Dracula's Ghost: Apocalypse - Chapter 9
Part II: And the Sea Gave Up Its Dead...
I.
Dracula
1893
The netherworld in which he spends the daylight hours is the shore of a dead lake that no man has seen for centuries, and he does not bother to explore his surroundings, for one stone is like another. Instead, he recites the fragments of old lessons and mumbles snippets of alchemical lore and ancient formulae whose meaning and significance are lost in the mists of time. At sunset, he awakens with a feeling of dread, a sensation of creeping doom that lurks beyond the confines of his narrow box. The girl, he thinks, and he hurries to her resting place at the wooded corner of the cemetery.
The citizens of London are slow and stupid, but he is wise enough to know that even dullards can be dangerous, and his existence must remain undetected for decades before he can move openly. His precious boxes of earth are spread throughout the city, and her tomb is another sanctuary, one of many that he plans. The girl is also a weapon to act against his enemies from a safe distance, but now, the entrance to her resting place is barred by the sacramental bread laid in the doorway, and the smell of spilled blood wafts from the mausoleum. They found her while the sun was shining.
Through sheer force of will, he masters the panic that threatens to overwhelm him, and he considers all that has occurred since his arrival. Four men visited the girl prior to her death, and one of them must have discovered his secret. But how? There is only one logical answer, and black anger wells in his throat as he realizes the truth. Jonathan Harker. The Englishman, his body weakened and his mind half-broken, had been left to the mercy of his forsaken brides, yet those pathetic fools had let him slip through their fingers. I should have killed him myself. Still, the interlopers are of little account – tonight, he will go to the asylum, and perhaps the madman will shed more light on the interlopers. Jonathan Harker was a weakling, easily dealt with, and he expects the newcomers to fare little better.
“Are you certain of that?” A woman’s voice, barely remembered, whispers from the ether, and his head jerks about as he searches the darkness. No eyes watch him from the shadows, no spies crouch half-hidden in the tombstones, yet the feeling of alarm stubbornly refuses to abate. It was her voice, but devoid of fear or servility – the voice of an accuser. He clenches his teeth, angry that a servant, even a dead one, would question his judgement.
“When I am finished with him,” he says to no one in particular, “he will wish that he died in the old castle.”
II.
Romania
1989
As a rule, Romanians are no more superstitious than their counterparts in the west, and if any believed in ghosts or ill omens, the terrors of the unseen world paled against the drudgery and suspicion of daily life, for ghosts were no more fearful than the faceless bureaucrats who ruled the nation, and no ghoul aroused more terror than the uniformed thugs of the Securitate. The witch might cast her spell, and the dead might haunt the empty crossroads, but the living had other concerns. The children, however, did not share in the cares of the adult world – and they were afraid.
In the villages around Râmnicu Vâlcea, they began to whisper of the orphans, feral creatures who had no parents, attended no school, and were never seen in the daylight hours. The sons and daughters of farmers, day laborers, and low-level Party functionaries would peep through their windows and see the shadows outside, moving almost playfully as they wandered the darkness of the empty streets. Sometimes, the orphans knocked on doors or scratched at windows, begging for food or seeking playmates, and the children shut their ears as they huddled under woolen blankets, for they knew that to answer those calls was to accede to a deeper request – join us. The few that did so were found sickly and weak with the rising sun, and their parents took them to state-run hospitals in Pitești or Târgoviște or Bucharest, scraping together their meager resources to move the child as far as possible from Râmnicu Vâlcea. Perhaps the adults knew more than they consciously understood – or understood more than they dared to speak aloud.
Only one adult was attacked, for an elderly pensioner was found one morning by the roadside. He was taken to the local clinic and questioned by the police at some length. “The schoolgirl. She was seeking her parents, and I invited her into my house.” They searched the village and confirmed that no children were missing, and when the pensioner died two days later, he was buried in a pauper’s grave at the edge of the village. The next morning, the police made another round through the town, and when they rounded up the local boys, their questions were decidedly harsher. A degree of adolescent foolishness was tolerated, but this act went beyond disrespect and hinted at the workings of a disturbed mind.
For the pensioner’s grave had been opened, and the body had gone missing.
III.
