The Third Section (19 page)

The door blocked Dmitry’s view of who had opened it, but a voice behind it hissed, ‘Are you there?’

Dmitry said nothing, and Tyeplov was dead to the world. A figure emerged from behind the door. Even in the dim light, Dmitry recognized it as
Shtabs
-Captain Mihailov. He did not look in Dmitry’s direction, but made for the bed. He was followed by another figure – Lieutenant Wieczorek, who quietly closed the door behind him.

There was something unearthly – almost animal – about the way the two of them approached the bed, as if they were stalking something. And then Dmitry remembered Wieczorek’s arm. The last time Dmitry had seen him, he had had no left arm at all, or only the blasted vestiges of one. And now he seemed quite capable of using it, as he had just done to close the door. Dmitry’s father had once told him of a
voordalak
called Andrei who’d had his entire arm cut off by a sword, only for it to grow back. Dmitry had himself witnessed the missing fingers of a vampire’s mutilated hand restore themselves, inch by inch. It seemed the creatures that had buried their earlier victims beside the Star Fort had not moved on. Wieczorek was one of them. There was no reason to doubt Mihailov was another.

Dmitry moved silently to his knapsack, still slumped where he had left it beside the door. The two vampires continued to approach the bed. These creatures were supposed to have heightened senses, or was that a myth? They certainly didn’t seem to notice Dmitry.
Maybe
the continual gunfire had deadened their ears. Dmitry grabbed his bag and reached inside.

At the same moment Mihailov snatched aside the curtain which hung half covering the bed. On it lay Tyeplov, his naked back exposed to the two monsters, his neck – on which Dmitry had so recently laid passionate kisses – undefended against their foul hunger.

‘Get away from him!’ growled Dmitry.

Both the vampires turned, almost before the words left his mouth. Wieczorek looked the naked Dmitry up and down. A smile formed on his lips. ‘Major Danilov, you surprise me.’

‘I know what you are,’ said Dmitry.

‘Good,’ said Mihailov. ‘That saves explanation.’

‘You don’t deny it?’

‘Deny what?’

‘That you are …’

‘Say it!’ insisted Mihailov.

‘
Voordalaki!
’

Dmitry had been clutching his knapsack to his chest, but as he spoke he let it drop, still hanging on to it with his left hand, but revealing what he held in his right: a small, sharp wooden sword, just like the one his father had whittled for him as a toy. Within hours of seeing the two mutilated victims in the tunnel beneath the Star Fort, Dmitry had made a new one, and had carried it with him wherever he went.

Mihailov and Wieczorek both stopped in their tracks, eyeing the weapon, which Dmitry couldn’t help but notice was shaking, along with his whole arm.

‘We don’t deny it,’ said Mihailov. ‘And I don’t need to ask how you understand so much about us.’

‘He doesn’t understand much,’ added Wieczorek, ‘for a soldier.’

Mihailov gave a curt laugh and Dmitry looked questioningly at Wieczorek.

‘You’re outnumbered, Danilov,’ explained the Pole. ‘Waving your little stick at us isn’t going to help that.’

‘Maybe not,’ said Dmitry, ‘but …’

He didn’t have time to say anything more. At that moment Wieczorek made a lunge towards him, coming from his right,
where
he had the sword to defend him. Dmitry took a step backwards and tripped on something, falling to the ground and losing his grip on the bag. Its contents spewed out, including, nearest to him, his pistol. He grabbed it and held it out in front of him, vaguely towards Mihailov, although his left hand was even less steady than his right.

The two vampires stood still, exchanging glances, puzzled as to what to do. Dmitry could perceive little difficulty for them in overcoming him. He realized now how truly unprepared he had been, even on the assumption that there was only one of these monsters in the city. He felt the fear of his trembling hands and understood how difficult he would find it to use that wooden sword against them. Even so, he managed to get his legs back under him and began to rise to his feet. Mihailov was scarcely more than an arm’s length away from him, and the barrel of the gun almost brushed his nose.

