Necroscope®

by Brian Lumley

  “Tell him to describe these … things!” Dragosani snapped.

  Before the DO could obey, another call-sign came up unbidden: “Zero, this is Eleven. Fuck One! These bastards are all over the place! If we don’t open fire now they’ll be crawling all over us. You want to know what they are? I’ll tell you: they’re dead men!”

  That was it. It was what Dragosani had feared. Keogh was here, definitely, and he was calling up the dead! But where from?

  “Tell them to fire at will,” he coughed the words out in a spray of froth. “Tell them to cut the bastards down—whatever they are!”

  The DO passed on his orders. But already, from every quarter dull explosions were beginning to pound all around the Château; the harsh clatter of machine-gun fire, too. The defenders had finally used their own initiative, had commenced firing almost point-blank on a zombie army that came marching inexorably through the snow.

  Gregor Borowitz had not lied. He had indeed known his history of warfare, and especially in his native land. In 1579 Moscow had been sacked by Tartars from the Crimea; there had been arguments about the division of the loot from the city; a would-be Khan had challenged the authority of his superiors; he and his splinter group of three hundred horsemen had then been stripped of loot, rank, most of their weapons, and whipped out of the city. Disgraced and scavenging where they could, they had ridden south. It had rained heavily and they had bogged down in a marshy triangle of forest where rivers overflowed their banks. There a five-hundred-strong Russian force riding to the relief of the beleaguered city had come across them in the mist and rain and cut them down to a man. Their bodies had gone down in mud and mire never to be seen again—until now.

  Nor had they needed much persuasion from Harry; indeed they’d seemed merely to be waiting for him, ready at a moment’s notice to fight their way free of the bitter earth where they had lain for four hundred years. Bone by bone, tatter by leathery tatter they had come up, some of them still bearing the rusted arms of yesteryear, and at Harry’s command they’d moved on the Château Bronnitsy.

  Harry had stepped out of the Möbius continuum inside the perimeter walls; the defenders of those walls, gazing outward, hadn’t even seen him or the agonizing emergence of his long-dead army. Moreover, the machine-gun emplacements on the outer walls were pointing the wrong way; which all combined with the night and the snow to give him excellent cover.

  But then there had been the tripwires and other intruder detection devices, and now there was the minefield and the inner ring of disguised pillboxes.

  For Harry none of these obstacles was any great problem: they weren’t even obstacles when at will he could simply step out of this universe and back into it a moment later in any room in the Château where he chose to reappear. But first he wanted to see how his backup force was making out: he wanted the Château’s defenders fully engaged in the business of protecting their own lives, not the life of Boris Dragosani.

  At the moment he was down on his belly in a shallow depression, huddled behind a headless bone-and-leather thing which a moment ago had marched ahead of him towards the pillbox outbuilding where call-sign One and his machine-gunner second in command sat and gibbered through their viewing slits, firing long bursts into the wall of death which slowly bore down on them. A large percentage of Harry’s army—about half of his three hundred—had emerged from the earth in this sector, and the mines were quickly taking an unfair toll of them. Even now the pillbox and its chattering gun were dealing Harry’s army terrific blows.

  He decided to take out the pillbox, broke open Gregor Borowitz’s shotgun and slipped cartridges into the double breach.

  “Take me with you,” begged the Tartar who shielded him. “I helped sack a city once, and this is but a palace.” His skull head had been taken off by shrapnel from a landmine, but that hadn’t seemed to matter much. He still held up a massive, battered iron and bronze shield, its rim dug into the cold earth, upright in the snow, using his own bones and the shield to give Harry as much cover as possible.

  “No,” said Harry, shaking his head. “There won’t be much room in there and I’ll need to get in and get it over with. But I’d be obliged for the use of your shield.”

  “Take it,” said the corpse, releasing the heavy plate from fingers of crusted bone. “I hope it serves you well.”

