“I want my son, you motherfucker!” yelled Eph.
He then released the strigoi with a vicious chop to the throat, severing its head and its communication with the Master.
Limping, bleeding, he got up again. “Zack . . . ,” he murmured. “Where are you . . . ?”
Then he started his long journey back home.
Central Park
BELVEDERE CASTLE, SET on the northern end of the Lake in Central Park along the Seventy-ninth Street Transverse Road, was a high Victorian Gothic and Romanesque “folly” constructed in 1869 by Jacob Wray Mould and Calvert Vaux, the original designers of the park. All Zachary Goodweather knew was that it looked spooky and cool, and that was what had always drawn him to it: this medieval (to his mind) castle in the center of the park in the center of the city. As a child, he used to make up tales about the castle, how it was in fact a giant fortress constructed by tiny trolls for the original architect of the city, a dark lord named Belvedere who dwelled in catacombs deep beneath the castle rock, haunting the dark citadel by night as he tended to his creatures throughout the park.
This was back when Zack still had to resort to fantasy for tales of the supernatural and the grotesque. When he needed to daydream in order to escape from the boredom of the modern world.
Now his daydreams were real. His fantasies were attainable. His wishes were requests, his desires realized.
He stood inside the open doorway to the castle, a young man now, watching black rain pummel the park. It slapped the overflowing Turtle Pond, once an algae-rich pool of shimmering green, now a muddy black hole. The sky above was ominously overcast, which was to say, normal. No blue in the sky meant no blue in the water. For two hours a day, some ambient light seeped through the tumultuous cloud cover, enough so that visibility improved to a point where he could see the rooftops of the city around him and the Dagobah-like swamp that the park had become. The solar-powered park lamps could not soak up enough juice in that time to illuminate the twenty-two hours of darkness, their light fading soon after the vampires returned from their retreat beneath ground and into the shadows.
Zack had grown—and grown strong—in this past year; his voice had started changing a few months ago, his jawline becoming defined and his torso elongating seemingly overnight. His strong legs carried him up, climbing the near staircase, a skinny iron spiral leading to the Henry Luce Nature Observatory on the second floor. Along the walls and beneath glass tables remained displays of animal skeletons, bird feathers, and papier-mâché birds set in plywood trees. Central Park had once been one of the richest bird-watching areas in the United States, but the climate change had ended that, probably forever. In the first weeks following the earthquakes and volcanic eruptions triggered by nuclear plant meltdowns and warhead detonations, the dark sky had hung thick with birds. Shrieks and calls all night. Mass bird deaths, winged corpses falling from the sky along with heavy black hail. As chaotic and desperate in the air as it was for humans on the ground. Now there were no longer any warmer southern skies to migrate to. For days, the ground had been literally covered with flapping, blackened wings. Rats feasted on the fallen voraciously. Agonized chirping and hooting punctuated the rhythm of the falling hail.
But now, the park was still and quiet when there was no rain, its lakes empty of waterfowl. A few grimy bones and feather strands melded in the mulch and the mud covering the soil and pavement. Ragged, mangy squirrels occasionally darted up trees, but their population in the park was way down. Zack looked out through one of the telescopes—he had jammed a quarter-sized stone into the pay slot so that the telescope operated without money—and his field of vision disappeared in the fog and the murky rain.
The castle had been home to a functioning meteorological station before the vampires came. Most of the equipment remained on the peaked tower roof, as well as inside the fenced compound south of the castle. New York City radio stations used to give the weather with, “The temperature in Central Park is . . . ,” and the number they called was a reading taken from the turret observatory. It was July now, maybe August, what used to be known as the “dog days” of summer, and the highest temperature reading Zack had witnessed during one particularly balmy night was sixty-one degrees Fahrenheit, sixteen degrees Celsius.
August was Zack’s birth month. There was a two-year-old calendar in the back office, and he wished that he had thought to keep track of the passing days more carefully. Was he thirteen years old yet? He felt that he was. He decided that yes, he was. Officially a teenager.
