remember when that demon stuff seemed pretty hysterical and far-fetched? Those were good times. Anyway … it says he’s been arrested on … what’s this? Attempted murder? Jeez. Just when you think we might be able to get some real answers. I mean, this guy was at the center of the whole initial thing, if memory serves. Right? He was there at the plane, at Flight 753. And he was wanted for the murder of one of the other first responders, a guy who worked for him, I think the name was Jim Kent. So, clearly, there’s something going on with this guy. My opinion—I think they’re gonna Oswald him. Two bullets to the gut, and he’s silenced forever. Another piece in this giant puzzle that no one seems to be able to put together. Anybody out there has any thoughts on this, any ideas, any theories, and your phone is still working, hit me up on the sports hotline …”

  Setrakian sat with his eyes closed.

  Fet said, “Attempted murder?”

  “Palmer,” said Setrakian.

  “Palmer!” said Fet. “You mean—it’s not some bogus charge?” Fet’s shock quickly turned to appreciation. “Gunning down Palmer. Christ. Good ol’ doc. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “I am very glad you did not.”

  Fet ran his fingers through the hair on the top of his head, as though waking himself up. “And then there were two, huh?” He stepped back, looking out through the half-open door to the storefront. Dusk was falling through the windows beyond. “So you knew about this?”

  “I suspected.”

  “You didn’t want to stop him?”

  “I could see—there was no stopping. A man has to act on his own impulses sometimes. Understand—he is a medical scientist caught up in a pandemic, the source of which defies everything he thought he knew. Add to that the personal conflict involving his wife. He took the course he thought was right.”

  “Bold move. Would it have meant anything? If he had succeeded?”

  “Oh, I think so.” Setrakian went back to his tinkering.

  Fet smiled. “I didn’t think he had it in him.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t either.”

  Fet th
ought he saw a shadow pass before the front windows then. He had been half-turned away, the image in his periphery. It had struck him as a large being.

  “I think we’ve got a customer,” said Fet, hurrying to the back door.

  Setrakian stood, reaching quickly for his wolf’s-head staff, twisting the top and exposing a few inches of silver.

  “Stay,” said Fet. “Be ready.” He took his loaded nail gun and a sword, and slipped out the back door, fearing the arrival of the Master.

  Out on the back curb, as soon as he closed the door, Fet saw the big man. Thick-browed, a hulking man in his sixties, as big as Fet. He stood with a slight crouch, favoring one leg. His open hands were out, resembling a wrestler’s stance.

  Not the Master. Not even a vampire. The man’s eyes confirmed it. Even newly turned vampires move strangely, less like a human and more like an animal, or a bug.

  Two others stepped from behind the DPW van. One was all silvered up with jewelry, short and wide and powerful-looking, snarling like a junkyard dog larded with bling. The other was younger, holding the tip of a long sword out toward Fet, aimed at his throat.

  So they knew their silver. “I’m human,” said Fet. “You guys are looking to loot something, I got nothing here but rat poison.”

  “We are looking for an old man,” came a voice behind Fet. He turned, keeping all comers in front of him. The new one was Gus, his torn shirt collar partially revealing the phrase SOY COMO SOY tattooed across his clavicle. He carried a long silver knife in his hand.

  Three Mexican gangbangers and an old ex-wrestler with hands the size of thick steaks. “It’s getting dark, boys,” said Fet. “You should be moving right along.”

  Creem, the silver-knuckled one, said, “Now what?”

  Gus said to Fet, “The pawnbroker. Where is he?”

  Fet held pat. These punks packed slaying weapons, but he didn’t know them, and what he didn’t know he didn’t like. “Don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Gus wasn’t buying. “I guess we go door to door, then, motherfucker.”

  Fet said, “You do, you’re gonna have to go through me.” He pointed with his nail gun. “And just so you know—this baby right here is nasty. The nail just fastens to the bone. Homes right in on it. Vampire or not, damage will be done. I’ll hear you squeal when you try to pry a couple of silvery inches out of your fucking eye socket, cholo.”

  “Vasiliy,” said Setrakian, exiting out the back door, staff in hand.

  Gus saw him, saw the old man’s hands. All busted up, just as he remembered. The pawnbroker looked even older now, smaller. It had been years since they’d met a few weeks ago. He straightened, uncertain if the old man would recognize him.

  Setrakian looked him over. “From the jail.”

  Fet said, “Jail?”

  Setrakian reached out and patted Gus’s arm familiarly. “You listened. You learned. And you survived.”

  “A guevo. I survived. And you—you got out.”

  “I had a stroke of good fortune,” said Setrakian. He looked at the others. “But what of your friend? The sick one. You did what you had to do?”

  Gus winced, remembering. “Si. I did what I had to do. And I’ve been fucking doing it ever since.”

  Angel dug into a knapsack on his shoulder, and Fet readied his nail gun. “Easy, big bear,” he said.

  Angel pulled out the silver case recovered from the pawnshop. Gus went and took it from him, opening it, removing the card inside, and handing it to the pawnbroker.

  It contained Fet’s address.

  Setrakian noticed that the case was dented and blackened, one corner warped from heat.

  Gus told him, “They sent a crew for you. Used smoke cover to attack in daytime. They were all over your shop when we got there.” Gus nodded to the others. “We had to blow up your place to get out of there with our blood still red.”

  Setrakian showed only a flicker of regret, passing quickly. “So—you have joined the fight.”