Hamburg, Federal Republic of Germany
The window of her room faced east, and she awakened as a thin ray of sunshine cut through the gap in the curtains. Evangeline Morris had never been a sound sleeper, for shadows took on grotesque shapes in the corners of her darkened bedroom, and every sound – a distant siren or barking dog – jolted her into a panicked wakefulness. Last night’s sleep had been even worse than usual. The hotel was old and dingy like this one, she thought, and in her dream, the dead gathered as she wandered the hallways, moving among pallid ghosts who looked upon the solidity of her flesh and bone with envy. “As you are now, so once was I,” a voice whispered in the darkness. “As I am now, so you soon – very soon – will be.” In the lounge, Quincy Morris sat at a barstool, drinking from a battered metal flask, and though she drew near to him, her grandfather did not acknowledge her presence.
What have you turned loose among the residents of this fine city?” The dark-haired woman wore a bloodstained dress, and the red smears about her mouth matched the color of her eyes. Evangeline had startled awake and lain panting in the darkness, envying those who slept in the bliss of ignorance.
She rose now and opened the curtains, half-fearful that the woman from her dream would be waiting at the window. Instead, pure light flooded the room, and a sob of relief escaped her throat as she laid her head against the glass. To her right, an empty bedroom lay beyond an adjoining door, and when the shaking of her limbs subsided, Evangeline crossed the threshold to take stock of the night’s work – the empty space remained as she had left it. Not quite, she thought. Someone opened the window last night. She stared at the small box, where an owl lay sleeping upon a bed of grave soil. If she wanted, she could cast it into the street, where the wooden frame would shatter into a thousand pieces and its contents would be exposed to the rising sun. Evangeline half-wondered what she would see in those final moments.
Stop it – he saved your life, remember? He trusted you.
He did. And every night, I wonder who has disappeared, who has sickened and died. I wonder what I will say when the police arrive to question me about a murder. On the narrow ledge of the window lay a pair of half-eaten mice, their bodies displayed, perhaps, for her own edification.
She returned to her own room and turned on the television. The morning news reported that the border fence in Czechoslovakia had been dismantled, and a flood of East German refugees were pouring into Bavaria. No disappearances, no dead bodies in an alley or empty park. The city’s quiescence did little to reassure her, but worrying over the morning news would bring her no closer to the end of her journey. Evangeline Morris laid out her clothes and drew a bath, and when the warm water eased her mind, she went downstairs to have breakfast.
IV.
Gdansk
The shipping agent was a balding man of thirty-five whose flannel shirt was a concession to propriety, for the outer garment concealed the Sex Pistols concert tee that adorned his chest. He nodded to Holmes and went back to the football match playing out on a black and white television.
“Jimmy.” Holmes tapped his shoulder in annoyance, for they had work to do. “Any news?”
“You might say.” Jimmy’s eyes never wavered from the screen, where a football game played out between bursts of static. “Our friends departed from London three days ago. Got a call on the shortwave yesterday to confirm the refueling stop in Copenhagen.”
“Good. Let me know when they reach the Hel Peninsula. I want to be there when it arrives in port, so that… What are you not telling me?”
“There might be a problem.” Jimmy made a sour face as the ball slipped past the goalkeeper. “The Ceres was supposed to call in one last time to confirm that she was underway. I called the harbormaster this morning, and he confirmed that she departed Copenhagen at three-forty-five yesterday afternoon.”
“Perhaps the captain forgot.”
“Nah.” Jimmy shook his head. “Madam Morris was explicit on that point – ship was to call in before and after the stop in Denmark – and you know how convincing she can be.”
“All right.” Holmes rubbed his chin and wished for his pipe. “Can you raise them on the radio?”
“I already tried,” Jimmy said. “No response.”
Bloody hell, Holmes thought. It could be as simple as a malfunctioning radio… or it could be something much worse.
V.
Aboard the Ceres
This is supposed to be an easy job.
Sergei Kozlov had studied physics at Moscow State University, an acolyte of the sciences toiling beneath the shadow of luminaries such as Kurchatov, Tamm, and Sakharov (though the third man was now persona non grata for his departure from the party line). He was hardworking and bright, for one did not gain admission to the University’s physics program by being stupid, but after two years of study, Sergei realized that he was out of his depth – the abstractions of cosmology and particle physics were simply beyond his grasp. Thus, it was a relief of sorts when he was recruited into the KGB.
