Necroscope: The Plague-Bearer (17 page)

Harry jerked himself back from Mike’s damp-gleaming visage; and several of the vampire’s flaky twig fingers—full of leprosy and as spongy as puffballs—went with him! Still grasping Harry’s jacket as they broke off from Mike’s quaking hands, the crumbling fingers at once lost their grip, and along with their blackened fingernails slid from the Necroscope’s lapels like so many giant, desiccated caterpillars!

Mike watched, in horrified disbelief as other chunks of his hands and wrists—like a catabolic avalanche of withered flesh—parted from him of their own volition, apparently in sympathy with the initial severance. And:

“What…?”
Mike croaked through a spray of purplish-yellow froth; from which—leery of coming into contact with even the smallest drop of the vampire’s morbid liquids—the Necroscope galvanized his suddenly rubbery and uncooperative legs, forcing them to back him off more yet. At the same time, however, reaching Harry like a breath of fresh air through Mike’s suffocating stench, came the realization that the monster was done for, his termination assured. With the hideous
reduction
that was taking place in him, it could scarcely be otherwise.

Moreover, as Harry strove to recover from the momentary or partial paralysis of shock that he had suffered at the sight of this, the initial stage of Mike’s imminent collapse, he also realized how fortunate he was that his plan had not come entirely unstuck. Though he had known, of course, that the monster was a plague-bearer, he could never have guessed at the extent or virulence of his sicknesses; but in any case to have ventured here unarmed, unprotected except for a clove of garlic—

—The Necroscope now clearly saw that this had been an absolute folly for which his only excuse, and a puny one at that, was that he had hoped against hope that the threat against Kate was an empty one, sheer bluster on the part of a failed assailant. Well, it had
not
been a vain threat after all—not by any means—but it had been Mike’s last throw; and he too now realized that he was finished.

“Bastards!” Mike croaked, choking as he coughed up lumps of purple, perforated lung, seething flesh and gluey foam. “Lousy, rotten—arghhh, ach,
arghhh!
—lying bastards!” He made as if to spring at the Necroscope, only to discover there was nothing of energy in his legs; they were bending sideways at the knees, concertinaing, threatening to fold on him like rotten sticks!

And yet, even with his head wobbling frantically on a suddenly scrawny neck, and as his nose collapsed into the sinus cavity behind it, still Mike managed one stumbling step before his right leg gave way and sent him lurching off balance, pivoting, and finally falling. At which the Necroscope at once seized the opportunity, grabbed the collar of Mike’s coat, and dragged him bodily through a Möbius door. Which was as well, perfect timing, because at that exact moment Kate had started moaning again and was trying to sit up. To Harry’s relief she was still confused, concussed; she had seen nothing of him or his departure…

Floating in the darkness of the Continuum—in darkness absolute—Harry held a jerking, spastically twitching scarecrow figure at arm’s length; a figure too traumatized for speech who nevertheless continued to
think
great gonging thoughts into the mathematical Möbius Continuum, where even thoughts have weight:

WHAT?…WHERE?…HOW? What the
fuck
is happening to me?

And the Necroscope answered him, thinking:
Whoever you are, it must surely be obvious…I mean, surely you can tell—you can sense, feel—smell
(Harry shuddered!)
—that you’re dying?

What? You mean they’ve actually poisoned and killed me? Not because I failed them, but because they were going to do it all along? Yeah, I guess I know that now. And what the hell—maybe I
always
knew they’d whack me in the end! Yeah,
damn right
I’ve known it! But what the hell are you? And as for this place: Is this where you go when you do your thing and vanish like you do? Is this where you disappear to? Maybe you’re dead, too, and this is where we all go in the end…

As Mike deteriorated he had commenced to ramble, and now he continued:
Hey! How come you’re helping the brothers? It’s like you’ve helped them to kill me! The brothers, The Chemist—even that fucking midget! But why you, now that I’m done for anyway?

