by Watts, Peter
Vega could think of nothing to say.
"You have killed each other by the millions…because you don't agree about what happens to you...after you kill each other."
Vega stared at him, mouth agape.
"Your mind is full of questions."
Vega gave a deep sigh. Yes.
The boy turned toward Vega and placed a small hand against his cheek; the tiny frigid fingers pulsed with a strength that unnerved him.
Suddenly, what felt like an invisible icepick lanced Vega’s brain; his body went numb. With great effort he tried to remove his son's hand, but to his horror, discovered he couldn't move.
A presence entered his mind…invading his thoughts, violating him.
Images flooded his mind. No...not images, more like tangible memories... memories that weren't his. They were alien, in the truest sense of the word.
He was back on Earth. He could see, taste it. Smell it. But the experience wasn't nostalgic. It was terrible…it was…God, no…
It was the end of everything.
Why? Vega's mind pleaded. Why us?
The question had lain dormant in him—gnawed at him, from the beginning.
Somewhere beyond the alien thoughts, he felt something familiar. A comforting presence. Pure. Innocent.
Of course…it was his son!
I won’t let it hurt you, Daddy.
Was that a thought…or a feeling? Vega couldn't tell. But it was Arrycc all right. Some small part of him still alive…still fighting...still loving his father.
Vega reached for him in his mind. Goddamnit, he was the one who should be comforting his son. He was the one who should be the protector, not the other way around.
I'm sorry, Daddy.
The voice seemed to come from deep within, as if beneath a great body of water. It repeated the same thing over and over—I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry, Daddy—the voice sinking deeper into an ocean of nothingness.
At that moment Vega knew—he was only alive because his son’s love had been stronger than the parasite. And the final gift he offered his father were answers to the questions that had haunted him since the start of the invasion.
The information came all at once like a quantum speed download. But they weren't thoughts as normally processed by the brain. This was experiential. His mind was not his own anymore. He was experiencing the past through the prism of an alien intelligence.
No longer was he in the known universe—it was another dimension of time and space. He was one of them now. There was no English translation for their name; the most appropriate word his mind could grasp was…Legion.
They were more sophisticated than anything he could imagine, yet like all living organisms, they required sustenance. As interdimensional predators their mission was simple: eat and reproduce.
The Legion that invaded Earth was a tiny fraction of their race’s immeasurable size—yet they had consumed the human population in a matter of months. It was the way of the Legion, an event called the Feeding that took place once every few million years.
At the end of the Legion’s feeding and reproductive cycle, they would withdraw from the reaped world and return to their interdimensional limbo, where they would hibernate—until it was again time for the Feeding.
But that wasn't the true horror of the Legion. They were also a highly advanced race of engineers that created life to sustain their great hunger throughout the multiverse. They seeded planets and gave them time to develop and grow, returning millions of years later for the harvest.
Earth was only one of these worlds.
It had been seeded by the Legion with hominids genetically cultivated to evolve and populate the planet.
Vega screamed in his mind, desperate to break contact with the information stream. He feared his sanity was starting to slip.
It couldn’t be! The Legion had created humanity and nearly destroyed it. They were our gods and our devils.
Something snapped then, like an invisible tether, and the telepathic link was disconnected. Vega immediately regained control over his thoughts and his body again.
His eyes snapped open and he recoiled at the face of his son, whose nose was only inches from his. The curves of his smile had barbs to the edges.
“I know you have a disruptor hidden on you,” said the ghastly thing within his son's body. "But you won't use it. You love him too much.”
Arrycc’s head exploded outward in a fine red spray, showering Vega with his own flesh and blood.
“You're right ...” said Vega. “… I love him too much."
He tossed the disruptor, still warm from its discharge, across the room.
He collapsed onto the destroyed body of his son and allowed himself to weep. It grew into a horrific wail as the terrible grieving he’d kept bottled up inside finally came pouring out.
~
Vega spent several hours cleaning up the remains of his son’s body before awakening a handful of essential crewmembers. The landing preparations and briefing of his most senior staff were welcome distractions. When he brought up the tragedy of losing 26 passengers, he had shed real tears; the fact that his son had been amongst the victims went a long way toward avoiding suspicion.
Docking at Zeta-12 had gone like clockwork. Dr. Tael, along with two very attractive lab assistants, had been gracious, accommodating, and had screened the crew of the Phoenix with diplomacy and grace. Once the screenings were completed and the landing party of ten had been cleared, Tael gave them a tour of the impressive facility. According to Tael’s calculations, their terraforming work was nearly complete.
That evening, a feast for Vega and his crew was prepared; it was a celebration of their survival and the human race.
Vega was grateful. Tael and her team's hospitality, empathy and optimism had gone a long way toward lifting the somber spirits of the crew. He actually heard Sygar, his science officer, laugh at a joke Kentol, the communications officer, had made. Sygar retold the joke and sent the whole crew into gales of laughter. The joke wasn't really that funny, but in times of great stress, laughter was like a release valve—once it was opened, it came in an unstoppable flood.