He had expected to serve in the agency’s Operations and Technology Directorate, deciphering the atomic secrets of the western powers, but instead –whether from malice or incompetence, Sergei never knew – he had been assigned to the Seventh Directorate for training in internal surveillance. Six years of rooting out dissidents were followed by a posting to wartime Afghanistan and another seven years in every miserable backwater of the eastern bloc. His last assignment, from which he was currently absent without leave, had been to the Soviet Embassy in Bucharest.
“One of your countrymen has been hired to steal a ship.” Sergei found it ironic that one of Nicolae Ceausescu’s spies would present such a lucrative opportunity. “I need someone to ensure that no witnesses will survive to testify in court.” The requested task was simple enough, for Sergei had a good memory for names and faces, and the war in Afghanistan provided an ample supply of men with a talent for violence. Everything worked as expected, and Georgy, Iosif, and Oleg had made short work of the English crew. When they reached Gdansk, Sergei would deal with Penkovsky and the Russian crewmen as well. Alex Penkovsky was large and tough, but Sergei was an experienced judoka, and it would be child’s play to slip an arm around the captain’s neck and squeeze out his life.
The only problem was that damned box in the hold. “Every mission has failure points, seemingly insignificant tasks which will lead to disaster if neglected. This is one of those tasks.” The instructions made little sense, but Acwulf had paid him well, and Sergei assumed that the captain had dealt with the matter. And what do I find when I go into the wheelhouse? The discussion with Penkovsky had been heated.
“Take the shackles to the hold and secure the box – now.”
“I have a boat to steer. You do it, and go fuck yourself while you’re down there.”
In the end, Penkovsky had reluctantly dispatched a crewman, and Dmitri Pankov had entered the hold just before sunset. That was twelve hours ago, Sergei thought, and Pankov had missed his shift on the morning watch. The captain was livid, and to make matters worse, the task was incomplete – Iosif found the shackles at sunrise, lying unused at the entrance to the hold.
“Go into the hold and secure the box. If you see Pankov, put a bullet in his head.”
“I can’t get into the hold. The door is locked from the inside.”
Now he stood at the doorway to the hold, his own face grim. Not locked, Sergei thought – the door had been shut with such force that the metal was visibly buckled at the frame. Sergei doubted that they could force it open, and if something went wrong with the engine, they would be helpless.
And the wooden box lay below them, its contents unsecured.
VI.
Katrina sat up, then stood, and though the surrounding darkness was absolute – even the weak light of the overhead bulbs had vanished – she was surprised to find that she could see. The aisleway that marked the keel of the ship was perfectly visible, a road to nowhere between the stacked bales of cloth. Walk to the end of that aisle, she thought, and the stairs will be there. She could leave at any time, but there was danger above. Perhaps there was danger in the hold as well, a ravening beast that lurked just out of sight, but in the twilight world of her prison, the risk of staying belowdecks felt airy, insubstantial, compared to what waited above.
The box lay undisturbed in the center of the aisle.
She took a step forward, and, glancing along her backtrail, jumped in sudden surprise. A body lay on the floor, perfectly still but alive, its chest rising and falling with the easy regularity of sleep. The slumbering form was clad in old jeans and a dirty blouse, its red hair unkempt and matted with the grime of the hold – her own body. I’m either dead or dreaming. She heard the soft tread of approaching footsteps, and the doppelganger on the floor moaned softly. Dreaming, then. Katrina turned to face the newcomer –
“All those years behind bars, and you never visited once.” Jos Van Helsing was dressed in prison khakis and brown loafers. His hair, gray but still thick at the time of his arrest, had thinned, and its remnants were combed atop the forehead in lank strands. “I warned you about following in old Abraham’s footsteps.”
“Go away.” The sudden presence of her grandfather provoked a sick feeling of revulsion, like worms crawling over her skin. “Go back to hell where you belong.”
“Hell?” The skin stretched about the cheeks as he grinned. “I always thought of hell as a place of torment, but wherever I am, I find myself to be quite happy. I have dreams of the Eastern Front – Krakow, Minsk, the great battles of encirclement on the drive to Moscow – memories so vivid that I could bask in them forever, had duty not called me to your side.”
“What duty is that?” She half-turned, betraying a touch of fear, but Jos Van Helsing paid no attention to the place where her body lay in repose at the back of the hold.
