The Infernal Express

by Josh Reynolds

  “Walpurgisnacht,” St. Cyprian muttered. His hand gave a spasm and he drew it to his chest. He’d almost forgotten. No wonder the Drachenorden were desperate enough to attack a moving train.

  Yessss. An empty ritual, of course. And one I have no need of, thanks to you.

  St. Cyprian shook his head. “No.” Harker reached for him, and he turned and stumbled away, trying to block out Dracula’s voice.

  You invited me in, with your petty sorcery, and I crossed the threshold of your soul, boy. Now I will make your home my own. With every day, every hour, I conquer more territory…you should thank me, you know. You will not have to witness the horrors yet to come, Dracula growled. The horrors I must face, if I am to triumph.

  St. Cyprian stumbled, and nearly fell. His head felt as if it were full to bursting. He heard the flap of great wings, and shuddered as something passed over his soul.

  Yesss, horrors. A world of gray pyramids and creeping fields of fungus, Dracula murmured. A world where the last pitiful remnants of the race of men huddle in sterile tombs, watching the inexorable approach of titan horrors the way a songbird might watch a snake.

  St. Cyprian shuddered as the images flooded his mind. Vast armies of swinish horrors, of a type he’d faced before, thundered across the landscape, squealing and grunting as they attacked a slow moving, tracked vehicle which resembled one of the great tanks he’d seen on the battlefield. As he watched, the swine-things swarmed the machine and buried it in writhing, phosphorescent bodies.

  Thus will your people—our people—pass from the world, little sorcerer. This is the future which creeps ever closer with every passing year. The future I would prevent, Dracula hissed, his red presence swirling about St. Cyprian.

  “Why,” St. Cyprian croaked, clutching at his face, as the raw, thick battlefield stink of Dracula invaded his nose. He staggered. His limbs felt heavy. He could hear Harker saying something behind him, but he couldn’t make it out. It was as if she were shouting from a great distance. A crimson presence enveloped him, and inundated him.

  Why? Why, he asks…what use to me is a world of mushrooms and bile-veined pigs, enchanter? What use to Dracula this land of eternal night-which-is-not, when men are extinct and greater horrors than myself stalk the shadows? The crimson presence quivered with what might have been anger. St. Cyprian felt strong hands grasp his shoulders. The harsh rasp of inhuman breath caressed his neck. No, I’ll not have it. Dracula will not allow these things to come to pass. Dracula will not allow any darkness save his own to conquer this world. This place is mine…and it shall remain so!

  “Very…noble,” St. Cyprian grunted. “But I’m afraid you’re not in any position to do anything, old thing. Bit of a handicap, what?”

  Laughter slithered through his head.

  Oh, but I think not, boy. One body is much like another—clay to be molded by a superior will. My will. And your body will be my clay, if I cannot have flesh upon my old bones once more.

  The grip tightened and St. Cyprian sank to his knees. You think to cast me out, son of Troy? You think to pit yourself against me? I, who have commanded armies, and who rules in Hell? Pfaugh. You were lost the moment my teeth kissed your flesh, little worm. I will hollow you out and reshape your skin to suit me. Dracula will be reborn!

  “Be a chap and clamp it,” St. Cyprian said. He clutched at his head. He felt as if something were trying to claw its way out of his skull. He thrashed, trying to break Dracula’s grip, and his fists struck flesh. He heard a curse and turned to see Harker stumbling back.

  She glared at him. “He is in your head, isn’t he?” she hissed. “He is under your skin. I can smell him.” She took a step towards him, her fingers—those oh, so lethal fingers—curled like talons. “He’s burrowed into you too deep now, like a splinter—or a seed in the soil.” She took another step, and he pushed himself back, across the filthy stones.

  She is correct, Dracula murmured. So wise, my child, so fierce. She does me proud. It will be a shame to scatter her entrails across this mountain, but one must maintain discipline, no? St. Cyprian bent forward, his stomach roiling.

  “No,” he grunted. He looked at Harker. “Nothing a good drink wouldn’t fix,” he said, trying to ignore the pounding in his head and the ache in his bones. The bandages around his hand were soaked through with blood.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she said. Her lips peeled back from her fangs. “I hoped that I would not have to do this. That you would be able to resist him. But he will only get stronger, and you will get weaker and then he will be wearing you like armor.”

