The Strain, the Fall, the Night Eternal

by Guillermo Del Toro

  Still, she didn’t question the voice’s identity too strongly. She was happy for the company. She was happy for the counsel.

  “Why?” she asked.

  No answer. The voice never answered on request. And yet she kept expecting that someday it would.

  “How?” she asked.

  No answer again, but as she drifted through the bell-shaped cabin, her boot caught on the survival kit between the seats.

  “Really?” she said, addressing the kit itself as though it were the source of the voice.

  She hadn’t touched the thing since she had last used it. She pulled it out now, opening the kit, the combination lock unclasped. (Had she left it that way?) She lifted out the TP-82, the long-barreled handgun. The machete was gone; she had tossed it out with Maigny. She raised the weapon to eye level, as though aiming it at the window . . . and then released it, watching it twist and float before her like a word or an idea hanging in the air.

  She inventoried the rest of the kit. Twenty rifle rounds. Twenty flares. Ten shotgun shells.

  “Tell me why,” she said, wiping away a rogue teardrop, watching the speck of moisture sail away. “After all this time—why now?”

  She held still, her body barely rotating. She was certain an answer was going to come. A reason. An explanation.

  Because it’s time . . .

  The flaming light burst past her window with such silent alacrity that she choked on her own breath. She began to hyperventilate, grabbing the seat back and propelling herself to the window to watch the tail of the comet burn away into Earth’s atmosphere, snuffing itself out before reaching the tumorous lower atmosphere.

  She whipped around, again feeling a presence. Something not human.

  “Was that . . . ?” she started to ask, but could not complete the question.

  Because obviously, it was.

  A sign.

  When she was a girl, a falling star streaking across the sky made her want to become an astronaut. That was the story she told whenever called upon to visit schools or do interviews in the months leading up to launch, and yet it was entirely true: her fate had been written across the sky in her youth.

  Take it down.

  Again, her breath got caught in her throat. The voice—at once she recognized it. Her dog at home in Connecticut, a Newfoundland named Ralphie. This was the voice she heard in her head whenever she would talk to him, when she would rough up his coat and engage him and he would nuzzle against her leg.

  Want to go out?

  Yes indeed I do I do.

  Want a treat?

  Do I! Do I!

  Who’s a good boy?

  I am I am I am.

  I’ll miss you lots while I’m in space.

  I’ll miss you back, dearie.

  This was the voice with her now. The same one she had projected onto her Ralphie. Her and not her, the voice of companionship and trust and affection.

  “Really?” she asked again.

  Thalia thought about what it would be like, moving through the cabins, blowing out the thrusters until she breached the hull. This great scientific facility of conjoined capsules listing and plummeting from its orbit, catching fire as it entered the upper atmosphere, streaking downward like a flaming burr and penetrating the poisonous crust of the troposphere.

  And then certainty filled her like an emotion. And even if she were merely insane, at least she could move without doubt now, without question. And—at the very, very least—she would not be going out like Maigny, hallucinating and foaming at the mouth.

  The shotgun shells loaded in manually from the breach side.

  She would scuttle the hull to let the airlessness in and then go down with the ship. In a way she had always suspected this was to be her destiny. This was a decision formed of beauty. Born of a falling star, Thalia Charles was about to become a falling star herself.

  Camp Liberty

  NORA LOOKED AT the shank.

  She had been working on it all night long. She was exhausted but proud. The irony of a butter-knife shank was not lost on her. Such a dainty piece of cutlery, now sharpened into a jagged point and edge. Still a few more hours to go—she could sharpen it to perfection.

  She had muffled the sound of the grinding—against a corner piece in the concrete—by covering it with her lumpy bed pillow. Her mother was asleep a few feet away. She didn’t wake up. Their reunion would be brief. The afternoon before, perhaps an hour after she had returned from seeing Barnes, they had been handed a processing order. In it was a request for Nora’s mother to leave the recreation courtyard at dawn.

  Feeding time.

  How would they “process” her? She didn’t know. But she would not allow it. She would call for Barnes, give in, get close to him, and then kill him. She would either save her mother or get him. If her hands were going to be empty they would be stained with his blood.