And again:

Hey! I guess I’m confused, right? But you have no idea just how much this hurts! It hurts like…like
hell!
So if this is death, how come I’m still hurting?

No, this place isn’t death,
said Harry, hauling Mike behind him as he headed for coordinates which he knew of old.
It’s not death, not yet, and I’m not helping anyone. Or at least not the ones you have in mind, who I don’t even know. On the other hand, maybe I’m helping everyone: Every ordinary human being that is, and maybe you should be grateful!

What was left of Mike’s brain was finally succumbing, collapsing inside his skull. But still he said:
Grateful? You think that I…that I should be grateful…to you…for fucking
whacking
me!?

And knowing that the vampire would sense it, the Necroscope nodded and answered:
Well, yes! And maybe you should even thank me. Because I can feel something of your pain and how bad it is for you. In fact in this place I’m trying to
avoid
feeling your pain! But my way, the way it will be with me, it will stop hurting, be over and done with, much faster. Which is why you might want to thank me…If not now, probably later.

Your way?
said Mike, completely delirious in his agony now, his mind evaporating.
I…should…what?…thank you?…Because your way…of killing me…is…faster?

Very much so,
Harry answered, exiting from the Möbius Continuum onto a golden Australian beach in brilliant sunlight, and taking the disintegrating vampire with him.

The beach, which appeared to extend almost endlessly north and south, or for many miles at the very least, and was backed inland by dry, windblown scrub, was as deserted as the Necroscope had supposed and hoped it would be. Nevertheless, as Harry backed away from what he had brought with him, he cast searching glances in all directions in order to satisfy himself that he and the other were quite alone.

And then for the sake of his health he felt obliged to back off again—to step even further back—well away from the hideousness that was taking place before him…

Harry had not lied when he said it would be much faster. Indeed Mike Milazzo’s decomposition could scarcely have been faster or any more complete. For as the seething had ceased even the vampire’s bones had been turning to chalk, crumbling into the blackened, ugly patch of once-golden sand that was all that remained of him. Now, too, since a swirl of dust-devils off the land had taken most of Mike’s gut-wrenching, doubtless poisonous stench out to sea, the Necroscope was able to move in closer, kneeling and using a length of sandpapered driftwood like the blade of a bulldozer to heap a thick layer of pristine sand over the still simmering, lumpy, but mainly liquescent patch.

Harry performed this last act after picturing in his mind’s eye some sadly mistaken opportunist seabird settling to what it supposed was a free meal…a sickening thought, even to a man such as Harry Keogh.

But then, still not satisfied—desiring to be utterly rid of the remains—the Necroscope left the beach via the Continuum, and returned in a little while using the same mathematical medium, with a five-gallon container half full of petrol.

Then Harry built a small funeral pyre of driftwood over the tainted area, doused the desiccated branches and tossed a flaming brand, and stood by watching until every last trace of this man whose name he hadn’t known—at least not yet—was reduced to smoke and blackened sand…

And then there were questions Harry would like some answers to: questions only he could ever ask, because he must ask them of a dead creature. And here in the mundane world of men, as opposed to the intangible, eternal, entirely metaphysical Möbius Continuum, the Necroscope could ask his questions out loud while relying on his deadspeak for the answers.

“Can you hear me? Or has your pain shut everything out?”

The answer when it came was so very faint that Harry almost missed it:
No, the pain is gone now. And it’s so very quiet, so very…very peaceful! I can’t…can’t remember, when things were ever so quiet and…and peaceful! I feel…I feel that I’m drifting…like smoke over a blue sea. Drifting and drifting. And you: you’re disturbing the peace, the quiet. Oh yes, I can hear you. But I wish…I wish you would go away and leave me…leave me…alone…to drift so thin and so light…to mix and…and mingle?
(As if the word in itself was weird, unusual beyond words; which in this creature’s case it probably was)…
And…mingle…with…the…air!

