The Strain

by Guillermo Del Toro

  Fet kept driving the Master backward. Then Eph spun around, looking to Setrakian to administer the finishing blow. That was when he saw the old professor laid out on the floor next to his sword, gripping his chest.

  Eph froze, looking at the vulnerable Master, then at Setrakian, dying on the floor.

  Fet, holding his lamp on the vampire like a lion trainer with a footstool, said, “What are you waiting for?”

  Eph ran to the old man. He got down on his hands and knees and saw the distress in Setrakian’s face, the distant stare. His fingers plucked at his vest, over his heart.

  Eph set down his sword. He ripped open the vest and his shirt, baring Setrakian’s sagging chest. He reached up under his jaw for a pulse, but couldn’t find one.

  Fet yelled back, “Hey, Doc!” He kept pressing forward, pinning the Master up against the edge of the sunlight.

  Eph massaged the old man’s chest over his heart. He didn’t start CPR right away because he was worried about the man’s bones, about crushing his rib cage. Then he noticed that Setrakian’s old fingers were no longer poking at his heart, but were reaching for his vest.

  Fet turned back in a panic to see what the hell was holding them up. He saw Setrakian laid out on the floor and Eph kneeling over him.

  Fet looked for a moment too long. The Master clawed at Fet’s shoulder and pulled him in.

  Eph squeezed the pockets of Setrakian’s tweed vest and felt something. He pulled out the little silver pillbox and quickly unscrewed the top. A dozen tiny white tablets tumbled to the floor.

  Fet was a big man himself, but he was a child in the Master’s grip. He still had the lamp in his hand, even though his arms were pinned. He turned it on the Master, burning his side—and the blinded beast roared in pain but did not relinquish his grip. The Master’s other hand gripped the top of Fet’s head and wrenched back his neck despite Fet’s resistance. Then Fet found himself staring up into this unspeakable face.

  Eph pinched up one of the nitroglycerin tablets and cupped the old man’s head in his hand. He worked open his clenched jaw and slipped the pill in underneath the old man’s cool tongue. He pulled out his fingers and shook Setrakian, yelling at him. And the old man’s eyes opened.

  The Master opened his mouth over Fet and extended his stinger, lashing about in the air above Fet’s wide eyes and exposed throat. Fet fought mightily, but the compression of the back of his neck cut off the blood flow to his brain, so the room blackened and his muscles went limp.

  Eph yelled, “No!” and ran at the Master with his sword, slashing the blade across the abomination’s broad back. Fet fell to the floor in a heap. The Master’s head whipped around, his stinger searching, his clouded eyes finding Eph.

  “My sword sings of silver!” cried Eph, slicing at the Master’s upper chest. The blade did indeed sing, though the Dark One flew backward and avoided it. Eph swung again—and missed again—the Master thrashing backward, out of control. He was in the sunlight now, framed before the twin glass doors, the full and broad daylight of a rooftop patio behind him.

  Eph had him. The Master knew he had him. Eph brought his sword up with two hands, ready to stab it up through the Master’s bulging neck. The king vampire stared down at Eph with something like outright disgust, summoned even more height, and raised the hood of his dark cloak over his head.

  “Die!” said Eph, running at him.

  The Master turned and crashed through the plate-glass doors and out onto the open patio. Glass exploded as the cloaked vampire fell rolling onto the hot clay tiles, in full view of the killing sun.

  He came to a rest momentarily, hunched over on one knee.

  Eph’s momentum carried him through the shattered door, where he stopped, staring at the cloaked vampire, awaiting the end.

  The Master trembled, steam rising from within its dark cloak. Then the king vampire stood to its full height, quivering as though in the grip of a violent seizure, his great claws curled into beastlike fists.

  With a roar he threw off his cloak. The ancient garment fell away, smoking, to the tile. The Master’s nude body writhed, his pearlescent flesh darkening, cooking, changing from fair, lily white to a dead black leather.

  The slashing wound Eph had made across his back fused into a deep black scar, as though cauterized by the rays of the sun. He turned, still shaking, and faced Eph, and Fet standing in the doorway behind him, and Setrakian risen to one knee. He was ghoulishly lean, with a smooth and sexless crotch. His broiled black flesh writhed with pain-crazed blood worms.

  With a most horrible smile—a sneer of intense pain and even triumph—the Master turned his face toward the sun and let loose an openmouthed howl of defiance. A true demonic curse. Then, with dizzying speed, he bolted to the edge of the patio, slid over the low wall at the edge of the roof, and raced down the side of the building to the third-story scaffolding…disappearing into the morning shadows of New York City.

  THE CLAN

  Nazareth, Pennsylvania

  In a long-abandoned and never-mapped asbestos mine, a nether-world a few hundred feet below the surface of the Pennsylvania woods, three Ancients of the New World conferred in a pitch-black chamber.