When the laughter had finally subsided, Vega felt light-headed. He couldn't remember the last time he had laughed that hard. He felt positively giddy. As he looked around at his crew, he noticed they all had odd, silly expressions on their faces. If he didn't know any better, he’d have sworn they all looked...
Drugged.
That was Vega's last thought before the darkness consumed him.
~
"Wake up, Captain Vega. They want you awake when they feed."
Vega's eyes fluttered open. He was strapped to a gurney and gazing into the cold eyes of Dr. Tael.
The gray-haired woman offered a perverse grin. "Apparently, adrenaline makes our blood taste that much sweeter."
Vega had been stripped naked and was covered with a thin, bloodstained sheet. He struggled futilely against his bindings. Within minutes his gurney was being pushed through a long, narrow passageway. The lighting was sparse, casting everything in shadow. They appeared to be in the lower levels of Zeta-12, probably somewhere in the storage area.
Tael was walking along the right side of him tapping notes into a com-pad. Vega glanced up to see a fresh-faced woman with lovely hair and a perfectly shaped nose looking down at him as she pushed the gurney through the murkiness. One of Tael’s lab assistants—Myris was her name?
It had been impossible to keep all of their names straight; the Zeta-12 crew was over 70 strong. He suddenly recalled a term he'd heard from stories back on Earth: ‘Familiars’. They were a lesser known, but essential part of ancient vampire lore. Like so many facets of vampire legend that had originated with the Legion, they had proved to be true. Familiars were humans who worked with vampires but had not yet been turned; they were useful because of their ability to walk in the daylight and do the dirty work of their masters.
Some familiars were controlled psychical
ly, while others had personal reasons for their service; the promise of power and immortality were irresistible to some.
Zeta-12 had never been humankind’s last hope—it was to be its final stop. His crew had been doomed from the day they left ORION. There had never been a cure, of that he was convinced. It had been a lure to get the very last of them—the Legion didn't leave survivors.
The gurney stopped abruptly. Tael entered a code into a control interface built into the wall. A moment later, a dull metal door slid open, and the foul odor that wafted out made Vega gag. Neither Tael nor her assistant seemed to be bothered.
“I'll take it from here.” Tael said to the blonde, who glanced down at Vega, offering a smile devoid of warmth. "Goodbye," she said.
A space station populated with familiars, Vega thought. His crew never stood a chance.
He had heard stories about familiars—or people like them—back on Earth during the invasion; some were high-ranking government officials and military officers that had helped the vamps during several critical stages of the war.
What had they been promised? Power? Immortality? Whatever the case, the joke had been on them—eventually they had fared no better than the rest of humanity.
He felt a jerk as he was pulled into the shadows of a sizable room, the metal creaking of his gurney echoing eerily. The only illumination in the stench-filled space was ambient light from the passageway.
“I'm afraid this is where we part ways,” said Tael. “Take some comfort in knowing that you’ll join us in service to our Alpha.”
“Alpha?” Vega said, and his teeth chattered as he said it.
“The leader of our little group.”
Vega grunted in acknowledgment.
Tael locked the wheels of the gurney and started to leave.
Vega called out. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes?”
“What did this…Alpha promise you?”
Tael hesitated for a moment and then said, “The survival of our species.”
Vega had to laugh. “Well then, Doc… I guess the joke’s on all of us.”
"Really.”
"Yeah. See...there's this one little thing they probably didn't tell you.
The stone-faced woman stepped closer, suddenly interested in what Vega had to say.
"We're not the first ones to populate Earth,” Vega said with gritted teeth. “And we won’t be the last.”
Tael’s face was hidden in the darkness, but her silence spoke volumes.
“You would've been better off developing a real cure, Doc. Once the feeding is over, they’ll wipe the slate clean and press the reset button.”
Tael began to walk away.
Vega called out with a vengeful laugh, “You’re going to vanish like you never existed…you just don't know it yet!"
"We’ll see," Tael said with a slight waver right before the heavy door closed behind her.
Vega grinned in the darkness. That had given him a modicum of satisfaction. He could hear Tael’s footsteps resonating through the empty passageway beyond the door. Once they faded, all he could hear was his own heavy breathing.
Or was that all?
He listened closer. Something else was in the room.
It had been waiting.
It moved. And what he heard next sounded like the gnashing of enormous teeth.
As his eyes began to adjust to the darkness he noticed something hanging above him; it was immense in size and staring right at him. Its twelve eyes had a pulsing luminance.
With slow deliberation, it lowered its hideous, misshapen body toward him. It looked like five or six people fused together somehow, as if one human body wasn’t enough to contain it. And inside its gaping maw were rows of needle-sharp teeth, seeming to jostle and compete with each other.
Vega closed his eyes.
He thought of the ten billion or so that had been erased from existence and wondered about the meaning of it all. He dove deeper into the shadowy maze of his mind, searching…and when he had finally reached what felt like the bottom of an abyss; he found what he was looking for. It was warm and familiar; a comforting feeling that came from thoughts of his wife and son.