Zack could still—barely—remember the time his father had taken him to the Central Park Zoo one sunny afternoon. They had visited this very nature exhibit inside the castle, then ate Italian ices out on the stone wall overlooking the meteorological equipment. Zack remembered confiding in his father about how kids in school sometimes made wisecracks about his last name, Goodweather, saying that Zack was going to be a weatherman when he grew up.
“What are you going to be?” asked his dad.
“A zookeeper,” Zack had answered. “And probably a motocross racer.”
“Sounds good,” said his dad, and they threw their empty paper cups into the recycling bin before moving on to an afternoon matinee. And, at the end of that day, after a perfect afternoon, father and son had vowed to repeat the excursion. But they never did. Like so many promises in the Zack-Eph story, this one went unfulfilled.
Remembering that was like recalling a dream now—if it had ever existed at all. His dad was long gone, dead along with Professor Setrakian and the rest. Once in a great while, he would hear an explosion somewhere in the city or see a thick plume of smoke or dust rising into the rain and wonder. There had to be some humans still resisting the inevitable. It made Zack think of the raccoons that pestered his family one Christmas vacation, raiding their garbage no matter what Dad did to secure it. This was like that, he supposed. A nuisance, but little more.
Zack left the musty exhibit and went back down the stairs. The Master had created a room for him that Zack had modeled on his old bedroom at home. Except that his old bedroom did not have a wall-sized video display screen taken from the Times Square ESPN Zone. Or a Pepsi machine, or entire store racks of comic books. Zack kicked a game controller he had left on the floor, dropping down into one of the luxe leather chairs from Yankee Stadium, the thousand-dollar seats behind home plate. Occasionally, kids were brought in for matches, or he played them online on a dedicated server, but Zack almost always won. Everybody else was out of practice. Domination could get boring, especially when there were no new games being produced.
At first, being at the castle was terrifying. He had heard all the stories about the Master. He kept waiting to be turned into a vampire, like his mom, but it never happened. Why? He had never been given a reason, nor had he asked for one. He was a guest there and, as the only human, almost like a celebrity. In the two years since Zack had become the Master’s guest, no other nonvampire had been admitted to Belvedere Castle or anywhere near the premises. What had at first seemed like a kidnapping instead came to seem, gradually, over time, like selection. Like a calling. As though a special place had been reserved for him in this new world.
Over all others, Zack had been chosen. For what, he did not know. All he knew was that the being that had delivered him to this point of privilege was the absolute ruler of the new dominion. And, for some reason, he wanted Zack at his side.
The stories Zack had been told—of a fearsome giant, a ruthless killer, and evil incarnate—were obvious exaggerations. First of all, the Master was of average height for an adult. For an ancient being, it appeared almost youthful. Its black eyes were piercing, such that Zack could certainly see the potential for horror if someone fell into disfavor with it. But behind them—for one so fortunate to view them directly, as Zack had been—was a depth and a darkness that transcended humanity, a wisdom that reached back through time, an intelligence connected to a higher realm. The Master was a leader, commanding a vast clan of vampir
es throughout the city and the world, an army of beings answering its telepathic call from this castle throne in the swampy center of New York City.
The Master was a being possessed of actual magic. Diabolical magic, yes, but the only true magic Zack had ever witnessed. Good and evil were malleable terms now. The world had changed. Night was day. Down was the new up. Here, in the Master, was proof of a higher being. A superhuman. A divinity. His power was extraordinary.
Take Zack’s asthma. The air quality in the new climate was extremely poor, due to stagnancy, elevated ozone readings, and the recirculation of particulate matter. With the thick cloud cover pressing down over everything like an unwashed blanket, weather patterns suffered, and ocean breezes did little to refresh the city’s airflow. Mold grew and spores flew.
Yet, Zack was fine. Better than fine: his lungs were clear, and he breathed without wheezing or gasping. In fact, he hadn’t had anything resembling an asthma attack in all the time he had been with the Master. It had been two years since he had used an inhaler, because he did not need one anymore.