Dmitry heard a shout – ‘Mitka!’ – and realized Tyeplov had awoken. The urge to save his friend overwhelmed his concern for himself. He turned his head to look at Tyeplov, to beg him to take flight, and at the same moment Mihailov made his move. There was no conscious action from Dmitry to squeeze the trigger, but the pistol fired anyway. Its explosion drowned the yelp of fear that formed in Dmitry’s throat. Mihailov’s face vanished in the blast. He fell backwards towards Tyeplov and Dmitry saw Wieczorek’s gaze follow him down.

Terror and hatred filled Dmitry, though which drove him more, he could not guess. The pistol fell from his hand as he stepped forward, grabbing Wieczorek’s shoulder. His right hand thrust outwards and between the pull of his left and the push of his right, the sharp wooden point penetrated its target, and kept on going. Finally it came to a soft, uncertain halt as the guard came up against Wieczorek’s belly. Dmitry felt warm blood oozing over his fingers and saw the vampire’s eyes turn to meet his own. The blade had gone nowhere near the heart, and the wound was as a scratch would have been to Dmitry.

He withdrew and stabbed again, angling the blade upwards, but with little understanding of how precisely he would deliver the fatal blow. The shout of ‘Die, damn you!’ on his lips must have
sounded
as feeble to the monster as it did to him. Wieczorek’s hands grasped at Dmitry, one clutching at his sleeve, the other gouging its nails across his chest. The lips drew back to reveal sharp, glistening fangs and the neck strained so that they might reach for Dmitry’s throat.

Panic took hold of Dmitry and he began to stab wildly at the creature, still gripping its shoulder so that it could not escape, even though escape seemed the furthest thing from its mind. Sometimes the wooden blade did nothing, simply missing the vampire altogether, or bouncing off a rib. At others, Dmitry felt the resistance of flesh being penetrated, but he had lost all intent of aiming for the creature’s heart, his actions simply the last thrashings of a man who knows that his life is close to its end. Again and again he thrust his arm forward, as though punching his opponent repeatedly in the stomach, but to no effect. Still Wieczorek’s teeth descended towards him.

Then all was calm. Dmitry realized that the last few strokes of his sword, although they penetrated the vampire’s torso, had been met with no sensation of resistance. He left the sword where it was, inside the creature’s body, his hand grasping its hilt so tightly that his fingers felt numb. Wieczorek’s arms fell to his sides and Dmitry’s left hand, still clutching the shoulder, began to close as the resistance to his grip collapsed. It was as though a child were showing off his mighty strength by grabbing a handful of dried leaves and crushing them to fragments. The arms that had begun to fall away never made it to their normal resting place. The right, once Dmitry had destroyed the shoulder that had held it in place, slipped out of the sleeve of Wieczorek’s tunic and fell to the floor where it shattered silently. The left made its way to earth more gradually, the hand disintegrating first and then a dry, grey dust continuing to pour from the sleeve for several seconds as decay worked its way through the limb.

It was Wieczorek’s face that was most fascinating. The animal snarl that had so recently menaced Dmitry collapsed into an expression of utter misery as the sides of his head began to fall away. The mask of comedy became the mask of tragedy. Those great teeth fell back into the mouth and then dropped through the crumbling tongue before falling out beneath the chin. The
desiccated
remains of Wieczorek’s face cascaded down off his shoulders as raindrops would have done if he had been caught in a thunderstorm. It was a slow process, delectable to watch, but no less terminal than the destruction Dmitry had seen meted out to that young
ryadovoy
by a French cannonball.

After a few long moments, Dmitry was left clutching merely a dark green tunic, while from the tip of his wooden sword dangled the linen shirt which it had pierced. Below sat a pile of Wieczorek’s remaining clothes, as a thin layer of grey dust spread itself across the parquet tiles, secreting itself within the cracks between them.

Dmitry attempted to breathe, but could only manage a mournful exhalation. His arms dropped to his sides, much as Wieczorek’s had, and the wooden sword hit the floor with a clatter. He turned towards where Mihailov lay, cradled by Tyeplov, who, Dmitry could only guess, understood neither why Dmitry had attacked so brutally, nor how Mihailov could possibly remain alive. At last Dmitry’s lungs were restored to function, and he took in a long, whooping breath. He began to breathe more normally, and walked over to examine Mihailov’s face.