  A mine went off somewhere to the right, its flash turning the falling snow orange for a moment and its thunder shaking the earth. In the momentary burst of light, Harry had seen an arc of skeletal figures stumbling ever closer to the dark huddled shape of the pillbox; so had the men inside. Armour-piercing machine-gun bullets screamed in the air, blowing apart Tartar remains and coming dangerously close. For all that Harry’s ancient shield was heavy, still it was rotten with rust and decay; he knew it wouldn’t stop a direct hit.

  “Go now!” urged the dead thing where it struggled to its bony feet and lurched forward headlessly. “Kill some of them for me.”

  Harry narrowed his eyes one last time through flurries of snow and fixed the location of the fire-spewing outbuilding in his mind, then rolled sideways through a Möbius door—and into the pillbox.

  No time for thinking in there, and little or no room for movement. What had looked from outside like an old cowshed was in fact a cramped nest of steel plates and concrete blocks, slate-grey gunmetal and shining ammunition belts. Grey light fought its way in through arc-of-fire and viewing slits, turning the cordite and sweat-smelling interior to a drifting smog in which call-sign One and his second in command coughed and spluttered where they worked furiously and feverishly.

  Harry emerged in the tight space behind them, dropping his shield to the concrete floor as he swung up the loaded shotgun.

  Hearing the clatter as the shield fell, both Russians turned in their steel-backed swivel chairs. They saw a white-faced youth in an overcoat cradling a shotgun, his eyes bright points of light above pinched nostrils and the grim, tight line of his mouth.

  “Who—?” gasped One. He looked like some strange, startled, waspish alien in his Château uniform, with his headset for antennae above goggling eyes.

  “How—?” said his second in command, his fingers automatically completing the task of fitting a new belt to the machine-gun.

  Then call-sign One was scrabbling to snatch a pistol from his holster, and his second in command was coming to his feet, cursing.

  Harry felt no pity for them. It was them or him. And there were plenty of others just like them to welcome them where they were going. He pulled the triggers: one for One, two for his second in command, and blew them screaming into the arms of death. The stench of hot blood quickly mingled with acrid cordite and the reek of sweat and fear, causing Harry’s eyes to water. He blinked them furiously, broke open the shotgun and reloaded, found another Möbius door.

  The next pillbox was the same, and the one after that. Six of them in all, they were all the same. Harry took them out in less than two minutes.

  In the last one, when it was done he found the chaotic mind of one of the freshly dead defenders and calmed him. “It’s over for you now,” he said, “but the one who brought all this about is still alive. You’d be home with your family tonight if not for him. And so would I. Now, where’s Dragosani?”

  “In Borowitz’s office, in the tower,” said the other. “He’s turned it into the control room. There’ll be others with him.”

  “I expect there will,” said Harry, staring into the Russian’s shattered, smoking, unrecognizable face. “Thanks.”

  And then there was only one thing left to do, but Harry fancied he’d need a little help to do it.

  He snapped open the clamps that held the machine-gun in place on its swivelling base, took up the heavy gun and hurled it down to the hard floor, then lifted it and threw it down again. After being dashed to the concrete three or four times the hard wooden stock splintered lengthwise, allowing Harry to break off a jagged stake with a flat base and a sharp, hardwood point.


  He reached for his cartridges and found only one left, gritted his teeth and loaded the single cartridge into his shotgun. It would have to be enough. Then he pulled open the pillbox door and stepped out into the swirling snow.

  In the near distance, softened by night and the fast-falling snow, the Château blazed with light, its searchlight beams cutting to and fro as they searched for targets. Most of Harry’s army—what remained of it—was already at the walls of the Château itself, however, from which the staccato yammering of machine-guns now sounded unceasingly. The remaining defenders were trying to kill dead men, and they were finding it hard.

  Harry looked about, saw a group of latecomers leaning into the snow as they plodded towards the beleaguered building. Eerie figures they were, gaunt scarecrow men, creaking past him in monstrous animation. But death held no fears for Harry Keogh. He stopped two of them, a pair of mummied cadavers a little less ravaged than the rest, and offered one the hardwood stake. “For Dragosani,” he said.

  The other Tartar carried a great curving sword all scabbed with rust; Harry reckoned he’d used it in his day to devastating effect. Well, and now—with any justice—he’d use it again. He pointed to the sword, nodded, said. “That, too, is for Dragosani—for the vampire in him.”