Perhaps love had been the point after all.
Maybe next time, he thought, humanity will get it right.
Taylor Grant is a professional screenwriter, author, multiple award-winning copywriter, filmmaker, actor, editor and publisher. His work has been seen on network television, screened at the Cannes Film Festival, performed on stage, as well as appeared in comic books, national magazines, anthologies, the Web, newspapers and heard on the radio.
As an author, Taylor has shared pages with some of the most critically acclaimed and bestselling authors in the horror industry, with stories in publications such as the Bram Stoker Award®-nominated anthology Horror For Good and multiple award-winning magazine Cemetery Dance. Taylor is currently the Co-Founder and Editor in Chief of Evil Jester Comics, and has written comic book adaptations of celebrated works by authors such as Jack Ketchum, Jonathan Maberry, Ramsey Campbell, and William F. Nolan.
17
Jonathan Templar
People could say what they liked about Doctor Daniel Cochrane, and believe me, they did. But the guy sure knew how to advertise. He knew exactly who to target and exactly how to go about grabbing their attention.
He went for the teenagers, the Goths and misfits, plastered the faces of their heroes on pop-ups that they found in whatever dark corner of the internet they retreated to, bemoaning how the real world just didn’t understand them. ‘Why pretend?’ his ads asked them, over a picture of a glowering, pale-faced Robert Pattinson. ‘No more make up, no more Cosplay. Be the thing you were born to be. For Real.’
He targeted the beauty magazines, couldn’t afford much more than a box ad you’d have to squint to read, but he made every expensive word count. He knew that the ageing beauties desperate for some way of halting the advance of maturity, they’d give anything a shot. ‘Don’t wait until you need surgery to turn back the clock, let me help you make the clock stop for good. Be the “you” you are today for the rest of your life.’ Beneath the text, the address of the clinic’s website. I don’t know for sure, but I bet the server crashed the day that advert first appeared.
Cochrane’s whole business plan was built on the idea that people were desperate to stay young, or to be different. He figured he didn’t have to sell them an idea, they already had that. He just had to sell them a solution. And, in his defence, he really thought he’d found one.
I don’t know how many people checked out that website, read up on the treatment he was offering. I’m sure someone has some idea how many of them came to visit, had an interview with the good doctor and then found the price too high to pay, in one respect or another.
But the statistic I do know, the one that’s been carved into my memory more permanently than my own kid’s birthday, is that seventeen of them went ahead and signed on the dotted line, handed over seventy-five thousand dollars apiece and then let Cochrane turn them into a vampire. Thirteen women and four men. The ones the press like to call victims, until I slap a writ down on them before the ink has had a chance to dry. Victims don’t sign a contract waving liability, I’m forced to remind them.
Until a judge says otherwise, they’re to be referred to only as patients.
People still ask me why I defended Cochrane. The answer’s always been the same. There was no reason not to. I’m still not sure what the guy did wrong. He didn’t lie to anyone. He didn’t promise a single patient anything that he didn’t subsequently provide. If they didn’t fully appreciate the scale of what they were asking for, if they all built their fantasies of what it would be like to live forever, what would happen if they stopped being a human being and became something... something else, on some fairy tale happy ending, well that’s their own fault, in my humble opinion. And, as it turns out, that of the legal system of the United States of America. Just because they were stup
id enough to romanticise the fucking undead, well, you might as well try and put Buffy the Vampire Slayer in the dock. Or Stephanie Myer. Or whichever piece of farfetched shit they were into.
But there was one other reason I agreed to represent Cochrane.
I knew I could win.
~
Like I said, and you probably knew already, Cochrane performed the procedure on seventeen patients. Initially, Cochrane looked like he was facing a class action suit, but one by one the patients’ families dropped out. You could hardly blame them. Whatever their loved ones had become, whatever horror the poor bastards were dealing with on a daily basis, the prospect of having them paraded around in front of a courtroom full of leering spectators in the hope they might get to share a few bucks between them at the end of it, well let’s just say it was easy to talk them all down. Many of them had strong cause to keep their condition secret from prying eyes. I saw the names on the list, and you would recognise a fair few of them. How many ageing Hollywood dames have gracefully retired from the scene over the last year or so? How many leaders of business have finally decided to pass their directorships on to the heirs they had always denied in the past? They say that there is no such thing as bad publicity, but I got close enough to some of the seventeen to know that’s a crock. I talked them all down, and in most cases it wasn’t very hard. In the few instances that it was, the suggestion that Cochrane might throw back a counter suit of his own, that any litigation the families began would drag on for longer than any of them could possibly bare, that tended to break the camel’s back. The representatives of sixteen patients all grudgingly accepted their own responsibility for the creation of the monsters they had become.
That just left number seventeen. The fucking McGovern family. Time Magazine stuck them on the cover and asked if they were ‘America’s Most Notorious Parents?’ The fact that they had that very cover framed and hung in pride of place at their own home should answer that question pretty comprehensively. They weren’t going to give up without a fight, just so long as it got their faces plastered over the national news. So Cochrane went to court.