The Fall. Book II of The Strain Trilogy

cradling an assault rifle in his arms. Extra ammunition went into his pockets and shirt. Gus carried two Colt submachine guns back to the Hummer.

They pushed around the trucks through to the first buildings. Getting out, Setrakian heard loud engines running and realized the plant was operating on diesel-fueled backup generators. The redundant safety systems were operating automatically, keeping the abandoned reactor from shutting down.

Inside the first buildings, they were met by turned soldiers — vampires in fatigues. With Gus in front and Angel limping behind, they moved through the revenants, shredding bodies without any finesse. The rounds staggered the vampires, but they wouldn’t stay down unless the spinal column was obliterated at the neck.

“Know where you’re going?” said Gus over his shoulder.

“I do not,” said Setrakian.

He followed the security checkpoints, pushing through doors with the most warning signs. Here there were no more soldier vampires, only plant workers turned into guards and sentinels. The more resistance Setrakian met, the closer he knew they were to the control room.

Setrakian.

The old man grabbed the wall.

The Master. Here…

How much more powerful the Master’s “voice” was inside his head than that of the Ancients. Like a hand grasping his brain stem and snapping his spine like a whip.

Angel straightened Setrakian with a meaty hand and called to Gus.

“What is it?” said Gus, fearing a heart attack.

They hadn’t heard it. The Master spoke only to Setrakian.

“He is here now,” said Setrakian. “The Master.”

Gus looked this way and that, hyperalert. “He’s here? Great. Let’s get him.”

“No. You don’t understand. You haven’t faced him yet. He is not like the Ancients. These guns are nothing to him. He will dance around bullets.”

Gus reloaded his smoking weapon and said, “I come too far with this. Nothing scares me now.”

“I know, but you can’t beat him this way. Not here, and not with weapons made for killing men.” Setrakian fixed his vest, straightening. “I know what he wants.”

“Okay. What’s that?”

“Something only I can give him.”

“That damn book?”

“No. Listen to me, Gus. Return to Manhattan. If you leave now, there is hope that you might make it in time. Join Eph and Fet if you can. You will need to be deep underground regardless.”

“This place is going to blow?” Gus looked at Angel, who was breathing hard and gripping his bad leg. “Then come back with us. Let’s go. If you can’t beat him here.”

“I can’t stop this nuclear chain reaction. But — I might be able to affect the chain reaction of vampiric infection.”

An alarm went off — piercing honks spaced about one second apart — startling Angel, who checked both ends of the hallway.

“My guess is the backup generators are failing,” said Setrakian. He grasped Gus’s shirt, talking over the horn blasts. “Do you want to be cooked alive here? Both of you — go!”

Gus remained with Angel as the old man walked on, unsheathing the sword from his walking stick. Gus looked to the other old man in his charge, the broken-down wrestler drenched in sweat, his big eyes uncertain. Waiting to be told what to do.

“We go,” said Gus. “You heard the man.”

Angel’s big arm stopped him. “Just leave him here?”

Gus shook his head hard, knowing there was no good solution. “I’m only alive still because of him. For me, whatever the pawnbroker says, goes. Now let’s get as far away from here as we can, unless you want to see your own skeleton.”

Angel was still looking after Setrakian, and had to be pulled away by Gus.

Setrakian entered the control room and saw a lone creature in an old suit standing before a series of panels, watching gauge dials roll back as systems failed. Red emergency lights flashed from every corner of the room, though the alarm was muted.

Eichhorst turned just its head, red eyes settling on its former camp prisoner. No concern in his face — it wasn’t capable of the subtleties of emotion, and barely registered the larger reactions, such as surprise.

You are just in time, it said, returning to the monitors.

Setrakian, sword at his side, circled behind the creature.

I don’t believe I extended you my congratulations on winning the book. That was a clever bit of work, going around Palmer like that.

“I expected to meet him here.”

You won’t be seeing him again. He never realized his great dream, precisely because he failed to understand that it was not his aspirations that mattered but the Master’s. You creatures and your pathetic hopes.

Setrakian said, “Why you? Why did he keep you?”

The Master learns from humans. That is a key element of his greatness. He watches and he sees. Your kind has shown him the way to your own final solution. I see only packs of animals, but he sees patterns of behavior. He listens to what you are saying when, as I suspect, you have no idea you are saying anything at all.

“You’re saying he learned from you? Learned what?” Setrakian’s grip tightened on the handle of his sword as Eichhorst turned. He looked at the former camp commandant — and suddenly he knew.

It is not easy to establish and operate a well-functioning camp. It took a special kind of human intellect to oversee the systematic destruction of a people at maximum efficiency. He drew upon my singular knowledge.

Setrakian went dry. He felt as though his flesh were crumbling off his bones.

Camps. Human stockyards. Blood farms spread out across the country, the world.

In a sense, Setrakian had always known. Always known but never wanted to believe. He had seen it in the Master’s eyes upon their first meeting in the barracks at Treblinka. Man’s own inhumanity to man had whet the monster’s appetite for havoc. We had, through our atrocities, demonstrated our own doom to the ultimate nemesis, welcoming him as though by prophesy.

The building shuddered as a bank of monitors went dark.

Setrakian cleared his throat to find his voice. “Where is your Master now?”

He is everywhere, don’t you know? Here, now. Watching you. Through me.

Setrakian readied himself, taking a step forward. His course was clear. “He must be pleased with your handiwork. But he has little use for you now. No more than I do.”

You underestimate me, Jew.

Eichhorst vaulted up onto the nearby console with little apparent effort, moving out of Setrakian’s kill range. Setrakian raised his silver blade, its tip pointing at the Nazi’s throat. Eichhorst’s arms were at his sides, elongated fingers rubbing against his palms. It feigned an attack; Setrakian countering but not giving any quarter. The old vampire leaped to another console, shoes trampling on the tender controls of this highly sensitive room. Setrakian swung around, tracking it — until he faltered.

With the hand holding the wooden sheath of his walking stick, Setrakian pressed his crooked knuckles to his chest, over his heart.

Your pulse is most irregular.

Setrakian winced and staggered. He exaggerated his distress, but not for Eichhorst’s sake. His sword arm bent, but he kept the blade high.

Eichhorst hopped down to the floor, watching Setrakian with something like nostalgia.

I no longer know the tether of the heartbeat. The lung breath. The cheap gear-work and slow tick of the human clock.