  Then he conjured a Möbius door and guided his sere companions through it.

  * * *

  Inside the Château Bronnitsy it had been all hell let loose almost from the beginning. The place had been built two hundred and thirty years ago on an ancient battlefield; the building itself was a mausoleum for a dozen of the fiercest of all the Tartar warriors. And its protection had kept the peaty ground pliant, so that the bodies which had lain there were more truly mummies than fleshless corpses.

  Also, Dragosani had ordered the great stone flags in the cellars lifted and floorboards ripped out in his search for signs of sabotage; and so, at Harry Keogh’s first call, there had been little to deter these reanimated Tartars as they’d struggled up from their centuried graves to answer his command and prowl the Château’s corridors, laboratories and conservatories. And wherever they found ESPers or defenders, they had simply put them down out of hand.

  Now all that remained were the fortified machine-gun positions in the Château’s own walls, which allowed the men within them no egress, no means of escape. The machine-gun posts could only be entered from within the Château; there were no exterior doors, no way out. The voice of one such call-sign trapped in his fortified position told Dragosani the entire story in every gory detail where he raged and frothed in his tower control room:

  “Comrade, this is madness, madness!” the voice moaned over Dragosani’s control radio, blocking all other traffic—if any remained to be blocked! “They are … zombies, dead men! And how may we kill dead men? They come—and my gunner cuts them down and shoots them to pieces—and then the pieces come! Outside, a pile of pieces wriggles and kicks and builds itself into a wall against the wall of the Château. Trunks, legs, arms, hands—even the smaller pieces and the naked bones themselves! Soon they will pour in through the gun slits, and what then?”

  Dragosani snarled, more animal now than ever, and shook his fists at the night and the drifting snow beyond the tower’s windows. “Keogh!” he raged. “I know you’re there, Keogh. So come if you’re coming and let’s be done with it.”

  “They’re inside the Château, too!” the voice on the radio sobbed. “We’re trapped in here. My gunner is a madman now. He raves even as he works his gun. I’ve jammed the steel door shut but something continues to batter at it, trying to get in. I know what it is, for I saw it; it stuck a leathery claw inside before I could slam the door on its wrist; now the hand—oh God, the hand!—claws at my legs and tries to climb. I kick it away but it always returns. See, see? Again! Again!” And his voice tapered off into static and a crackling peal of laughter.

  Simultaneous with the idiot sounds from the radio, suddenly Yul Galenski cried out in terror from his anteroom office. “The stairs! They’re coming up the stairs!” His voice was shrill as a girl’s; he had no experience of fighting; he was a clerk, a secretary. And in any case, who had experience of such as this?

  The DO had been standing at the window, white-faced, trembling; but now he snatched up a machine-pistol and rushed through to Galenski where he backed away from the outer door to the landing. On his way he grabbed blast grenades from Dragosani’s desk. At least he is a man! thought Dragosani, grudgingly.

  Then came the DO’s yelp of horror, his cursing, the chatter of his machine-pistol, finally the tearing explosion of grenades where he armed them and dropped them down the stairwell. And coming immediately after the thunder of the explosives, the last message from the unknown call-sign:

  “No! No! Mother in heaven! My gunner has shot himself and now they’re coming through the gun slits! Hands without arms! Heads without bodies! I think I shall have to follow my gunner, for he is out of all this now. But these … remains! They crawl among the grenades! No—stop that!” There came the distinct ch-ching of a grenade armed, more screaming and gibbering and sounds of chaos, and finally a massive burst of static following which—nothing.

  The radio sat and hissed background static at itself. And suddenly the Château Bronnitsy seemed very quiet.…

  It was a quiet which couldn’t last. As the DO backed into Galenski’s office from the landing, where smoke and cordite stench curled up acridly from below, so Harry Keogh and his Tartar companions emerged from the Möbius continuum. They were there, in the anteroom, as if someone had suddenly switched them on.