  Her mother murmured something in her sleep and then lapsed back into the deep but gentle snoring that Nora knew so well. As a child Nora had been lulled to sleep by that sound and the rhythmic up-and-down of her chest. Her mother was, back then, a formidable woman. A force of nature. She worked, indefatigable, and raised Nora properly—always vigilant of her, always able to provide an education and a degree and the clothes and luxuries that go with them. Nora got a graduation dress and the expensive textbooks and not once had her mother complained.

  But there was that one night right before Christmas, when Nora had been awakened by a soft sobbing. She was fourteen and had been particularly nasty about getting a quinceañera dress on her upcoming birthday . . .

  She quietly climbed down the steps and stood at the kitchen door. Her mother was sitting alone, a half glass of milk by her side—reading glasses and bills all over the table.

  Nora was paralyzed by this sight. Sort of like sneaking up on God crying. She was about to step in and ask her what was wrong when her mother’s sobbing became louder—a roar. She suffocated the noise by grotesquely covering her mouth with both hands, while her eyes exploded in tears. This terrified Nora. Made the blood freeze in her veins. They never spoke about the incident, but Nora had been imprinted with that image of pain. She changed. Perhaps forever. She took better care of her mother and of herself and always worked harder than anyone else.

  As dementia settled in, Nora’s mother started to complain. About everything and all the time. Her resentments and anger, accumulated through the years and quieted by civility, came forth in torrents of incoherent nagging. And Nora took it all. She would never abandon her mother.

  Three hours before dawn, Nora’s mother opened her eyes. And for a fleeting moment she was lucid. It happened now and then but less often than before. In a way, Nora thought, her mother, like the strigoi, was supplanted by another will and it was quite eerie whenever she snapped out of the trancelike disease and looked at Nora. At Nora as she was, right here, right now.

  “Nora? Where are we?” she said.

  “Shh, Mama. We are okay. Go back to sleep.”

  “Are we in a hospital? Am I sick?” she asked, agitated.

  “No, Mama. It’s all right. Everything is fine.” Nora’s mother held her daughter’s hand firmly and lay back down in her cot. She caressed her shaved head.

  “What happened? Who did this to you?” she asked, mortified.

  Nora kissed her mother’s hand. “Nobody, Mom. It will grow back. You’ll see.”

  Nora’s mother looked at her with great lucidity, and after a long pause she asked, “Are we going to die?”

  And Nora didn’t know what to say. She began to sob, and her mother hushed her now and hugged her and kissed her softly on the head. “Don’t cry, my dear. Don’t cry.”

  She then held her head and looked her daughter straight in the eye and said, “Looking back on one’s life, you see that love was the answer to everything. I love you, Nora. I always will. And that we will have forever.”

  They fell asleep together and Nora lost track of the time. She woke up
and saw that the sky was clearing.

  What now? They were trapped. Away from Fet, away from Eph. With no way out. Except the butter knife.

  She took a final look at the shank. She would go to Barnes and use it and then . . . then maybe she would turn it on herself.

  Suddenly it didn’t look sharp enough. She worked on the edge and the tip until dawn.

  Sewage Processing Plant

  THE STANFORD SEWAGE Processing Plant lay beneath a hexagonal red brick building on La Salle Street between Amsterdam and Broadway. Built in 1906, the plant was meant to keep up with the area’s demands and growth for at least a century. During its first decade, the plant processed thirty million gallons of raw sewage a day. But the influx of people delivered by two consecutive world wars soon made that rate insufficient. The neighbors also complained about shortness of breath, eye infections, and a general sulfurous smell emanating from the building 24/7. The plant shut down partially in 1947 and completely five years after that.

  The inside of it was immense, even majestic. There was a nobility to industrial turn-of-the-century architecture that has since been lost. Twin wrought-iron staircases led to the catwalks above, and the cast-iron structures that filtered and processed the raw sewage had barely been vandalized over the years. Faded graffiti and a three-feet-deep deposit of silt, dry leaves, dog poop, and dead pigeons were the only signs of abandonment. A year before, Gus Elizalde had stumbled onto it and had cleaned one of the reservoirs by hand, turning it into his own personal armory.