And for a fact the vampire, or his greasy black smoke, had indeed gone drifting out to sea, and was even now mingling with the air! Had the monster actually experienced this, Harry wondered? Oh, the Necroscope had seen death a great many times, but could never be sure how it was viewed by the subject, the sufferer. Some accepted death almost at once…others never; some felt raging anger at their lot…others knew only peace, like this one. Perhaps it was possible that a Higher Power had taken pity on this being—this once
human
being—who had suffered agonies both mental and physical which, for however fleeting or lingering a period, must have seemed to last an eternity.

“Oh, I’ll leave you alone in a little while,” said the Necroscope. “But I helped you, and now maybe you can help me?”

Help you?…But how…how could I…help…you?…And why…why would I…why would I want to?

“Because I might be able to do something about these people who poisoned and murdered you, the ones who put those synthetic diseases into you.”

People?…Poisoned?…Drifting and drifting…So very…very peaceful…But murdered?…Whacked?…Was I…?

Fainter with every passing moment, the creature’s deadspeak was losing coherence, breaking up and expiring, as if intent on following his atoms into a merciful oblivion. But:

“Listen to me!” Harry cried aloud, alone on the beach with only a ghost, or the echo of one, to heed him. “I shall do what I can…perhaps I can even avenge you!” (And to himself:
Even if you don’t deserve it.
) “I may be able to seek them out—” he gave it one last shot “—for surely your murderers are at least as sick as you are—or were!? At least in their minds…”

Yes, my murderers!
said the other, suddenly awake, a shade sharper, darker; but only for a moment, then fading away again.
But who…who were…who were they?…I think…think I used to…used to know…But now…now I can’t…caan’t…caaan’t speeeak!…Can’t any looonger thiiiink!—

—Followed by a total silence that might last forever.

“But you
must
think!” Harry shouted. And then, as he made a fist and punched the air:
“Yes!
That’s it! Don’t try to say it,
think
it! Don’t tell me,
show
me! You spoke of ‘brothers,’ of a ‘chemist’ and a ‘midget.’ But who were they? Now show me—let me
see
them!”

It was as if the Necroscope had lanced a mental boil to let the poisons flow. Visions, some of them as indistinct as phantoms, others as vivid as life, flashed across the screen of his mind in fleeting succession.

The brothers: darkly enigmatic in a vast gloomy dwelling, a mansion of sorts high on a cliff. The memory, a reflection from a dead man’s mind, was there for a moment and gone. Yet in that span of time however brief, the notion had transferred to Harry that despite having suffered the true death still this creature feared that these brothers, whoever they were, might follow him even here!

And the midget: small but sharp as a knife. His sly, rheumy eyes might be old, but his vision was bird-bright; he saw without being seen. The picture from the dead man’s fragmented mind was to Harry dark as the Edinburgh night sky behind the castle; yet oddly enough the Necroscope fancied he might have seen that shape, that silhouette, somewhere before. But there was no time to study it: a passing memory at best, it was there and gone.

Only The Chemist showed as more than a flicker: this “half-crippled” man who was by no means disabled, in his house in the dark of the forest, by a gurgling stream in the forgotten foothills of a vast and sprawling range. Harry glimpsed this thaumaturge exactly as The Chemist’s dead victim remembered or stylized him, the very thought of him: with his test tubes, crucibles, and every kind of electrical and chemical device—so like the hunched mad scientists of so many fantasy fictions.

Moreover, the Necroscope saw the route that the vampire had taken to The Chemist’s Balkans lair; and like a camera Harry’s mind had recorded the coordinates of that sinister house, even as Mike’s mind had registered them, however involuntarily, unknowingly, during his time there.

“But if I do catch up with this Chemist—”

‘The’…Chemist,
came a sighing correction, as the tarry last patch hissed, popped, and issued one last gasp of fetor.

“—then who shall I say sent me?”

Fast dispersing, that final puff of intolerable stench was drifting out to sea.