  “Who, me?” said Gus, brandishing his silver blade. “I am the fight. Been flushing ’em out these past few days—way too many to count.”

  Setrakian looked more closely at Gus’s weapon, showing concern. “Where, may I ask, did you get such well-made arms?”

  “From the fucking source,” said Gus. “They came for me when I was still in handcuffs, running from the law. Pulled me right off the street.”

  Setrakian’s expression turned dark. “Who are ‘they?’”

  “Them. The old ones.”

  Setrakian said, “The Ancients.”

  “Holy Jesus,” said Fet.

  Setrakian motioned to him to be patient. “Please,” he said to Gus. “Explain.”

  Gus did so, recounting the Ancients’ offer, that they were holding his mother, and how he had recruited the Sapphires out of Jersey City to work at his side as day hunters.

  “Mercenaries,” said Setrakian.

  Gus took that as a compliment. “We’re mopping the floor with milk blood. A tight hit squad, good vampire killers. Vampire shit-kickers, more like it.”

  Angel nodded. He liked this kid.

  “The Ancients,” Gus said. “They feel that this is all a concerted attack. Breaking their breeding rules, risking exposure. Shock and Awe, I guess …”

  Fet coughed out a laugh. “You guess? You’re joking. No? You fucking dropout assassins have no idea what’s going down here. You don’t even know whose side you’re really on.”

  “Hold, please.” Setrakian silenced Fet with a hand, thinking. “Do they know that you have come to me?”

  “No,” said Gus.

  “They will soon. And they will not be pleased.” Setrakian put up his hands, reassuring the confused Gus. “Fret not. It is all a big mess, a bad situation for anyone with red blood in their veins. I am very glad you sought me out again.”

  Fet had learned to like the brightness that came into the old man’s eyes when he was getting an idea. It helped Fet relax a little.

  Setrakian said to Gus, “I think perhaps there is something you can do for me.”

  Gus shot a cutting look at Fet, as though saying, Take that. “Name it,” he said to Setrakian. “I owe you plenty.”

  “You will take my friend and me to the Ancients.”

  Brooklyn-Queens FBI Resident Agency

  EPH SAT ALONE in the debriefing room, his elbows on a scratched table, calmly rubbing at his hands. The room smelled of old coffee, though there was none present. The ceiling-lamp light fell on the one-way mirror, illuminating a single human handprint, the ghostly remnant of a recent interrogation.

  Strange knowing you are being watched, even studied. It affected what you do, down to your very posture, the way you licked your lips, how you looked at or didn’t look at yourself in the mirror, behind which lurked your captors. If lab rats knew their behavior was being scrutinized, then every maze-and-cheese experiment would take on an extra dimension.

  Eph looked forward to their questions, perhaps more than the FBI was looking forward to his answers. He hoped that their inquiries would give him a sense of the investigation at hand, and, in doing so, let him know to what extent the vampire invasion was currently understood by law enforcement and the powers that be.

  He had once read that falling asleep while awaiting questioning is a leading indicator of a suspect’s culpability. The reason was something about how the lack of a physical outlet for one’s anxiety exhausted the guilty mind—that, coupled with an unconscious need to hide or escape.

  Eph was plenty tired, and sore, but more than that, he felt relief. He was done. Under arrest, in federal custody. No more fight, no more struggle. He was of little use to Setrakian and Fet anyway. With Zack and Nora now safely out of the hot zone, speeding south to Harrisburg, it seemed to him that sitting here in the penalty box was preferable to warming the bench.

  Two agents entered without introduction. They handcuffed his wrists, Eph thinking that strange. They cuffed them not behind his back but in
front of him, then pulled him out of the chair and walked him from the room.

  They led him past the mostly empty bullpen to a key-access elevator. No one said anything on the ride up. The door opened on an unadorned access hallway, which they followed to a short flight of stairs, leading to a door to the roof.

  A helicopter was parked there, its rotors already speeding up, chopping into the night air. Too noisy to ask questions, so Eph crouch-walked with the other two into the belly of the bird, and sat while they seat-belted him in.

  The chopper lifted off, rising over Kew Gardens and greater Brooklyn. Eph saw the blocks burning, the helicopter weaving between great plumes of thick, black smoke. All this devastation raging below him. Surreal didn’t begin to describe it.

  He realized they were crossing the East River, and then really wondered where they were taking him. He saw the police and fire lights spinning on the Brooklyn Bridge, but no moving cars, no people. Lower Manhattan came up fast around them, the helicopter dipping lower, the tallest buildings limiting his view.

  Eph knew that the FBI headquarters were in Federal Plaza, a few blocks north of City Hall. But no, they remained close to the Financial District.

  The chopper climbed again, zeroing in on the only lit rooftop for blocks around: a red ring of safety lights demarking a helipad. The bird touched down gently, and the agents unbuckled Eph’s seat belt. They got him up out of his seat without getting up themselves, essentially kicking him to the rooftop.

  He remained in a standing crouch, air whipping at his clothes as the bird lifted off again, turning in the air and whirring away, back toward Brooklyn. Leaving him alone—and still handcuffed.

  Eph smelled burning and ocean salt, the troposphere over Manhattan clogged with smoke. He remembered how the dust trail of the World Trade Center—white-gray, that—rose and flattened once it reached a certain elevation, then spread out over the skyline in a cloud of despair.