“To be your prophet. To tell you your purpose.” A foul smell filled the air as he approached, but Katrina stood her ground, unwilling to retreat. “In moments of weakness, I would bemoan my imprisonment – I gave myself for the Dutch people, for the Aryan race, only to be betrayed in the end. So unfair. Still, even my defeat had its purpose, for it hardened you, my own flesh and blood, in ways that you do not yet comprehend. I had hopes for my son, but I was given a granddaughter instead, one who will carry out a task that not even I, in my moments of greatest triumph, could have envisioned.”
“You’re lying,” Katrina said, but doubt wormed through her mind as a thousand ghosts whispered into her ear, accusing her. Nazi. Collaborator. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes to shut out the noise.
“You’ll find out the truth soon enough.” Her grandfather laid a hand on her shoulder, and Katrina swatted him away. “When the time comes, you will undo the wrongs of Abraham Van Helsing.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Then ask your friend in the box.” Jos’s tongue protruded from his mouth, licking the thin lips. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to explain it to you.”
She awakened. Katrina’s head pounded as she sat up, and the floor rocked beneath her as she stood on unsteady legs. She checked the time in the glowing face of her digital watch. Four forty-five in the morning. The vision of her grandfather remained fresh in her memory, and though Jos had been an unwelcome visitor, his spectre, like the bodies of the dead crewmen of the previous day, did not especially trouble her – the pieces of her memory that had gone missing were far more frightening. Yesterday, sometime around sunset. There had been the sound of footsteps descending metal stairs, the sight of a man’s outline, the desperate fear as she realized the certainty of her own death – And blood. Oh my God… Katrina’s hands probed for wounds around her jugular vein and carotid artery and found the flesh of her neck unmarked. She ran a thumb along the length of her radial arteries and unbuttoned her trousers to check the skin of her inner thighs. No blood, no punctures, no pain or bruising – she remained whole and uninjured.
A thermos lay at her feet, and though the tea was tepid and bitter, Katrina drank the entire contents, grateful to wash the sour taste from her mouth. When her thirst abated, she sat cross-legged as she considered her options. Someone had murdered the crew, and if she left the hold now, her life would almost certainly be forfeit, for there was no reason for her captors to leave witnesses. On the other hand, if she stayed below until sunset…
You survived last night. Stay put, and pray that nothing kills you when the sun goes down.
She settled in to wait, with only the box for company.
VII.
Bucharest
This is Romania, and you should always assume that things will end badly.
They met at the Arcul de Triumf, and Lieutenant Bud drove to the roundabout on Kiseleff Road. In Herăstrău Park, there was a forest, an expanse of well-manicured trees bisected by open lawn, and a wide boulevard to the east paralleled the treeline before crossing the Colentina River. The neighborhood beyond was blocked from their view by high walls, and Suta knew that they had no chance of passing through the gates that kept out ordinary Romanians, for the streets were heavily patrolled, and a series of checkpoints blocked the path of anyone foolish enough to venture there. At the far end lay the private residence of Nicolae Ceausescu.
“Colonel?” Lieutenant Bud cast a nervous glance into the woods. “What are we doing here?”
“I received a tip,” Suta said as he removed a pair of binoculars from his briefcase.
“This is Suta.”
“What the hell have you been doing for the last month?” Iulian Vlad is in no mood for pleasantries.
“Investigating.”
“Well you’ve been doing a piss-poor job. You were assigned one task, a very simple one, and you are failing badly.”
“I don’t understand.” Suta grits his teeth, for they have been working tirelessly – and thanklessly – to clean up the Securitate’s mess. “What’s happened?”
“What’s happened is that Acwulf Kiel strolled into the Securitate headquarters this morning, spent two whole hours at his desk, then arranged a meeting with the President. For fuck’s sake, you were supposed to have arrested him by now!”
“We are moving as fast as we can, Director General. We have been interviewing witnesses and gathering evidence –”
“Witnesses? Evidence?” The Director General’s voice trembles with poorly-controlled rage. “You are plodding along while an enemy of the state walks free, and that makes me question your commitment. Bring him in, or I will find someone else to handle things – and I will have a word with the President himself about your lack of revolutionary diligence.”
“So what now?” the lieutenant said.
“We arrest him and deposit him with the Securitate.” He wanted proof, something to carry weight in a fair tribunal, but orders were orders – and if Acwulf Kiel resisted arrest and ended up dead, that was the Director General’s problem.
Acwulf has too many friends and knows too many secrets, Suta thought. We can turn him in on Monday, and by Friday, we may be the ones under arrest.