“Hello?” Harry called after it as if into the aether. “Are you there?” And after several long seconds, as he was about to give up hope of receiving a reply:

M—i—k—e…!
came the answer, as from a distant star. And that was the end of that…

To Harry it felt as if the night’s work had taken forever, but in Edinburgh it wasn’t yet one o’clock in the morning. He went to his gaunt old house and called B.J. on the phone.

“Harry!” B.J. gasped on hearing his voice. “Young Kate was attacked, but—”

“I know,” the Necroscope told her, before remembering that he really should
not
know. “Is she okay?”

“Yes, apparently. A crack on the head: a bump, a small cut. But how do you—”

“I disturbed him,” again he cut her short, “scared him off, intercepted him leaving Kate’s place. So you can stop worrying, B.J., for there won’t be any more trouble from him.”

For a moment there was silence. Then in that edgy, wondering, borderline suspicious tone of voice that he knew so well: “Now Harry, you listen to me—” But:

“—I’ll stay at my old place tonight,” he quickly told her, “and see you tomorrow in the bar.” Then, before B.J. could call him ‘mah wee man,’ he dropped the handset into its cradle…

Harry called Darcy Clarke at home, and in his turn the Head of E-Branch spoke to the Night Duty Officer at the London H.Q. So that by the time Harry had made himself a pot of coffee, drank half of it and taken the Möbius route to the H.Q., the special materials he’d requested were waiting for him. Past events had more than guaranteed Darcy Clark’s faith in the Necroscope.

Offering no explanation to the Duty Officer, Harry shouldered the four heavy satchels, took up a marksman’s sniperscope rifle loaded with a single high-velocity bullet, then departed the way he had come—but not en route to Edinburgh…

In the night dark woods at that misty place in the Balkans, behind the bole of a fallen tree on a somewhat higher elevation than the wooden house—a vantage point with a clear view over the perimeter wall to the stoop and front entrance—the Necroscope dropped off his burden of satchels and deadly weapon. And making a Möbius jump down to a spot within the wall at the furthest corner of the building, he approached the stoop from the side and climbed its steps to the door.

Harry scarcely believed that in this place—in the Balkans in Bulgaria in the wee small hours—anyone would be awake; but just as well to surprise The Chemist, he supposed, catching him unawares, half asleep; and of course he must ensure that he had the right man. One glance should suffice, for the glimpses that Mike had shown him—of an old man with a head wrinkled like a walnut, an apparently semi-invalid figure with a walking-stick; yet in fact a sinister creature and sound as a bell—had fixed themselves indelibly in the Necroscope’s mind.

Thus it was with a certain degree of trepidation that Harry rapped three times on the stout oak door with the old-fashioned iron knocker in the shape of a clenched fist, summoning whoever was within. But it was Harry himself who was taken by surprise; for The Chemist, who preferred the night, was very much awake!

In only six or seven seconds, abruptly and without warning, the heavy door swung inwards perhaps sixty degrees; and silhouetted in the faint glow of a hearth fire from somewhere within, hunched up in his invalid guise, there stood The Chemist, walking-stick and all! It could only be him.

“Eh, what?” he wheezed, his voice unsure, infirm as he himself seemed to be. “What is it? Who are you? What do you want?”

“I’m Harry Keogh,” said his visitor. “And you are The Chemist. I promised someone I would come to see you.”

The other’s mouth fell open in shock and he jerked upright, or almost, only to crouch down again. And: “So then,” The Chemist’s voice was trembling now, if only a very little, and possibly in barely suppressed rage, “it seems you know me—but who sent you?”

“Ah!” said the Necroscope, smiling a thin humourless smile. “You mean that one!” And then, nodding knowingly: “His name was Mike!”

Now The Chemist jerked more fully upright, and letting fall his walking-stick reached behind the door for what was standing out of sight, in the corner there. For a single moment only, as he groped for and snatched up his double-barrelled shotgun, The Chemist took his eyes off the stranger.