  The DO heard Galenski’s wail of abject terror and disbelief, whirled in a half-circle—and saw what Galenski had seen: a grim, smoke-grimed young man flanked by menacing mummy-things of black leather and gleaming white bone. The sight of them alone—right here, in this room with him—was almost sufficient to freeze him, unman him. But not quite. Life was dear.

  Lips drawn back in a rictus of desperation and fear, the DO gurgled something meaningless and swung up his machine-pistol … only to be lifted off his feet and thrown back out onto the landing, his face turning to raw pulp as Harry discharged his last cartridge at point-blank range.

  In another moment Harry’s companions had turned their attention to Galenski where he gibbered and grovelled in a corner behind his desk, and Harry had stepped through into what was once Gregor Borowitz’s inner sanctum. Dragosani, in the act of hurling the extinct radio from its table, turned and saw him. His great jaws gaped his surprise; pointing an unsteady hand, he hissed like a snake, his red eyes blazing. And for the merest moment the two faced each other.

  There had been dramatic changes in both men, but in Dragosani the differences could only be likened to a complete metamorphosis.

  Harry recognized him, yes, but in any other situation he could hardly have known him. As for Harry himself: little of his former personality or identity remained. He had inherited a great sum of talents and now surely transcended Homo sapiens. Indeed, both men were alien beings, and in that frozen moment as they stared at each other they knew it. Then—

  Dragosani saw the shotgun in Harry’s hands but couldn’t know it was useless. Hissing his hatred and expecting at any moment to hear the weapon’s roar, he bounded to Borowitz’s great oak desk and fumbled for a machine-pistol. Harry reversed the shotgun, stepped forward and dealt the necromancer a crashing blow to the head and neck where he scrabbled at the desk. Dragosani was knocked flying, the machine-pistol thudding to the carpeted floor. He collided with a wall and for a moment stood there spread-eagled, then went into a crouch. And now he saw that the shotgun in Harry’s hands was broken where the stock joined the barrels, saw Harry’s eyes frantically searching the room for another weapon, saw that he had the advantage and needed no weapon made by men to finish this thing.

  Galenski’s bubbling screams from the anteroom were suddenly cut off. Harry backed towards the half-open door. Dragosani wasn’t about to let him go. He leaped forward, grabbed him by th
e shoulder and held him effortlessly with one hand at arm’s length.

  Hypnotized by the sheer horror of the man’s face, Harry found it impossible to look away. He panted for air, felt himself squeezed dry by the awesome power of this creature.

  “Aye, pant,” growled Dragosani. “Pant like a dog, Harry Keogh—and die like a dog!” And he bayed a laugh like nothing Harry had ever heard before.

  Still holding his victim, now the necromancer crouched down into himself and his jaws opened wide. Needle teeth dripped slime and something moved in his gaping mouth which wasn’t quite a tongue. His nose seemed to flatten to his face and grew ridged, like the convoluted snout of a bat, and one scarlet eye bulged hideously while the other narrowed to a mere slit. Harry stared directly into hell and couldn’t look away.

  And knowing he’d won, finally Dragosani hurled his bolt of mental horror—at which precise moment the door behind Harry crashed open and threw him from the necromancer’s grasp. The door gave him cover where he fell to the floor, while at the same time another stepped creakingly into the room to take the full force of Dragosani’s blast. And seeing what had entered, too late Dragosani remembered Max Batu’s warning: how one must never curse the dead, for the dead can’t die twice!

  The bolt was deflected, reflected, turned upon Dragosani himself. In Batu’s story a man had been shrivelled by just such a blast, but in Dragosani’s case it wasn’t as bad as that—or perhaps it was worse.

  He seemed picked up in some giant’s fist and hurled across the room. Bones snapped in his legs where they hit the desk, and he was set spinning by his own momentum. The wall brought him up short again, but this time he crumpled to the floor. And clawing himself up into a seated position, he screamed continuously in a voice like a giant’s chalk on slate. His broken legs flopped on the floor as if they were made of rubber, and he flailed his arms spastically, blindly in the air before his face.

  Blindly, yes, for that was where his own mind-blast had struck home: his eyes!