  The only access was through a tunnel, and only by using a massive iron valve locked with a heavy stainless steel chain.

  Gus wanted to show off his weapons cache, so they could load up for the raid on the blood camp. Eph had stayed behind—needing some alone time after finally seeing his son, via video, after two long years, standing alongside the Master and his vampire mother. Fet had renewed understanding for Eph’s unique plight, the toll the vampire strain had taken on his life, and Fet sympathized completely. But still, on their way to the improvised armory, Fet discreetly complained about Eph, about how his focus was slipping. He complained in only practical terms, without malice, without rancor. Maybe with just a touch of jealousy, since Goodweather’s presence still could get in the way of him and Nora.

  “I don’t like him,” said Gus. “Never did. Guy bitches about what he doesn’t have, loses sight of what he does have, and is never happy. He’s what you call a—what’s that word?”

  “Pessimist?” said Fet.

  “Asshole,” said Gus.

  “He’s gone through a lot,” said Fet.

  “Oh, really. Oh, I’m so fucking sorry. I always wanted my mother to stand naked in a cell with a fucking helmet glued to her fucking cabeza.”

  Fet almost smiled. Gus was ultimately right. No man should ever have to go through what Eph was going through. But still, Fet needed him functional and battle-ready. Their corps was shrinking, and getting everyone’s best effort was critical.

  “He’s never fucking happy. His wife nags him too much? Bam!! She is gone!! Now, boo-hoo-boo, if only I could get her back . . . Bam!! She’s undead, boo-hoo-boo, poor me, my wife is a fucking vampire . . . Bam!! They take his son. Boo-hoo-fucking-boo, if only I could have him back . . . It never fucking ends with him. Who you love or who you protect is all there is, man. Fucked-up as it may be. If my mother looks like the ugliest porno Power Ranger, I don’t care, man. That’s what I have. I have my mama. See? I don’t give up,” said Gus. “And I don’t give a fuck. When I go, I wanna go fighting those fuckers. Maybe because I’m a fire sign.”

  “You’re a what?” said Fet.

  “Gemini,” said Gus. “In the zodiac. A fire sign.”

  “Gemini is an air sign, Gus,” said Fet.

  “Whatever. I still don’t give a fuck,” said Gus. Then after a long pause, he added, “If we still had the old man here, we’d be on top by now.”

  “I believe that,” said Fet.

  Gus slowed in the darkened underground tunnel and started to unlock the padlock.

  “So, about Nora,” he said. “Have you . . . ?”

  “No—no,” said Fet, blushing. “I . . . no.”

  Gus smiled in the dark. “She doesn’t even know, huh?”

  “She knows,” said Fet. “At least—I think she does. But we haven’t done much about it.”

  “You will, big boy,” said Gus as he opened the access valve to the armory. “Bienvenido a Casa Elizalde!” he said, extending his arms and showing a wide array of automatic weapons and swords and ammo of all calibers.

  Fet patted him on the back while nodding. He eyed a box of hand grenades. “Where the fuck did you get these?”

  “Pfft. A boy needs his toys, man. And the bigger, the better.”

  Fet said, “Any specific uses in mind?”

  “Too many. I’m saving ’em for something special. Why, you got any ideas?”

  Fet said, “How about detonating a nuclear bomb?”

  Gus laughed harshly. “That actually sounds like fun.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Because I didn’t come back from Iceland completely empty-handed.”

  Fet told Gus about the Russian bomb he had bought with silver.

  “No mames?” Gus said. “You have a nuclear bomb?”

  “But no detonator. That’s where I was hoping you could help me out.”

  “You’re serious?” Gus asked. He hadn’t moved past the previous exchange. “A nuclear bomb?”

  Fet nodded modestly.

  “Much respect, Fet,” said Gus. “Much respect. Let’s take out the island. Like—right fucking now!”

  “Whatever we do with it . . . we get one shot. We need to be sure.”

  “I know who can get us the detonator, man. The only asshole that is still capable of getting anything dirty, anything crooked on the whole East Coast. Alfonso Creem.”