  Their bodies, over time, had become worn smooth as river stones, their movements slowing nearly to imperceptibility. They had no use for exterior physicality. Their body systems had evolved to maximum efficiency, and their vampire mandibles functioned without flaw. Their night vision was extraordinary.

  In the cages built into the deep western tunnels of their dominion, the Ancients had already begun storing food for the long winter. The occasional scream of a human captive ripped through the mine, reverberating like an animal call.

  It is the seventh one.

  Despite their human appearance, they had no use for animal speech. Their movements, down to the glances of their sated red eyes, were dreadfully slow.

  What is this incursion?

  It is a violation.

  He thinks us old and weak.

  Someone else is a party to this transgression. Someone had to assist him in his ocean crossing.

  One of the others?

  One of the New World Ancients reached out with his mind, across the sea to the Old World.

  I do not feel that.

  Then the seventh one has aligned with a human.

  With a human, against all other humans.

  And against us.

  Is it not evident now that he alone was responsible for the Bulgarian massacre?

  Yes. He has proven his willingness to kill his own kind if crossed.

  He was indeed spoiled by the world war.

  He supped too long in the trenches. Feasted in the camps.

  And now he has broken the truce. He has set foot on our soil. He wants the entire world for himself.

  What he wants is another war.

  The tallest one’s talon twitched—an extraordinary physical action for a being so steeped in deliberation, in elemental stillness. Their bodies were simple shells and could be replaced. Perhaps they had become complacent. Too comfortable.

  Then we will oblige him. We must remain invisible no more.

  The headhunter entered the chamber of the Ancients and waited to be acknowledged.

  You have found him.

  Yes. He tried to return home, as do all creatures.

  He will suffice?

  He will be our sun hunter. He has no other choice.

  In a locked cage in the western tunnel, on a floor of cold dirt, Gus Elizalde lay unconscious, dreaming of his mother—unaware of the peril awaiting him.

  EPILOGUE

  Kelton Street, Woodside, Queens

  They regrouped at Kelly’s house, Nora bringing Zack home after Eph and Fet had cleaned up the mess that was Matt, burning his remains under leaves and brush in the backyard.

  Setrakian lay on the fold-out sleeper in the sunroom. He had refused to go to a hospital, and Eph agreed that was out of the question anyway. His arm was badly bruised but not bro
ken. His pulse rate was low, but steady and improving. Eph wanted Setrakian to sleep, but not with painkillers. So before going in to check on him after nightfall, Eph opened Kelly’s kitchen liquor cabinet. He picked up a bottle of scotch, once his crutch, and set it aside, pouring the old man a more gentle brandy.

  Setrakian said it wasn’t the pain that bothered him. “Failure keeps one awake.”

  The mention of failure reminded Eph that he had not found Kelly. Part of him wanted to believe that this was still a reason to hope.

  “You did not fail,” said Eph. “The sun failed.”

  Setrakian said, “He is more powerful than I knew. I suspected it, maybe…dreaded, certainly…but never knew. He is not of this earth.”

  Eph agreed. “He is a vampire.”

  “No—not of this earth.”

  Eph was worried about the old man having taken a blow to the head. “We hurt him, bottom line. We marked him. And now he’s on the run.”

  The old man would not be consoled. “He is still out there. It goes on.” He accepted the glass from Eph, drank it, and sat back. “These vampires now…they are in their infancy. We are about to witness a new stage in their evolution. It takes about seven nights to become fully turned. For their new parasitic organ system to complete its formation. Once that occurs, once their bodies are no longer comprised of vital organs—heart, lungs—but only a series of chambers in the body, they will be less vulnerable to conventional weaponry. And they will continue to mature beyond that time—learning, becoming smarter, more used to their environment. They will band together and coordinate their attacks, and individually become much more nimble and deadly. Making it much harder to find and defeat them. Until eventually it will become impossible to stop them.” The old man finished his brandy and then looked at Eph. “I believe what we saw up there on that rooftop this morning was the end of our kind.”

  Eph felt the weight of the future pressing down on them all. “How much is there that you haven’t told me?”

  Setrakian’s eyes were rheumy as he stared off into the middle distance. “Too much to speak of now.”

  A short while later, he was asleep. Eph looked at his gnarled fingers twisting the hem of the bedsheet on his chest. The old man’s dreams were feverish.

  “Dad!”

  Eph went out to the main room. Zack was sitting in the computer chair, and Eph gripped the boy from behind, wrapped him up in another hug, kissing the top of his head, breathing in the scent of his hair. “I love you, Z,” he whispered.

  “Love you too, Dad,” Zack said back, and Eph ruffled his hair and let him go.

  “Where are we with this?”

  “Almost all set.” The boy returned to the computer. “I had to create a dummy e-mail address. You pick a password.”

