Necroscope: The Plague-Bearer (16 page)

While high on the ridge of a sagging roof, the night-black silhouette that was Angus McGowan watched, guarded his thoughts and told himself:
Aye, go tae it. Get it done just as quick as ye like, Mike. For with a’ that accelerant in ye—the red and the black and the yellow alike—yere time is verra nearly up. Perhaps six or seven minutes at best by mah reckonin’, before a decade’s decay descends upon ye…ye poor, dumb bastard! Aye, for they Francezcis allow but one warnin’, and that’s yere lot!

With which he merged with the night and was gone…

But Mike Milazzo neither saw nor heard any of that. He was there beneath Kate’s window; he reached up his bone-dry fingers and found purchase in the rotten brickwork where ancient mortar had fallen away from the curve of the arch. And from then on it was easy: He flowed or slid aloft, came to young Kate’s window, thrust the curtain aside and went in head foremost.

The room was Kate’s tiny bathroom. As Mike got to his feet a fresh wave of dizziness struck him; staggering, he flung out an arm and sent various toiletries clattering from a shelf!

Beyond the bathroom door Kate sat in a dressing-gown watching a late night show. On hearing the sound of falling objects from the bathroom she frowned, stood up from the couch, went to the bathroom door. The night breeze had obviously strengthened; now she would have to close the window.

But as she reached the door it was hurled open on her. Kate was thrown backwards; she toppled, her head striking the corner of a table. And with the smallest cry she crumpled to the floor unconscious…

Only minutes earlier:

In the metaphysical Möbius Continuum, the Necroscope Harry Keogh had passed through a future-time door and let himself be drawn along the time stream. There the almost angelic chorus—that orchestrated interminable
Ahhhhhhhhhh!,
which sounded only in Harry’s mind—somehow seemed reversed. He could only liken it to a red shift, perhaps that of time itself! Previously when he had fought against the
past
-time stream, the imaginary sound had been blue-shifted, higher pitched; while here in the
future
-time stream it was in the red, and would remain so until he had caught up with and was travelling as fast or faster than life.

Except that didn’t happen; because before Harry knew it—and paradoxically unexpectedly, for it was the reason he was here—a crimson life-thread, or maybe even two, had angled into view some small distance away on the perimeter of his arc of vision. Harry had been scanning the future in every possible direction, because of which his gaze had at first skipped this crimson intrusion much like a proofreader skipping past a misprint before it can make an impression upon his awareness…only to return to the error as soon as his brain has accepted the message. And now, as he scanned that region of the time stream again—

—Yes, there it was: the crimson thread! (But only one now, which left Harry wondering if perhaps he had experienced a momentary bout of double vision?) Putting that thought aside, however, he concentrated on the crimson thread where it sped parallel with the bright blue life-threads of humanity. For even in that briefest of brief moments of recognition and shock, so the vampire had angled closer, full of a hunter’s stealthy intent!

Up ahead along the time-line, young Kate’s pale pink thread raced blithely on, but the Necroscope was catching up—even as he caught up with future time! In another moment he sped parallel with Kate…but so did the crimson thread which was narrowing down the distance between: the
real
distance, in the
real
space-time continuum. And events were happening so quickly that even as Harry gazed in horror it seemed that the crimson thread was about to merge with the pink!

Harry’s immediate, instinctive reaction was to make an exit from the future-time stream…which was something he couldn’t do! He hadn’t discovered how to materialize himself in the real past or future; he wasn’t a time traveller in a physical sense; he didn’t even know if it was possible! The only place where he
knew
he could transfer from Möbius time to the Möbius Continuum was at the
Now
where he had entered, back then just a few minutes ago. Which was okay, because back then there had still been “time!”

Reversing his course, Harry “heard” the ethereal, monotone
Ahhhhhhhhhh!
change, blue-shifting as he struggled to fight his way back against the chronological current, finally arriving at the
Now
where he immediately exited first from the time stream, then from the Möbius Continuum, onto the landing outside Kate’s door…which was where he had been all along, if not at this point in time.