  More than that, of course, Dracula whispered. I will be you, I will own all that you are, every iota, every memory and dream. All mine. You will be my armor, and my lance, to thrust into the hearts of my enemies…

  “Sounds dashed inconvenient,” St. Cyprian muttered, casting about for anything he might be able to use as a weapon. He’d left his Bulldog in the roadster, and his mind was too dulled by pain to call up any incantation or charm that might be of use.

  Harker took another step. “I am sorry, Charles. I am sorry, but I must do this, for the good of all,” she insisted, and he wondered who she was trying to convince. Why was she even trying to explain? Unless…

  Ha! Yessssss, Dracula hissed. I am disappointed…such sentiment is unworthy of one of my blood. It is no wonder it has come to this…

  “I’m sure that’s what you’ll tell yourself,” St. Cyprian said, seizing on that thin spar of hope with desperate strength, even as he ignored Dracula’s raspy muttering. “Why, I bet Morris and Godalming will even thank you for it.”

  Her face twisted. “You don’t understand—if you were thinking clearly…”

  “I would still be bloody put out, I suspect,” he said, coughing. He waved his bloody hand at her. “No, no, I understand. Hard choices, and all that bollocks.” He peered at her. “Then, if you’d already decided, you’d have torn my throat out immediately, rather than dithering about it.”

  “Dithering? I—” Harker stiffened suddenly and made a sound like a dying cat. The tip of a sword emerged from between her breasts in a wash of red, and she pitched forward. The weight of her body pulled the heavy blade from its wielder’s grip, leaving him facing the groggy St. Cyprian. The man was big, bigger than St. Cyprian, and clad in similar fashion to the others, though the dragon on his chest was picked out in red, rather than black. He pulled his cowl off and tossed it aside, revealing a craggy, blocky face.

  “You would never have made it to Constantinople,” he said.

  “No, maybe not,” St. Cyprian said, through clenched teeth. He was cold, colder than he could ever recall being, at any time in his life. “Would have given it the old college try though, eh?”

  “A man can but try.” The big man sighed heavily and pulled something from within his armor. It was a tiny clay figurine. The shape was disturbingly familiar. St. Cyprian’s eyes widened as he recognized the demon from the ferry.

  “Bugger,” he said. “I wondered where he’d got to.”

  “Yes,” the big man said. He cradled the figurine in his hands. “Very precious, this. It has been passed down through our order for centuries. Only a few could properly wield its power. The demon is a thing of rain and thunder. Not cunning or clever, but mighty all the same, and capable of turning on its master in a single moment of inattention.”

  He stepped over Harker’s crumpled body and stepped towards St. Cyprian. “You killed its handler, on the Channel. Unbound the beast, for just a moment, and it turned on him with regrettable savagery.”

  “Would it help if I apologized?” St. Cyprian asked. He wondered where Gallowglass was, whether she’d survived the fall out of the roadster. If she had, he hoped she made it home. She’ll make a good Royal Occultist, I think…better than me, at least. Wish I’d paid more attention to Carnacki, he thought, trying to haul himself back.

  Carnacki was a fool. Drood was a fool. And you…you are the biggest fool of all, Dracula muttered. I do
not know this man, but he has my scent on him. He is one of mine, and he shall bleed you, in my name.

  “No. Nor should you. You are a soldier, as I am, though you cannot conceive the true nature of the war you wage on behalf of your masters,” the big man rumbled.

  “And you do, Mr…?” St. Cyprian said, trying to ignore Dracula’s cackling. A stone shifted beneath his hand. It was loose. If he could pry it up…

  “Wolkenstein,” the big man said. “I do you the courtesy of telling you my name, so that He might hear it, and know who His most faithful servant is.”

  “He…Dracula, you mean,” St. Cyprian said, rolling over onto his arm, in order to hide his attempt to pry up the stone. He would only get one chance. Whatever Wolkenstein had planned, it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  “Dracula must rise,” Wolkenstein rasped. “For the world to prosper, the dragon must spread his wings anew. You cannot stop us.” He lifted the clay figurine, and the air took on the smell of scorched metal. “I will fill this ruin with storm and fire, and your blood will serve as the catalyst to his resurrection, upon Walpurgisnacht.”

