“Take a close look Watson,” Holmes said. “We may never see its like again.”
A darker patch of green sat there in the midst of the last small puddle of slime, an oval shape like a large dark egg. An oily green sheen ran over it and it pulsed rhythmically, almost as if it were breathing.
“Is this the source of the contagion?” I asked.
Holmes nodded.
“Although I am no longer sure of its intelligence. I detected nothing while under its influence to suggest it is anything other than what it seems.”
I watched the thing pulse.
“And what do you suggest Holmes? We cannot allow this thing to escape into the general population.”
Holmes was deep in thought.
“Indeed Watson. And while the scientists at the University would love to study this, there is a chance that the military would gain hold of it. I have heard of their experiments with Mustard gas. This thing would merely give them another excuse for developing weapons of terrible destruction.”
I could see it in my mind. Whole battalions marching on a field of green, heads raised to the heavens in screams as they
My decision was simple.
“End it Holmes. End it here.”
He nodded and squeezed the bellows. The slime surged, one last time, and then fell back, smoking. One final high whistle pierced the air then it was gone.
We stood there for a long time, watching, but all that remained of the terror from beyond was a patch of blackened material among the broken debris of the barrels.
* * * * *
WILLIAM MEIKLE is a Scottish writer with ten novels published in the genre press and over 200 short story credits in thirteen countries. He is the author of the ongoing Midnight Eye series among others, and his work appears in a number of professional anthologies. He lives in a remote corner of Newfoundland with icebergs, whales and bald eagles for company. In the winters he gets warm vicariously through the lives of others in cyberspace and drinks a lot of beer … some of it from Chiswick.
From the Tree of Time
by Fred Saberhagen (from an idea by Eric Saberhagen)
“Very well then,” said Count Dracula. “If you wish a story of mystification, I can provide one.”
It was a raw, rainy spring night, not long ago, and the two of us were standing on a street corner in a northern city. Folk far madder and perhaps less probable than either the Prince of Wallachia or myself walked those streets as well, but in the presence of my companion I scarcely gave them a thought.
“I will be delighted,” I replied, naturally enough, “to hear whatever tale you may wish to tell.”
Dracula halted at a curb, the wet cold wind stirring his black hair as he stared moodily across the street. He had doubtless paused only to gather his thoughts, but a quartet of youths swaggering along on the other side of the street interpreted our hesitation as timidity. They loitered in their own walk, and one of their number called some obscenity in our direction. My companion did not appear to notice.
“I am sure you are aware,” he began his tale to me, “that with vampires, as with the greater mass of the breathing population, the vast majority are peaceable, law-abiding citizens. We seek no more, essentially, than breathers do: bodily nourishment (any animal blood will do for sustenance); the contemplation of beauty, and affection, as nourishment for the soul; an interesting occupation; a time and place in which to rest (some native soil being, in our case, very important for that purpose).
“It makes me laugh” —he laughed, and across the street four youths simultaneously remembered pressing business elsewhere— “yes, laugh, to contemplate the preposterous attributes that have been bestowed upon my branch of the human race by those breathing legendizers who have never known even one of us at first hand. Of course I am not talking about you, my friend. I mean those who have learned nothing since the last century, when the arch-fool Van Helsing could imagine that the symbols and the substance of religion are to us automatically repellent or even deadly. As you know, that is no more true of us than of — of some of the breathing gangsters who once made this very city legend.”
My friend paused, frowning, doubtless wishing that he had chosen some other comparison. I hastened to assure him that I would do all in my literary power to expunge from human thought the kinds of misinformation that he found so distasteful. He nodded abstractedly.
“Nevertheless,” he went on, “in our society as in yours, the rogue, the criminal, exists. I need not belabor the point that the psychopath who happens also to be a vampire is infinitely more dangerous than his mundane breathing counterpart. Even apart from the fact that very few of your breathing people truly believe that we exist, effective countermeasures against our criminal element, while not impossible, appear to be uncommonly difficult for you to manage. The Cross, as I have said, is no deterrent at all — except perhaps to vampires of such religious nature that their consciences would be painfully affected by the sight: such probably do not pose you a major problem in any event.
“Garlic? Even less efficacious than it would be against some breathing ruffian — surely useful, if at all, only against the more fastidious and less determined. Mirrors? Useful to detect and identify us by our lack of any reflection; but with no application as weapons, except as they might be used to concentrate our great bane, natural sunlight. The older and tougher among us can bear some sun, you know, at least the cloudy, tempered sun of the high latitudes.
“Fire? By daylight, through which period we are compelled to retain whatever form we had at dawn — and moreover are likely to be resting in lethargic trance — yes by daylight, fire can be effective, whereas by night we easily avoid it.
“Ordinary bullets, blades of metal, clubs of stone, all can cause us momentary pain and superficial injury, but do us virtually no real damage at all. Any trifling harm inflicted soon disappears. Silver bullets are only advocated by those who confuse us with werewolves, or certain other creatures of the night.
“The best practical defence is doubtless to remain in your own house, admitting no one suspicious. No vampire may enter a true dwelling unless invited — but once invited, he or she may return at any time.
“And, if we consider the offensive means that ordinary breathing folk can hope to use successfully against us, almost the whole truth is contained in one short and simple word.”
By now we were strolling again. My companion was of course impervious to the chilling effects of wind and rain, but I was shivering. Taking note of this, Dracula gestured as we were passing the door of a decent appearing tavern, and gratefully I preceded him in. We were seated in a dim, snug corner with mugs of Irish coffee before us — his of course remained untouched throughout our stay — before he spoke again.
“That one word,” he said, “is wood. Ah, wood, that oh-so-nearly-magical stuff, that once was living and now is not. Ah, wood … and that leads me to the story that I wish to tell.”
It was (Dracula continued) almost a century ago, and in another great city, one grimier and in some ways grander than this one, that I made acquaintance — never mind now exactly how — with a certain professional investigator, a consulting detective whose name was then even better known than my own. We were an oddly matched pair, yet on good terms; he understood my nature better than most breathing folk have ever been able to do. Still I was greatly surprised one day when I received a message from him saying that he wished my help in a