This return to young Kate’s landing was simply a measure of Harry’s discretion: his automatic caution where a friend’s life was concerned. He was checking that during his time in the Möbius Continuum he had not somehow strayed or been diverted from his location of preference and necessity, the landing where he had started out, to some other far less useful coordinate.

Now, having at least satisfied himself in that respect, he tried the door, found it locked, and found himself at a loss to understand how the owner of the crimson thread proposed to make his entry. Oh, Harry had seen the creature’s approach, its
apparent
proximity to young Kate’s pale pink life-thread. in Möbius time—but just how closely did what he had witnessed correspond to an actual event in the future of the physical space-time universe? And anyway could he trust what he had seen? Hadn’t it always been true that the future was a devious thing? Only time would tell—and very soon at that!—as that mysterious, misunderstood phenomenon known as “time” continued to narrow down. And with little of it left to spare, again the Necroscope conjured an amazing portal and returned to the Möbius Continuum.

There he sought out a future-time door, but this time held back from entering to position himself in the threshold, at the ever advancing
Now;
from where he could gaze into the widening, blue-streaming future and await the advent of the crimson life-thread…

IT WAS AS BEFORE.

It was
exactly
as before, because in other than a para-chronistic sense there
was
no before; this was the precise chronological moment when Harry had spied what he had imagined to be two crimson life-threads on the periphery of his vision. And now as “before,” this time as a result of his eagerness or anxiety, he once again skipped over and almost missed the initial sighting; only to recover from his lapse so very quickly that the crimson blur of the after-image was still fading on his retinas.

And here it came “again”—which of course it must, because this was time in reprise—that
single
sentient vampire thread, that immaterial Möbius reflection of a deadly three-dimensional source. Little more than a red streak speeding into the future, still the vampire thread seemed monstrously intent as it veered toward Kate’s pale pink thread where it held steady beyond the future-time door’s threshold; even as Kate herself held steady, immobile and at ease within her flat.

But before the crimson thread could angle closer yet, which Harry knew it would because it had—and vice versa!—it was time for him to act!

The Necroscope still couldn’t fathom how this plague-bearing monster hoped to gain access to young Kate’s accommodation. Knowing that her flatlet was located at a fair height above the alley’s worn stone steps, he hadn’t thought to examine the exterior wall for windows. Thus to his mind there was only one way in: up these stairs to this landing…and then through him!

However improbable—unless the diseased creature had somehow come by a key to the downstairs door—still this last had seemed a possibility that Harry must consider and plan for; and one which he believed he could handle. All he must do was avoid getting bitten or in some other way infected as he set his plan in motion—

—Which was why he was now trying his best not to throw up as he munched on a whole clove of garlic!

The seconds ticked by, while Harry’s nerves stretched almost to breaking; because if the plague-bearing vampire was on its way, then where the hell was it? A pointless question, for of course the Necroscope
knew
where it was: the only place where it could be—out there in the alley even now!

Certainly, for that was how close this creature had come to its victim in Möbius time. Except…

…
No!
Harry corrected himself. This sick, crazed thing had managed to get—and must
right now
be getting—a great deal closer than that! Why, it had actually appeared on the point of
merging
with young Kate, which is to say touching her! But how?

At which moment there came a crashing sound from beyond the door, a small distressed cry in a feminine voice (Kate’s voice, which Harry immediately recognized,) accompanied by the slightest tremor underfoot, as of some dead weight striking the floor within the flatlet! But God! Surely not a “dead” weight?

Then, with his spine tingling—as finally he accepted the reality of what he had considered an almost impossible invasion—the Necroscope frantically conjured a Möbius door…

No longer handsome but ugly, pockmarked, and very sick, the ex-mafioso thug—the vampire Mike Milazzo—stood over Kate where she had crashed to the floor in disarray. Her once white dressing gown, spotted scarlet from her cut scalp, had flown open to reveal her beautiful, naked, almost boyish body. But still Kate lived: Her breast rose and fell, and she moaned however feebly.