His respiratory system was fully dependent upon one substance even more magically effective than albuterol or prednisone. A fine, white droplet of the Master’s blood—administered orally, once weekly, from the Master’s pricked finger onto Zack’s waiting tongue—cleared Zack’s lungs, allowing him to breathe free.
What had seemed weird and disgusting at first now came as a gift: the milky-white blood with its faint electrical charge and a taste of copper and hot camphor. Bitter medicine, but the effect was nothing short of miraculous. Any asthma sufferer would give just about anything never to feel the smothering panic of an asthma attack again.
This blood absorption did not make Zack a vampire. The Master prevented any of the blood worms from reaching Zack’s tongue. The Master’s only desire was to see Zack healthy and comfortable. And yet the true source of Zack’s affinity and awe for the Master was not the power the Master exercised, but rather the power the Master conferred. Zack was evidently special in some way. He was different, exalted among humans. The Master had singled him out for attention. The Master had, for lack of a better term, befriended him.
Like the zoo. When Zack heard that the Master was going to close it down forever, he protested. The Master offered to spare it, to turn the entire zoo over to Zack, but on one condition: that Zack had to take care of it. Had to feed the animals and clean the cages, all by himself. Zack had jumped at the chance, and the Central Park Zoo became his. Just like that. (He was offered the carousel too, but carousels were for babies; he had helped them tear it down.) The Master could grant wishes like a genie.
Of course, Zack didn’t realize how much work it was going to be, but he kept at it as best he could. The changed atmosphere claimed some of the animals quickly, including the red panda and most of the birds, making his job easier. Still, with no one to prod him along, he allowed the intervals between feeding times to grow and grow. It fascinated him how some of the animals turned on one another, both the mammals and the reptiles. The great snow leopard was Zack’s favorite and the animal he feared most. So the leopard was fed most regularly: at first, thick slabs of fresh meat arriving by truck every other day. Then one day, a live goat. Zack led it into the cage and watched from behind a tree as the leopard stalked its prey. Then a sheep. Then a baby deer. But over time, the zoo fell deep into disrepair, the cages fouled with animal waste that Zack grew tired of cleaning. After many months he came to dread the zoo, and more and more he ignored his responsibilities. At night sometimes he heard the other animals cry out, but never the snow leopard.
After the better part of a year, Zack went to the Master and complained that the work was too much for him.
It will be abandoned, then. And the animals destroyed.
“I don’t want them destroyed. I just . . . don’t want to take care of them anymore. You could have any of your kind do it, and they would never complain.”
You want me to keep it open just for your enjoyment only.
“Yes.” Zack had asked for more extravagant things and always received them. “Why not?”
On one condition.
“Okay.”
I have watched you with the leopard.
“You have?”
Watched you feed it animals to stalk and devour. Its agility and beauty attracts you. But its power frightens you.
“I guess.”
I have also watched you allow other animals to starve.
Zack began to protest. “There are too many to take care of—”
I have watched you pit them against one another. It is natural enough, your curiosity. Watching how lesser species react under stress. Fascinating, isn’t it? Watching them fight for survival . . .
Zack did not know if he should admit to this.
The animals are yours to do with what you wish. That includes the leopard. You control its habitat and its feeding schedule. You should not fear it.
“Well . . . I don’t. Not really.”
Then . . . why don’t you kill it?
“What?”
Have you never thought about what it would be like, to kill such an animal?
“Kill it? Kill the leopard?”
You’ve grown bored with zoo-keeping because it is artificial, unnatural. Your instincts are correct, but your method is wrong. You want to own these primitive creatures. But they are not meant to be kept. Too much power. Too much pride. There is only one way to truly possess a wild animal. To make it your own.
“To kill it.”
Prove yourself equal to this task, and I will reward you by seeing to it that your zoo remains open and the animals fed and cared for, while relieving you of your duties there.