  Zack was helping Eph upload the video of Ansel Barbour in the dog shed—which Eph had not yet shown Zack—onto as many file-sharing and broadcast video web sites as possible. Eph wanted true vampire footage out there on the Internet for the world to see. It was the only way he could think of to reach people and make them comprehend. He wasn’t worried about fostering chaos and panic: the riots continued, confined to poorer neighborhoods, though their spread was just a matter of time. The alternative of continued coordinated silence in the face of an extinction event was too absurd to consider.

  This plague would be fought at a grassroots level now—or not at all.

  Zack said, “Now I select the file, like this, and move it up as an attachment…”

  Fet’s voice came from the kitchen, where he was watching television, eating deli chicken salad out of a half-pound plastic tub. “Look at this.”

  Eph turned. Helicopter footage showed a row of flaming buildings now, and thick black smoke filling the air over Manhattan.

  “It’s getting bad,” he said.

  As Eph watched, he noticed all of Zack’s school papers on the refrigerator door lift and flutter. A napkin wafted across the counter, drifting to the floor, at Fet’s feet.

  Eph turned to Zack, who had stopped typing. “What was that breeze?”

  Zack said, “Back slider must be open.”

  Eph looked around for Nora. Then the toilet flushed, and she stepped out of the hall bathroom. “What’s up?” she said, finding everyone staring at her.

  Eph turned toward the other end of the house, looking at the corner that led around to the sliding glass door and the backyard.

  A person turned the corner. Stopping there, her arms hanging limply at her sides.

  Eph stared, paralyzed.

  Kelly.

  “Mom!”

  Zack started toward her, and Eph reached out and grabbed him. His grip must have hurt Zack, because the boy pulled away in surprise, looking back at him.

  Nora rushed over and wrapped Zack up from behind.

  Kelly was just standing there. Looking at them. No expression, no blinking. She looked shell-shocked, as though deafened by some recent explosion.

  Eph knew immediately. The pain in his heart was physical.

  Kelly Goodweather was turned. A dead thing returned to its home.

  Her gazing eyes found Zack. Her Dear One. She had come for him.

  “Mom?” said Zack, seeing that something was wrong with her.

  Eph felt quick movement from behind. Fet rushed into the hall and grabbed Eph’s sword. He brandished it, showing Kelly the silver of the blade.

  Kelly’s face curdled. Her expression collapsed into evil and she bared her teeth.

  Eph’s heart dropped through his chest and into his gut.

  She was a demon. A vampire.

  One of them.

  She was gone to him forever.

  With a muffled groan, Zack recoiled at the sight of his demonized mother…and then blacked out.

  Fet started after her with the sword, but Eph hooked his arm before he could follow through. Kelly recoiled from the silver blade, like a cat with its fur up. She hissed at them. She took one more baleful look at the unconscious boy, her intended…and then turned and fled out the back door.

  Eph and Fet rounded the corner just in time to watch Kelly throw herself over the low chain-link fence separating their backyard from the neighbor’s, and run off into the new night.

  Fet closed the door and locked it. He drew the blinds over the glass, then turned to Eph.

  Eph said nothing but returned to Nora, who was kneeling over Zack, on the floor, her eyes keen with despair.

  He saw now how truly insidious this plague was. Pitting family member against family member. Pitting death against life.

  The Master had sent her. He had turned her against Eph and Zack. To torment them. To take his revenge.

  If the degree of devotion to a Dear One in life bore any correlation to their desire to reunite in death…then Eph knew that Kelly would never give up. She would go on haunting her son forever unless someone put a stop to it.

  Their custody battle for Zack was not over.

  Eph looked at their faces…and then at the fires raging on television…and then turned to the computer. He pressed the enter key, completing Zack’s task. He dispatched video proof of the raging vampire into the world…and then went into the kitchen, where Kelly kept the scotch. For the first time in a long time, he poured himself a drink.

  Acknowledgments

  The authors gratefully acknowledge and enthusiastically recommend the book Rats: Observations on the History and Habitat of the City’s Most Unwanted Inhabitants by Robert Sullivan (Bloomsbury, 2004).

  About the Authors

  Born and raised in Guadalajara, Mexico, GUILLERMO DEL TORO made his feature directorial debut in 1993 with the film Cronos, and has since gone on to direct Mimic, The Devil’s Backbone, Blade II, Hellboy I, Hellboy II, and Pan’s Labyrinth, which garnered enormous critical praise worldwide and won three Academy Awards. He will direct two films based on The Hobbit, to be produced by Peter Jackson.

  CHUCK HOGAN is the author of several acclaimed novels, including The Standoff a
nd Prince of Thieves, which won the 2005 Hammett Award and was called one of the ten best novels of the year by Stephen King. Prince of Thieves will soon be a major motion picture.

  www.thestrainthebook.com

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  ALSO BY CHUCK HOGAN

  The Killing Moon

  Prince of Thieves

  The Blood Artists

  The Standoff

  Credits

  Jacket design by Ervin Serrano

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE STRAIN. Copyright © 2009 by Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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