It had taken the vampire but a moment to cross the floor to the open bedroom door and satisfy himself that there was no one else in the flatlet; satisfied in that respect, yes, yet despondent to discover that the one he had hoped to find here was absent. B.J. Mirlu’s lover—who, until tonight, was to have been Mike’s sole means of surviving the true death—had ignored his challenge and was elsewhere. And despite that the threat of The Chemist’s synthetic diseases had been removed (as Mike had been led to believe, however mistakenly) still he must find a way to deal with this elusive, cowardly Englishman or suffer the Francezci brothers’ wrath when they or their thralls caught up with him.

That last, however, was a problem for the future; while for the moment…Mike stared at the pulse in young Kate’s throat, shook purplish froth from his scabby, flaking lips, and lowered himself to one unsteady knee.

Unsteady, yes…he was weak…he had needs…the antidotes were working too slowly, or he was expecting too much of them too soon. And here on the floor this gorgeous young creature full of what he needed most if he would live out his undead life to its fullest extent!

Such were the monster’s mazy, drifting, but mainly puzzled thoughts. Yes puzzled: that while his vampire tenacity and will seemed unallayed—except perhaps by some antibiotic fever that was making his head spin—where was Mike’s physical strength? He had been close to the final moment, he knew that, but surely by now he had drawn at least partially back from the gulf? Maybe The Chemist’s remedies needed boosting? If so, Mike knew how.

His twiggy fingers, parchment dry, reached to fondle Kate’s small breasts; and his septic, drooling mouth yawned open as he lowered his head…

At which there occurred a sudden compression of atmosphere, a stirring of the air and a fluttering of various loose fabrics throughout the room—and a breathless voice from behind Mike, saying: “You bastard thing—
now
I’ve got you!”

A hand in Mike’s collar, yanking him off balance! And as he recovered, staggered upright and whirled about, the foulness of someone’s garlic breath in his face; which anyone but a vampire would surely find more acceptable than Mike’s stench! And there in a half-crouch before him, the very man he was here to infect with The Chemist’s poisons!

How had he come here?…Where from?…What had he meant by that ridiculous, yet apparently threatening utterance: “Now I’ve got you!”?

For on the contrary Mike had got him, and would now feed on him! But only a very little—only a sip or two—in the short term to infect, but in the long term to destroy, putting an end to far more than any mere Englishman!

These were the vampire’s thoughts in those moments first of astonishment, then of glad recognition and deliverance! But—

Were The Chemist’s synthetic poisons still active in Mike, despite that he’d taken the antidotes? Surely they must be; for the remedies, only recently introduced into his system, had not yet had time to fight off his afflictions. And now, before that battle commenced—before Mike was completely cured, no longer a carrier—he must introduce the nightmarish trio of diseases into Harry Keogh’s system.

All of this passing through Mike’s mind in barely a second, the first brief moment of recognition. Now for the transfusion. Just a drop or two of Keogh’s life-blood, a mere sip; something sweet stolen away, and something hideous given in return. Then, with the Englishman thrust aside, the main course: drained from the neck of young Kate! That was how it would be…

Or perhaps not.

Ignoring as best possible Harry’s garlic reek, Mike reached for his lapels to immobilise him, draw him closer and bite him. But something was amiss: Where was Mike’s agility, the preternatural velocity of his vampiric reactions? Nowhere in evidence! His eyes, despite being sick and rheumy, observed all too easily and clearly the motion of claw hands that no longer seemed blurred by their own speed. Indeed those hands now appeared to be moving almost in slow-motion, or at best languidly!

But while this was how the vampire experienced the degradation of his mobility, not so the Necroscope.

To him Mike’s speed remained incredible: an almost subliminal blur that might easily—and probably
would
—have caught him off guard and might even have finished him off; but only if Mike had been physically capable. However, where the creature’s will and vampire tenacity remained intact, his physical components—the fibers of his organs and limbs—were no longer responsive, by no means reliable. For with The Chemist’s accelerants working on Mike’s systems like acid, they were rapidly breaking down, quite literally disintegrating.