Dracula's Child

by J. S. Barnes

  I got to the station to find the place teeming with folks who were trying to get away, decent, honest citizens, fearful and worn down.

  At the sight of this ragged congregation, I was put in mind of the Good Book and its words about the separation of sheep and goats. I wondered which we were, those of us in flight. Then I realised that I got the parable all wrong. These people were sheep sure enough, fleeing from the city. But it wasn’t goats that we were giving up London to. It was wolves.

  The trains were already starting to fail. No room for everyone. The guards did their best but there wasn’t enough space for us all. The taking of tickets and the checking of documents looked to have been entirely abandoned. Everyone was yielding to a herd instinct, to a yearning for escape. The crowd grew restless. No violence. Just tears and lamentations. In the air, panic rose.

  I was a lucky one. I helped a family on board a train bound for the country and was ushered on in their wake. As I clambered up I saw my pursuer – a dot in the sea of faces. For a moment as I saw him, his name swam to the front of my memory. Then it – and he – were gone.

  I entered a compartment that was already all but full. I stood – the seats having long since been taken – gladly yielding my place to a family with a brace of yowling kids. I stood instead in the corridor beyond. All of us were men out there, all shoulder to shoulder. All of us were trying not to be afraid. The atmosphere was thick with desperation. No one spoke yet our eyes told their own story.

  We waited till at last we heard the frantic whistle of the guard and the slamming of the doors. A moment later the carriage swayed and the train began to move. With too much effort, we pulled away as the engine broke free of the station.

  ‘Thank God,’ muttered several of those present. ‘The Lord be praised.’

  As I looked about that gang of strangers – all those relieved and hopeful faces – I realised that one of them was not in truth a stranger at all.

  The pale young man, scrawny and down-at-heel, saw that my eye had lighted on his and he gave me a secret smile. He moved towards me, elbowing his way through the knot of travellers.

  Folks complained. They even swore at him but he was persistent. Just his presence seemed to have punctured the mood of fragile hope.

  At last he reached my side. He gave me a sneer.

  ‘Don’t recognise me, do you, copper?’

  I saw that he was even younger than I’d thought. Barely more than a boy, for all his angry swagger.

  ‘I think you followed me,’ I said. ‘God knows why.’

  ‘No. From before then. From before… everything.’

  I looked at him. He grinned wildly. At last his name came to me… ‘Thom Cawley.’

  ‘Well done, Yankee. Smart as a snake, ain’t you?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  He laughed – a sour snorting.

  ‘I want you to kill me, Mr Dickerson, sir. ’Cause if you don’t…’ He smiled and at the sight of it, any doubt I might have had left about his sanity utterly dissolved. ’Cause if you don’t, I’m going to have to murder everyone on this train.’

  As his smile widened to reveal clean white fangs, I started to understand the nature of the situation. And even then I moved too damn slowly.

  At the words of Thom Cawley, panic in the crowd spread like wildfire. There were shouts and screams and curses. There was the start of a stampede. And there was the voice of that hoodlum, now made into some alien thing, above the sounds of fear.

  ‘Please, detective. End it for me! They give me my orders but I don’t want to do it.’

  Truly, the boy was in pain.

  ‘Please!’ he shouted one more time and bared his teeth again. ‘You know what you have to do!’

  He gave a moan of agony before lunging at a man who was struggling by him, sinking his fangs into his neck and clamping down hard. There was blood. The train surged on.

  Cawley disengaged from the guy and hurled his twitching form to the ground. When his eyes met mine amid the rushing chaos, I saw they were full of pleading.

  Unable to stop himself, the little gangster stretched out a hand to seize another victim.

  At last I acted. At last my old instincts were returned to me. In one motion, I took my stick and broke it on my knees. I discarded half and kept the other. I took the boy by the neck and thrust him to the ground.

  He gurgled, almost as though he found it pleasant.

  ‘Go on,’ he begged. ‘You know what to do!’

  ‘Why?’ I shouted.