There was no face. The lower lip was there, but above it a hole which might at first be mistaken for a mouth stretched up and up across the front of where his skull once had been, terminating finally with what remained of his forehead, topped with dark, short hair that might seem like a moustache. Of nose and eyes, there was no trace. Inside the void was a mess of blood that Dmitry chose not to try to interpret. What concerned him more was that, even in the time since he had first looked, eyebrows were beginning to re-form. As he had seen so many years before, the creature was healing itself.

Dmitry stepped backwards, desperately looking on either side for where he had dropped his sword, but it was too late. Mihailov threw himself forward, his hands, unaided by sight, searching Dmitry’s body for something to grip on to, but finding only bare flesh. His empty face was up close to Dmitry’s and Dmitry shut his eyes, turning away rather than see so intimately what he knew dwelt within his own skull, but unable to banish the strange, foul smell of it. It was sufficient distraction to allow Mihailov’s escape. Some memory of the layout of the casemate allowed him to find
his
way to the door. His hands padded against it, searching for the handle. There was still time. Dmitry grabbed his sword.

‘No, Mitka! No!’ Tyeplov’s hand restrained him as he spoke. Dmitry hesitated, turning to look into Tyeplov’s face, relieved to see the eyes and nose and mouth which one would expect.

It was time enough for Mihailov. The door slammed, and Dmitry and Tyeplov were alone.

THEY CLUNG TO
each other. Dmitry was shivering and the warmth of Tyeplov’s body did nothing to alleviate it.

‘Mitka. What have you done?’ Tyeplov hissed.

‘What did you see, Tolya?’ asked Dmitry. It was an important question. The more that Tyeplov had observed for which there could be no sane explanation, the easier Dmitry would find it when unfolding his own, insane account of what had taken place.

‘I saw you shoot Mihailov,’ he stammered. ‘I saw you stab Wieczorek. I saw … Where is Wieczorek?’

Dmitry stood and offered his hand to Tyeplov. He felt suddenly aware of their nakedness. Tyeplov rose to his feet and Dmitry led him to where Wieczorek’s clothes lay. Dmitry saw his own trousers where he had discarded them earlier, protruding from beneath the pile of garments. He grabbed them, shaking them to get rid of as much of the dust as he could.

‘That’s Wieczorek?’ asked Tyeplov, a look of wild horror crossing his face.

‘You saw what happened, Tolya. Only one of them made it out the door.’

Tyeplov nodded, and considered for a few moments. Then he turned to Dmitry, calmer. ‘How though?’

‘
Voordalaki
,’ said Dmitry, simply. He waited for the word to sink in, for all of those stories that Tyeplov must have heard as a child to come to the forefront of his mind, so that Dmitry could pounce on them and convince him that they were no more stories than were the tales of the horrors perpetrated by the French at Borodino. It was a conversation Dmitry had had before, with
his
father, but on that occasion it was Dmitry who had been the doubting ingénu, his father the proficient and experienced slayer of monsters. It was again a reversal of roles, though no longer Chopin with which he would delight and intrigue his companion. It wasn’t a position he relished, not least because, unlike his father, Dmitry was
not
an experienced slayer of monsters. In his whole life he had disposed of just one
voordalak
– the creature over whose remains they now stood.

‘You’re mad,’ Tyeplov gasped.

Dmitry began to dress, scouting around the casemate for his various items of clothing. It had occurred to him that if the two vampires had made their way through the trench then before long so might mortal men. They would not be so much of a threat to Tyeplov and Dmitry’s lives, but they would still react to finding the two men together like this. Tyeplov followed Dmitry’s lead.

‘So what’s your explanation?’ asked Dmitry, pulling on his shirt.

‘I … I don’t have one.’

‘But mine is mad?’

‘It must be,’ Tyeplov shouted, more to convince himself than to persuade Dmitry.

‘Why do you think they came here?’

‘They’re in command here. This is their casemate.’

‘They came,’ said Dmitry, ‘to feed.’

‘To feed?’

‘Tolya, listen to me.’ Dmitry squatted down to be on a level with Tyeplov, who was pulling on his socks. ‘At the beginning of this month, in the Severnaya, I was shown two bodies. Their throats had been ripped out. It was those two that must have done it. That’s what they had in store for us.’