  Ha! What would he say, if he knew that I lurked within you, eh? Dracula laughed. Still, let him try. Let him kill you, and I will rise anew from your ruined flesh…

  “Well, that’s one way of doing it,” St. Cyprian said weakly. His wounded hand felt like a lead weight, dragging him down. But he had the stone in the other. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He was only going to get one chance.

  Gallowglass moved quickly up the slope. The roadster was a wreck, but neither St. Cyprian nor Harker were in evidence—that meant that they had survived. Monastery, she thought. She began to ascend, moving quickly despite the ache in her limbs. Her speed was born of worry. There was no telling what Harker might get up to. Whatever St. Cyprian said, the woman was still a vampire of sorts, and she was no friend of theirs. And he was sick; not in his right mind. He had been getting worse since Paris.

  When I get back to London, I’m giving Morris a kick right in the plums, she thought, as she climbed, using her anger as a wedge against the pain of her shoulder and ribs. When she’d fallen from the motor car, the wolf-thing had come with her. They’d thankfully gotten separated in the tumble. Where it was now, she couldn’t say, and she didn’t much care. She was in no shape to face another vampire. She wasn’t in shape to do much, frankly. But she had to try.

  She slowed as the brick archway came into sight. The door was off, and on the ground. She could hear voices beyond it, and saw lights. Gallowglass slunk towards the wall and pressed herself flat against it. She peered around the edge of the entryway, and saw the bridge to the monastery and the men standing on it. Drachenorden, from their black tabards and archaic armor. Six of them, one bigger than the rest. You’re in charge, she thought. No one got that big if they were on the bottom of the heap. They spoke quickly, quietly, and in German. Down below, in the trees, gunfire split the night.

  Gallowglass tensed, as one of the Drachenorden, carrying a carbine, turned and glanced back down the path. They were worried, and in a hurry. She could use that, if given the opportunity. She tightened her grip on the handle of her balisong. She wished she had her Webley-Fosbery, but she hadn’t had the time to stop and look.

  She watched as the big man crossed the bridge and entered the monastery, blade drawn. That left five between her and the door. She smiled. “Berries,” she murmured. Carefully, quickly, she clambered up the wall and onto the curve of the arch. In the dark, they didn’t notice her. The one with the rifle was closest.

  “Oi, Joe Palooka,” she said. “Up here.” The black-clad gunman turned and Gallowglass pounced. His head bounced off the wood. Straddling him, she spun the balisong between her fingers and drove it down, through his eye. Then she tore the carbine from his slack grip and took aim at the closest of his companions. She fired, racked the bolt and fired again. Two of the Drachenorden fell, one tumbling over the rail of the bridge. The last two charged towards her. Neither was carrying a gun.

  Gallowglass smirked and raised the rifle. It made an unpleasant sound. Jammed, she thought, as the first man reached her. His sword flashed down, chopping into the wooden boards as she scrambled aside. She gripped the barrel of the carbine and swung it like a club. The stock cracked as it caught her attacker in the side of the head. He staggered, clutching at his helmet. She drove the stock of the rifle into his gut and drove him back, hard against the rail. The wood splintered at the sudden application of weight.

  The swordsman flailed, off balance. His blade slashed down, narrowly missing her, as she caught the pommel of the knife sheathed at his side and clawed it free. He caught at her with his free hand as she rammed her shoulder into his chest, keeping him off balance. She drove the purloined knife up, beneath the edge of his helmet and under his chin. Blood coursed down her hand and wrist as she shoved herself back. The dead man flopped backwards as the rail finally gave way, taking him with it.

  She heard the hiss of displaced air, and whirled, as a sword descended towards her head. Acting on instinct, she slapped her palms together, trapping the blade inches from her scalp. The force of the blow drove her back, and her heel scraped the edge of the bridge. “Real big six, hunh?” she said through gritted teeth, as she fought to retain her grip on the sword. “Tough guy, got all the leverage.” He was stronger than her, and he knew it. He put his weight into it, trying to either drive his blow home, or shove her backwards, over the edge. Gallowglass snarled in frustration. She didn’t have time for this; whatever was going on in the monastery, she knew that St. Cyprian needed her.