  ‘Because I can’t bear it…’ There were tears in his eyes. ‘I don’t want to live as a monster.’

  ‘No, I mean why were you sent? To kill all these people?’

  ‘To make an example of them. To scare the rest into staying.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s got plans for us. Plans for us all. And that’s why. That’s why I want to—’

  I had no interest in hearing any more. I brought down the stake hard into his chest. He screamed, like a child. I guess I hadn’t been forceful enough. So I did it again. Even harder than before. Smashed bone, ripped skin and gristle. No scream this time. His eyes rolled upwards. No more breath.

  Already tired, I got to my feet. I saw a mass of frightened faces. And then in the distance, from somewhere in the train, we heard the sounds of screaming.

  ‘There’s another one,’ I said to the throng. ‘There’s another goddamn vampire on this train!’

  More screams. Panic. Chaos. The engine churning onwards. The bloodied stake, gripped tightly in my hand.

  * * *

  What I knew next was this.

  It was later that same day. Evening. Full dark. I was in the country, in a field beside the railroad track. The earth was cold and hard beneath me. My body was in agony, my arms still trembling in the aftermath of exertion. As I came to, I glanced down and I saw that my suit was covered with spreading islands of blood.

  There was a smell of burning on the breeze. As I rose to my feet I saw the cause. The train on which I had left London was burning like a torch. Even at a distance I could feel the heat of the flames. I could hear their crackling.

  As I stepped forward, hoping that someone might still be alive inside it, I heard a voice – a woman’s voice – from the shadows.

  ‘Everyone on board is dead, sir. You did your best. But they were many and you are but one man.’

  I turned and saw the speaker. She was a young lady, small, demure, dark-haired and full-lipped.

  ‘My name is Ruby,’ she said. ‘I think you knew my father. Welcome to Wildfold, Mr Dickerson. And welcome to the heart of the resistance.’

  Without saying more, the young woman turned and vanished into darkness. With only the inferno of the train before me, and the long, empty line of the railroad tracks, I saw no alternative but to do the same.

  ‘Wait!’ I called. But she would not slow her pace. I followed. Away from the track we moved, down a steep incline and towards a line of trees. For a time the light from the burning locomotive cast dancing shadows on the ground, but they faded soon enough as we approached the copse.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked again to the girl who still kept several paces ahead of me. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  This time she replied, though her answer was of damnably little use. ‘You’ll see soon enough. Hurry now.’

  As we passed through the trees I became aware of something else: of how close we were to the ocean.

  A long, low beach of stones lay before us and the dark sea stretched beyond.

  The train and the horror of it seemed far away. There was only the taste of salt on my lips and the roar of the waves in my ears.

  ‘Come on,’ said Ruby. I guess I must have paused to take in the vista. ‘Or else we’ll miss it.’

  She stepped onto the beach and strode away.

  For a time we walked along the shore together. The sea seemed to me to be unruly, as though there were a storm somewhere far away or else some fre
ak ruction in the deep. Waves crashed, clawing at the ground. There was a sound of stones, skittering and tumbling one over another, cascades of rock, sand and silt.

  ‘You said you were the resistance!’ I cried. ‘Surely there’s more of you?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, only to add a moment later: ‘But not many.’

  We rounded a curve in the landscape and passed onto a stretch of beach which had not been visible to us before. It was then that I saw it: another fire, bigger and even more dramatic than the one I had seen on the railroad tracks. It was a fearsome bonfire, a vast blaze, like something out of Scripture.

  ‘What is the meaning of it?’

  ‘It’s a pyre,’ she said. ‘But it’s a kind of beacon too.’

  ‘Who lit it?’

  ‘We did,’ she replied, with a queer sort of jauntiness. ‘The doctor and me.’

  As she said these words, I saw a dark figure moving against the flames. A bustling silhouette. I did not know him but even from a distance he was troubling. There was something too agitated in his motions. Something close to crazed.