  “How would you go about contacting him? Crossing to Jersey is like going into East Germany.”

  “I have my ways,” said Gus. “You just leave it to Gusto. How you think I got the fucking grenades?”

  Fet went silent, pensive, and then looked back at Gus.

  “Would you trust Quinlan? With the book?”

  “The old man’s book? The Silver whatever?”

  Fet nodded. “Would you share it with him?”

  “I don’t know, man,” said Gus. “I mean, sure—it’s just a book.”

  “The Master wants the book for a reason. Setrakian sacrificed his life for it. Whatever is inside must be real. Your friend Quinlan thinks as much . . .”

  “What about you?” asked Gus.

  “Me?” Fet said. “I have the book—but I can’t do much with it myself. You know that saying ‘He’s so dumb, he couldn’t find a prayer in the Bible’? Well, I can’t find much. There’s some trick to it, maybe. We should be so close.”

  “I’ve seen him, man—Quinlan. Shit, I’ve recorded that motherfucker cleaning a nest in a New York minute. Two, three dozen vampires.”

  Gus smiled, cherishing his memories. Fet liked Gus even more when he smiled.

  “In jail you learn that there are two kinds of guys in this world—and I don’t care if they’re human or bloodsuckers—there’s the ones that take it and the ones that hand it out. And this guy, man—this guy gives it out like fucking candy . . . He wants the hunt, man. He wants the hunt. And he’s maybe the one other orphan out here who hates the Master as much as we do.”

  Fet nodded. In his heart the matter was resolved.

  Quinlan would get the book. And Fet would get some answers.

  Extract from the Diary of Ephraim Goodweather

  Most midlife crises are not this bad. In the past, it used to be that people would watch their youth fade, their marriage break, or their careers grow stagnant. Those were the breaks, usually eased by a new car, a dab of Just for Men, or a big Mont Blanc pen, depending on your budget. But what I have lost cannot be compensated for. My heart races every time I think of
it, every time I sense it. It is over. Or it will be over soon enough. Whatever I had, I have squandered—and what I hoped for will never be. Things around me have taken their permanent, horrible final form. All the promise in my life—youngest graduate in my class, the big move east, meeting the perfect girl—all that is gone. The evenings of cold pizza and a movie. Of feeling like a giant in my son’s eyes . . .

  When I was a kid, there was this guy on TV called Mr. Rogers, and he used to sing: “You can never go down / can never go down / can never go down the drain.” What a fucking lie.

  Once, I might have gathered my past in order to present it as a CV or a list of accomplishments, but now . . . now it seems like an inventory of trivialities, of things that could have been but are not. As a young man I felt the world and my place in it was all part of a plan. That success, whatever that is, was something to be gained simply by focusing on my work—on being good at “What I did.” As a workaholic father, I felt that the day-to-day grind was a way to provide, to see us through while life took its final shape. And now . . . now that the world around me has become an unbearable place, and all I have is the nausea of wrong turns taken and things lost. Now I know this is the real me. The permanent me. The solidified disappointment of that young man’s life—the subtraction of all those achievements of youth—the minus of a plus that was never tallied. This is me: weak, infirm, fading. Not giving up, because I never do . . . but living without faith in myself or my circumstance.

  My heart flutters at the notion of never finding Zack—at the idea that he is gone forever. This I cannot accept. I will not accept.

  Not thinking straight. But I will find him, I know I will. I have seen him in my dreams. His eyes looking at me, making of me that giant once again, calling me by the truest name a man can ever aspire to: “Dad.”

  I have seen a light surrounding us. Purging us. Absolving me—of the booze and the pills and the blind spots of my heart. I have seen this light. I long for it again in a world this dark.

  Beneath Columbia University

  EPH WANDERED AWAY through the subterranean tunnels of the former insane asylum beneath the former Columbia University. All he wanted to do was walk. Seeing Zack atop Belvedere Castle with Kelly and the Master had shaken Eph to the core. Of all the fates he had dreaded for his son—Zack murdered or starving in a locked cage somewhere—standing at the Master’s side had never occurred to him.