  She grimaced as the edge of the sword cut into her palms. She fought to hold it back, but she was tired, and running on hope and stubbornness. Her fall and run through the forest had set her limbs to trembling, and her heart to thumping overtime. She was running out of steam. She was going to die here, killed by a faceless fool in out-of-date kit. No, she thought. No, not like this and not on some bleedin’ rock in the middle of nowhere.

  “Bugger this for a game of soldiers,” she hissed, and fell backwards, guiding the sword over her shoulder as she did so. It stabbed point first into the wood, and as she tumbled off the bridge, her hand snapped out, guided by instinct and faith, to catch the protruding edge of a plank. She swung herself beneath the bridge, grabbing for a support strut with her free hand. Her feet struck rock. He opponent plummeted past her with a scream.

  Breathing heavily, Gallowglass crouched there for a moment. When her muscles began to protest, she pulled herself back up onto the bridge. She recovered her knife, and wiped it clean on her trousers. Then, she started across the bridge, hoping that she would be in time.

  20.

  Wolkenstein had just begun the chant to awaken the demon bound to the statuette when the sound of gunfire echoed through the ruin. His voice faltered as he glanced back the way he had come. “What—?” he began.

  St. Cyprian lunged forward, and drove his wounded fist into Wolkenstein’s side. The big man stumbled, and his chant faltered. A futile effort, Dracula spat, but struggle by all means, boy. It will only make my triumph all the sweeter!

  Wolkenstein turned, a snarl on his lips and St. Cyprian caught him alongside the head with the rock. The big man crumpled, blood running down his face. The statuette clattered from his grip. It twitched and rolled as sparks of electricity crackled about it. “N-no,” he groaned, clawing for it. St. Cyprian kicked it aside, and Wolkenstein lurched to his feet. His wide fists slammed down between St. Cyprian’s shoulder blades, dropping him to his hands and knees. “You…you think to pit yourself against the will of Hell?” Wolkenstein growled as he tore a knife from its sheath on his belt.

  “I daresay it’s in the job description,” St. Cyprian said. He rolled aside as Wolkenstein reached for him, and swung the rock again. The English and their humor, Dracula said, his chuckles slithering through St. Cyprian’s head. How I have missed it. One more pleasure amongst an eternity of delights so cruelly denied
me the day your predecessor drove a silver-plated sword-cane through my heart.

  Wolkenstein stepped back, and St. Cyprian fell forward. He felt wrung out and weak, as if he’d been days without food. Dracula was a cancer, sapping him of his vitality, gloating in his ear. The vampire was enjoying this.

  Yes! Fight! Fight on and fight bravely, boy, Dracula gloated. But not for much longer—look! Blearily, St. Cyprian did, and saw a familiar monstrous shape began to congeal from the charged air, with a thunderous roar. When you die, it shall be my pleasure to add this creature to my menagerie, Dracula murmured, as the demon took shape and lightning crawled across the walls of the cavern. It was the shape creature he’d faced aboard the ferry, only now its fury was unfettered, and somehow more potent. I must remember to thank my servants for digging it up, Dracula laughed.

  “Cork it,” St. Cyprian said, as he staggered towards the glowing statuette. The demon had been summoned, but it wasn’t under anyone’s control. He had to get his hands on it before the demon was fully materialized. It was the best chance he had. Behind him, Wolkenstein groaned and tried to rise, a spell of banishment on his lips. The murky shape shrieked and flung out a nebulous talon.

  The Grand Master of the Order of the Dragon screamed as a bolt of sorcerous lightning struck him full in the chest. He lurched upright, his flesh running like wax. His armor turned white from the heat, even as his tabard and cloak were consumed in the conflagration. Wolkenstein raised his hands, as if in benediction, and toppled backwards, to lie in a burning heap.

  St. Cyprian tossed his rock aside and scooped up the statuette. Electricity streamed down his arm, and the statuette was blisteringly hot in his grasp. He took the statuette in both hands, and clutched it to him, drawing the demon’s ire away from the smouldering carcass of Wolkenstein. Its indistinct shape turned to follow him.