  As we came nearer, our footsteps crunching on the beach, his outline grew more plain. There was something about him of the priest. But not of those polite vicars and meek curates of this country. Not, at least, unless they had been driven into a state of exultation close to madness.

  Rather, dressed all in black, severe and ascetic-looking, he was much more akin to the wandering preachers I knew in my childhood. Wild-eyed prophets, forever seeking alms or a congregation or both, they who crisscrossed the great plains of Utah in the last century.

  ‘Doctor!’ called out the woman by my side. The man beckoned us forward. At last we reached him. The wall of flame was vast and intense. The fire hissed and spat. I saw timber there, being consumed by the inferno, but there were other things too. Other, half-familiar shapes.

  The stranger held out his hand. I saw now that he had been badly injured. Half his face had been torn away, as if by a single, brutal swipe from some terrible claw.

  ‘Hello! I’m Jack Seward,’ he said. ‘You must be George Dickerson.’

  I told him that I was. ‘You knew that I was coming?’

  He nodded. ‘We saw your approach in our dreams.’

  ‘And I prayed,’ said the young woman. ‘I prayed to God to send us help.’

  ‘Seward…’ I began. ‘You were missing. Ain’t that right? Your friends wanted to send out a search party.’

  The scarred man nodded once. ‘It was a long, strange road which led me to this place.’

  ‘I should like to hear what happened.’

  As if in reply, the fire sent up a shower of sparks.

  ‘Maybe I shall tell you,’ said Jack Seward. ‘But not, I think, tonight. For we have other work to do.’

  Ruby Parlow interrupted. ‘Is it almost time, then? Is it almost here?’

  ‘Is what almost here?’ I asked. ‘What exactly are you folks waiting for?’

  Seward smiled – a smile of unsettling calm. ‘We’re waiting, Mr Dickerson,’ he said, ‘for that.’ And he flung out his right arm towards the ocean. ‘See! See there!’

  His face was illuminated by the crazy flickering of the flames. I looked out across the water and I saw then what he meant. A tall ship weaved wildly out at sea, listing in the water then hurtling on towards the shore.

  ‘She’s in trouble,’ I hollered. ‘Unless she’s righted she’ll be wrecked.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ said Ruby, ‘except to pray.’

  ‘I expect she will be wrecked, Mr Dickerson,’ Seward said. ‘But there will be survivors. One in particular. One who will change the course of all our destinies.’

  ‘Who is it?’ I said. ‘Who the hell’s on that boat who’s so important to you?’

  Seward sighed, as though the answer should be obvious. ‘Who else?’ he said. ‘But Dracula’s child.’

  * * *

  That ship was wrecked and there was nothing we could do to stop it. We bore witness, the flames hot at our backs, as the vessel tilted, foundered and, with a roar of splintered wood and metal, sank.

  Once the ship was down I ran to the water’s edge, scouting for survivors. I shouted in the hope that they could follow the sound of my voice. Behind me, Seward and the woman stood like guardsmen. In the end, rising out of the dark water, I saw just three people – two men and a boy.

  I waded in as far as I could and helped them struggle ashore. I urged them to safety and they stumbled up towards the bonfire’s edge. Seward greeted them as though in a kind of rapture: ‘Arthur! Quincey!’

  The older man took the doctor in his arms.

  ‘Jack! Thank God. Thank God, you’re safe. But… your face.’

  ‘It’s a long story. I dare say you’ve one of your own to tell.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that I do.’ He motioned towards the stranger. ‘This is Strickland. Without him, Quincey and I would be dead.’

  ‘I’m George Dickerson.’

  He looked me over, then smiled. ‘Of course. The policeman. The American policeman.’

  I found that I was grinning back. We shook hands. The boy – Quincey – was smiling too. For an instant, I allowed myself the possibility of hope. Then Ruby spoke up again. She has about her, in spite of her age and sex, the most terrific sense of authority. Truly, she is her father’s daughter.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ We all turned to look at her. ‘We need to make plans.’