They watched the street all afternoon, but the German never materialized.
VIII.
West Berlin
The highway was an isolated stretch of asphalt with no exits and a tall fence to either side, and in different circumstances, Evangeline Morris would have preferred to ride the train. Instead, she drove for hours in a rented automobile – it would be foolish to sit in a crowded railcar, and if they were delayed until after sunset… she shuddered and forced the thought from her mind.
When she reached West Berlin, she checked into the hotel and went to the balcony. To her east, a crowd gathered at the Berlin Wall and lit candles, and as rock music boomed from a distant speaker, Evangeline marveled at the passing of the old world – the Wall was a monument to the divisions of postwar Europe, and she realized with a touch of astonishment that she had come to accept its presence. The Wall had always existed, and the wall would continue, a malign version of Stonehenge or Mount Rushmore. Now, it’s coming to an end, she thought.
Something scratched at the balcony window, and when she opened the door, the owl flew through the passage and alighted on a metal rail. From this point forward, Evangeline knew, her services were no longer required, and if one were sufficiently ruthless to cut all ties with the past, there was no need for her to return alive to London. All the same, she felt no fear as the owl hopped onto her shoulder and soft feathers caressed her cheek.
“This is where we part company, isn’t it?”
The bird stared at her for a heartbeat, its large eyes reflecting into her own, then it ruffled its feathers and took flight. It passed over the assembled crowd, but none of the onlookers noted its trajectory as it soared over the Wall and vanished into the darkness beyond. Now, it’s coming to an end. Evangeline remained on the balcony, watching as the vigil ended and the last candles were extinguished.
“Just be careful,” she whispered. “Wherever you’re going, please be careful.”
IX.
Aboard the Ceres
The cabins were located beneath the wheelhouse, but the Ceres could not accommodate seven men (six men, there are only six of us now), so Alex Penkovsky arranged for the crew to sleep in shifts and headed for the bunk at half-past nine. Galkin was in charge during his absence, and though the second mate was a solid crew member and a capable seaman, Penkovsky found himself unable to rest. No one had seen Pankov since yesterday afternoon, and the captain felt sure, without knowing why, that the first mate had come to a bad end. And we’re locked out of our own fucking hold. Gradually, the day’s exhaustion overtook him, and he slept, a restless slumber troubled by dreams, until a hand shook him awake.
“What is it?” Penkovsky opened his eyes and returned the flat stare of Sergei Kozlov.
“Galkin was supposed to be on watch a half-hour ago.” Kozlov brushed a strand of blonde hair from his eyes. “Where is he?”
“He’s in the wheelhouse.” Penkovsky bristled at the killer’s impertinence, but a shiver of alarm ran up his spine. “Did you check, or does your mother still tie your shoes for you?”
“We checked.” Sergei regarded him with the disinterest of a man contemplating a bug. “We also checked the deck, the other bunks… it would be best if you saw for yourself.”
A low shelf of clouds obscured the stars, and the wind whipped at his collar as they walked across the deck. It was odd, Penkovsky thought, for the forecast had indicated clear skies all the way to Gdansk. He paused at the entrance to the hold and tested the damaged hatch again, to no avail. If Pankov and Galkin were trapped inside, he thought, they would bang on the door with a wrench to let someone know where they were. The only remaining access point was the heavy bulkhead that opened directly from the deck, but it was far too large for two men to lift – moving the bulkhead required a crane. Sergei tapped his shoulder and pointed.
“There’s a storage compartment for a life raft.” For the first time, Penkovsky caught a hint of unease in the blue eyes. “It’s open, and the raft has been taken.”
Alex Penkovsky frowned at the unsecured door. Galkin has to be in the hold. It was dark and cold down there, but he had known more than one malingerer who had stowed away belowdecks to avoid work. But Galkin is not a malingerer, and if he was, how would he get through the damaged hatch? And what about the raft? Galkin was afraid, Penkovsky understood that well enough, but the mate was sufficiently experienced to know that abandoning ship in the open sea was no safer than remaining aboard with Sergei’s hired killers… Something at the stern caught his eye, Penkovsky gaped at the sight, then made his way aft at a dead run. The tattered remnants of the life raft were lashed to the rail, where they fluttered in the night breeze.
“I don’t fucking believe it.”
“Someone doesn’t want us to leave,” Sergei said. “And they want us to know that Pankov and Galkin never made it off the ship.”