Setrakian would not be taken here. He was outside the camp walls now, and so resolved that he had not endured such hell only to fall here, to succumb to the unholy might of this cursed Nazi-Thing.
He ran at it with the point of his stake, but the Thing was faster than anticipated, grasping the wooden weapon and wrenching it from Setrakian’s useless hands, snapping the radius and the ulna in Setrakian’s forearm. He cast the stick aside, and it clacked against a stone wall and fell to the dirt.
The Thing started for Setrakian, wheezing with excitement. He backed up until he realized he was in the center of the rectangular coffin impression. Then, with unexplained strength, he ran at the Thing, forcing it hard against the wall. Dirt crumbled out from around the exposed stones, falling like wisps of smoke. The Thing tried to grab for his head, but Setrakian again lunged at him, shoving his broken arm up under the demon’s chin, forcing its sneering face upward so that it could not sting him and drink.
The Thing improved its leverage and flung Setrakian aside. He landed next to his stake. He gripped it, but the Thing stood smiling, ready to take it away again. Setrakian jabbed it beneath the supporting wall stones instead. He wedged it beneath a loose stone and used his legs to pry out the stone, just as the Thing’s mouth began to open.
Stones gave way, the side wall of the chamber entrance collapsing as Setrakian crawled away. The roar was loud but brief, the chamber filling with dust, smothering the remaining light. Setrakian crawled blindly over the stones, and a hand grabbed him, its grip strong. The dust parted enough for Setrakian to see that a large stone had crushed the Thing’s head from crown to jaw — and yet it was still functioning. Its dark heart, or whatever it was, still throbbed hungrily. Setrakian kicked at its arm until he escaped the Thing’s grip, and in doing so dislodged the stone. The top half of the head was split, the skull slightly cracked, like a soft-boiled egg.
Setrakian grabbed a leg and dragged the body with his one good arm. He hauled it back to the surface and out of the ruins, into the very last vestiges of daylight filtering in through the tree cover. The dusk was orange and dim — but it was enough. The Thing writhed in pain as it quickly cooked, settling into the ground.
Setrakian raised his face to the dying sun and let loose an animal howl. An unwise act, as he was still on the run from the fallen camp — an outpouring of his anguished soul, from the slaughter of his family, to the terrors of his captivity, to the new horrors he had found…and, finally, to the God who had abandoned him and his people.
Next time he met one of these creatures, he would have the proper tools at his disposal. He would give himself better than a fighting chance. He knew then, as surely as he was still alive, that he would follow the tracks of that vanished coffin for years to come. For decades, if necessary. It was this certainty that gave him a newfound direction and sent him forward in the quest that would occupy him for the rest of his life.
Replication
Eph and Nora swept their badges through security and got Setrakian through the emergency room entrance without attracting any undo attention. On the stairs going up to the isolation ward, Setrakian said, “This is unreasonably risky.”
Eph said, “This man, Jim Kent — he and Nora and I have worked side by side for a year now. We can’t just abandon him.”
“He is turned. What can you do for him?”
Eph slowed. Setrakian was huffing and puffing behind them, and appreciated the stop, leaning on his walking stick. Eph looked at Nora, and they were agreed.
“I can release him,” said Eph.
They exited the stairwell and eyed the isolation ward entrance down the hallway.
“No police,” Nora said.
Setrakian was looking around. He was not so sure.
“There is Sylvia,” said Eph, noticing Jim’s frizzy-haired girlfriend sitting in a folding chair near the ward entrance.
Nora nodded to herself, ready. “Okay,” she said.
She went to Sylvia alone, who rose out of her chair when she saw her coming. “Nora.”
“How is Jim?”
“They haven’t told me anything.” Sylvia looked past her. “Eph isn’t with you?”
Nora shook her head. “He went away.”
“It isn’t true what they say, is it?”
“Never. You look worn out. Let’s get you something to eat.”
While Nora was asking for directions to the cafeteria, distracting the nurses, Eph and Setrakian slipped inside the doors to the isolation ward. Eph passed the glove-and-gown station like a reluctant assassin, moving through layers of plastic to Jim’s bay.
His bed was empty. Jim was gone.
Eph quickly checked the other bays. All vacant.
“They must have moved him,” said Eph.
Setrakian said, “His lady friend would not be outside if she knew he was gone.”
“Then…?”
“They have taken him.”
Eph stared at the empty bed. “They?”
“Come,” said Setrakian. “This is very dangerous. We have no time.”
“Wait.” He went to the bedside table, seeing Jim’s earpiece hanging from the drawer below. He found Jim’s phone and checked to make sure that it was charged. He pulled out his own phone and realized it was like a homing device now. The FBI could close in on his location through GPS.
He dropped his phone into the drawer, swapping it for Jim’s.
“Doctor,” said Setrakian, growing impatient.
“Please — call me Eph,” he said, slipping Jim’s phone into his pocket on the way out. “I don’t feel much like a doctor these days.”
Gus Elizalde sat in the back of the NYPD prisoner transport van, his hands cuffed around a steel bar behind him. Felix sat diagonally across from him, head down, rocking with the motion, growing paler by the minute. They had to be on the West Side Highway to be moving this fast in Manhattan. Two other prisoners sat with them, one across from Gus, one to his left, across from Felix. Both asleep. The stupid can sleep through anything.
Gus smelled cigarette smoke from the cab of the windowless van, through the closed partition. It had been near dusk when they were loaded in. Gus kept his eye on Felix, sagging forward off the handcuff bar. Thinking about what the old pawnbroker had said. And waiting.
He didn’t have to wait long. Felix’s head started to buck, then turn to the side. At once he sat erect and surveyed his surroundings. Felix looked at Gus, stared at him, but nothing in Felix’s eyes showed Gus that his lifelong
A darkness in his eyes. A void.
A blaring car horn woke up the dude next to Gus then, startling him awake. “Shit,” said the guy, rattling his cuffs behind him. “Fuck we headed?” Gus didn’t answer. The dude was looking across at Felix, who was looking at him. He kicked Felix’s foot. “I said where the fuck we headed, junior?”
Felix looked at him for an instant with a vacant, almost idiotic stare. His mouth opened as though to answer — and the stinger shot out, piercing the helpless guy’s throat. Right across the entire width of the van, and the dude couldn’t do anything about it except stomp and kick. Gus started to do the same, trapped as he was in back there with the former Felix, yelling and rattling and waking up the prisoner across from him. They all yelled and screamed and stomped as the dude next to Gus went limp, Felix’s stinger flushing from translucent to bloodred.
The partition opened between the prisoner area and the front cab. A head with a cop hat on it twisted around from the passenger’s seat. “Shut the fuck up back there or else I will—”