  ‘Plans for what, ma’am?’ I asked.

  She looked me straight in the eye, unblinking. ‘For the final battle,’ she said.

  JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

  10 February. I am unable to recall any previous occasion on which I have exerted myself for so prolonged a space of time, or forced upon myself such relentless and unforgiving endurance. For a day and a night I have walked without ceasing. Often, I think that I have even walked while half asleep, my feet trudging ever onwards, my body obeying my will even through the mists of unconsciousness.

  I have moved steadily east, following where I can the railway tracks and, in their absence, both my instincts and the stars. As I have moved through the counties of England, I have done my utmost to draw to myself no attention and to lie low. Wherever possible, I have kept out of sight. As before, I have felt that thoroughly unsettling sense that the country herself is shifting, that she is undergoing a process of reversion. Never have I felt so perpetually at risk in my own nation, not from one singular threat but from many.

  Everywhere there persists a quality of hunger, as if appetites which have long been forbidden are now being permitted to break free. The shadow of the Count has fallen over us all, and now is the time at which we understand what other forces lurk in the shadows.

  It was growing dark for the second time in this desperate trek of mine when I saw a stretch of dense and gloomy woodland. I was by then (or so, at least, I believe) at the edge of East Anglia. I had been following the line of the railway for ten miles or so as those tall lines of elm and ash rose up about me.

  It was late and I was exhausted. I had seen no trains for more than an hour and there was a stillness in the air, a hush in the twilight which seemed to me almost soothing. For the first time in too long I no longer felt watched.

  I kept walking onwards, my determination undimmed, but then I stumbled. I gasped and righted myself only to stumble again. My knees were giving out in protest at how I had used them. My legs ached and sang with pain. All the long days of my imprisonment and enforced inactivity now paid bitter dividends. Far away, in the forest, I heard the plaintive, questioning call of an owl. I lay for a moment upon the earth, quite helpless. I felt horribly exposed. If a vampire had found me in so vulnerable a position, my life would not have been worth a farthing.

  I made up my mind. I needed rest and sanctuary, if only for an hour or two before I pressed on towards the sea. I rose with great difficulty to my feet and staggered a short distance into the woodland, far enough in that I coul
d not be seen from the tracks. Masked by trees, I found a kind of concave undulation in the ground, carpeted by dead, dry leaves.

  Into this happy bower I collapsed. Sleep came almost immediately, my body grateful to be granted rest.

  The last thing that I remembered before slumber was the cry once again of the owl, closer this time than before.

  * * *

  I was woken some hours later – exactly when I know not – by a pair of voices. One belonged to a man and the other to a woman. Both were evidently young.

  ‘Who is he, do you think?’

  ‘Poor fellow looks exhausted.’

  The sound of them was pleasant and kindly and, though I have learned of late to mistrust once more such effects, trustworthy also.

  I opened my eyes and scrambled to my feet. I fumbled in my pocket and brought out a makeshift crucifix which I had constructed on the road.

  The two strangers laughed – a noise which might have been eerie in that dense, unpeopled woodland but which, to my ears, was oddly and even charmingly musical.

  ‘Fear not,’ said the man.

  ‘We are not like them,’ said the woman.

  In the grey light of the moon, I examined this pair of visitors. They were still younger than I had thought. Neither can have been more than twenty-one. He had dark hair and she had fair. They were dressed in the rough pragmatic clothes of village folk and they had about them an air of smiling hospitality.

  Still suspicious, I stepped closer, the cross outstretched.

  Neither of the young people flinched from my approach.

  ‘Smile,’ I said grimly. ‘Show me your teeth.’

  Both did as I had asked. Without embarrassment or shame, I peered closer and saw that their teeth were entirely human.

  ‘No fangs,’ said the boy, and both of them laughed once more.

  ‘Who are you?’ said the woman.

  I stepped back. ‘Jonathan Harker.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Jonathan Harker,’ she replied. ‘My name is Julia and this is my brother, Joshua.’