“I . . . I can’t.”
Because it is beautiful or because you fear it?
“Just . . . because.”
What is the one thing I have refused you? The one thing you asked for that I declined to allow?
“A loaded gun.”
I will see to it that a rifle is maintained for your use within the confines of the zoo. The decision is yours . . . I want you to take a side . . .
So Zack went to the zoo the next day, just to hold the loaded weapon. He found it on an umbrella table inside the entrance, brand-new, small sized, with a satin walnut stock and a recoil pad, and a scope on top. It only weighed about seven pounds. He carefully carried the weapon around his zoo, sighting various targets. He wanted to shoot but wasn’t sure how many rounds it held. It was a bolt-action rifle, but he wasn’t 100 percent certain he could reload it, even if he could get more ammunition. He aimed for a sign that said RESTROOMS and fingered the trigger, not really squeezing, and the weapon jumped in his hands. The rifle butt slammed into his shoulder, the recoil shoving him backward. The report was a loud crack. He gasped and saw a wisp of smoke coming out of the muzzle. He looked at the sign and saw a hole punched through one of the O’s.
Zack practiced his aim for the next several days, utilizing the exquisite, whimsical bronze animals in the Delacorte clock. The clock still played music every half hour. As the figures moved along their circular track, Zack aimed at a hippopotamus playing the violin. He missed his first two shots entirely, and the third one grazed the goat playing the pipes. Frustrated, Zack reloaded and waited for the next go-around, sitting on a nearby bench as the distant sirens lulled him into a nap. The bells woke him thirty minutes later. This time he aimed ahead of his target rather than trying to track with it as it moved. Three shots at the hippo, and he distinctly heard one sharp ricochet off the bronze figure. Two days later, the goat had lost the tip of one of its two pipes, and the penguin had lost part of a drumstick. Zack was able to hit the figures now with speed and accuracy. He felt ready.
The leopard habitat consisted of a waterfall and a birch and bamboo forest, all contained within a high tent of stainless steel woven mesh. The terrain inside was steep, with tunnel-like tubes carved into the slope, leading to the windowed viewing area.
The snow leopard stood on a rock and looked at Zack, associating the boy’s appearance with feeding time. The black rain had soiled her coat, but the animal still possessed a regal air. At four feet in length, she could leap forty or fifty feet if motivated, as when going after prey.
She stepped off the rock, prowling in a circle. The rifle report had antagonized her. Why did the Master want Zack to kill it? What purpose would it serve? It seemed like a sacrifice, as though Zack were being asked to execute the bravest animal in order that the others might survive.
He was shocked when the leopard came bounding toward the steel mesh separating them, baring her teeth. She was hungry and disappointed that she did not smell any food, as well as alarmed by the rifle shot—though that was not at all what it seemed like to Zack. He jumped back before reasserting himself, pointing the rifle at the snow leopard, answering her low, intimidating growl. She walked in a tight circle, never taking her eyes off him. She was voracious, and Zack realized that she would go through meal after meal and that, if the food ever ran out, she would feast on the hand that fed her without a moment’s justification. She would take if she needed to take. She would attack.
The Master was right. He was afraid of the leopard, and rightly so. But which one was the keeper and which one the kept? Didn’t she have Zack working for her, feeding her regularly over these many months? He was her pet as much as she was his. And suddenly, with the rifle in his hand, that arrangement didn’t feel right.
He hated her arrogance, her will. He walked around the enclosure, the snow leopard following him on the other side of the mesh. Zack entered the ZOO EMPLOYEES ONLY feeding area, looking out through the small window over the door through which he dropped the leopard’s meat or released livestock. Zack’s deep breathing seemed to fill the entire room. He ducked through the top-hinged door, which slammed shut behind him.
He had never been inside the leopard’s pen before. He looked up at the high tent overhead. A number of different-sized bones were scattered over the ground before him, remnants of past meals.
The Strain, the Fall, the Night Eternal Page 78