by D. F. Jones
With the exception of the sergeant gunner, none of the men were married or seriously attached at the time of the plane’s disappearance. Their reunions with surviving relatives only added to their sense of alienation. The bombardier, his reactions still razor-sharp after thirty combat missions, confronted his younger brother, a pear-shaped family man weighed down with forty extra years, a man whose most traumatic experience had been witnessing an auto accident. They stared awkwardly at each other, separated by more than the years, trying to find something to say. They parted with many promises, all insincere, to “keep in touch,” each relieved that the ordeal was over. For the airman, the crew members were his brothers, the guys you relied on — not that sad, dumpy man.
Their isolation forced the tightly knit crew of Eager Virgin back to each other. All belonging to the exclusive club of fighting men, a club in which there are no honorary members, they clung together, none anxious to face a world in which they would be freaks and that struck them as equally weird. Men with hairdos? And handbags? Jee-sus Christ!
As for ICARUS, that was just one more puzzle. To be plucked out of the flak-torn sky over the Ruhr and tossed straight into this crazy world, forty years AWOL — hell, that was more than enough to be dealing with. Many of their feelings were totally inexplicable to the shrinks. One moment to be scared blind of FW-190’s over Essen, their only thought to stay in the combat box — and the next instant to be back in the States, transported to unimaginable comfort, good chow, dames, and unrationed liquor — and these crazy quacks going on about insect bites!
Eager Virgin itself revealed nothing new. No significant holes were found, and this was hardly surprising; flak and cannon shells had made plenty.
*
For many complex reasons, tension grew in the Soviet ICARUS group. Only the president and the party’s general secretary had heard Tatyana Marinskiya’s report, and they did not see fit to pass it to the rest. But the others soon had wind of her visit. A good private intelligence network, highly desirable to top people anywhere, was vital in the Soviet Union. Their exclusion from her Kremlin visit, and her denials, only made them think harder. The KGB chief took action; he knew she had been in Abdera Hollow and had talked with Malin, Arcasso, and the local doctor. He took it from there.
Any respectable intelligence service has its sleepers, agents on ice, people with a completely clean record who could be activated when necessary. And no outfit had a bigger collection of sleepers than the KGB. Within twenty-four hours, an innocuous phone call in New York — punctuated with a well-remembered codeword — led to a meeting in Central Park. Possibly influenced by a concern for his parents, who still resided in the Soviet Union, the sleeper obediently left for Abdera the next day, his task to discover the recent goings-on, especially those that involved the doctor. His journey was wasted. By the time he reached Abdera, the world’s top journalists had stripped the locals of news — all but those who knew anything about Xeno. They had gone. Malin had moved fast.
*
Mark tried to talk with Jaimie about the situation, but his young associate lived and breathed little but his forthcoming marriage. He was happy to go along with the Washington view that all the Xenos had died in the alien and unfriendly environment of earth. Subconsciously, the younger man refused to allow the frail shell of his happiness to be touched in any way. Freedman understood; he’d passed the same way once, but now he had an old man’s more cynical view of love. The difference between the two men was as simple as this: Jaimie couldn’t wait for spring; Mark dreaded it.
But weeks passed and nothing happened. This strengthened the Washington viewpoint but in no way weakened Freedman’s. He continued his lonely searches of woods and fields whenever he could spare the time — convinced that spring would bring something more than flowers.
XXVI.
With all the fixings Shane had set her young heart on, she and Jaimie were married in the first week of April, 1984. If Mark had been ungenerous enough to ask his junior, on the wedding morning, what the word ICARUS meant, he felt sure he’d have gotten a blank, uncomprehending stare. As Mark confided to his wife, Jaimie had as bad a case as he had seen in years, and the girl was no better.
A small house was waiting for them, freshly painted, up on the rim of the Hollow. Shane firmly believed that money was for spending, and the latest treasury grant had refitted the kitchen with everything Madison Avenue could con a girl into buying, from a floor-to-ceiling freezer the size of two telephone booths to a Cuisinart food processor. The fact that she could scarcely boil water hardly fazed her, and Jaimie, if so directed, was ready to live happily ever after on preprepared, prepackaged and predigested TV dinners.
Uncomfortable in his hired tux, Mark watched the young couple leave for their Hawaiian honeymoon, smiling a bit ruefully, knowing that life could not possibly live up to their shining expectations — and, deeper in his mind, thinking of the shadow of Xeno which hung over them all.
Beside him — literally, the unbidden wedding guest — was Tatyana. While surprised at her sudden reappearance, he was happy to see her frank, open smile. And Tatyana proved no lead balloon, infusing the rather stiff celebration with a touch of Russian earthiness. Even Shane warmed to her, although she was taken slightly aback when, at the reception, the Russian woman planted her strong, capable hands on the bride’s hips and stared hard into her eyes.
“Ah, yes! Jaimie is lucky! You have a good pelvic girdle; you will bear him many sons.” Her mood changed and she laughed, a loud, joyous sound. “But not too soon! Make him work hard for them!” She shook Shane’s arms. “Remember — a marriage is made in bed! Forget yourself — please him!” She faced Jaimie. “And you, tovarich, forget yourself. Take her, be good to her in bed — and please her!” She embraced them both, “It is as simple as that!”
Mark looked away, trying not to laugh. For all their imagined sophistication, her sincere, practical approach had them both blushing.
The honeymoon lasted two weeks. The couple returned, bright-eyed and eager to set up house, still delighted with everything, especially each other. At Jaimie’s invitation, Mark and his wife came over for drinks soon after their return. Everything was so new, Mark could almost hear the crunched-up plastic furniture wrappers expanding in the closet. One arm around his wife, Jaimie said he’d be back in the office first thing in the morning. Freedman didn’t want to rush him, but secretly he was glad. Any moment now he’d need help.
It had been a cold spring, but on the day the young couple returned, the weather changed dramatically, bringing a day jewel-bright and warm. Mrs. Freedman remarked upon it, saying she hoped it was a good omen for Shane and Jaimie. Shane accepted that happily, quite sure the world rotated entirely for their benefit. Mark nodded agreement with his wife, doing his best to mask his anxiety. This was the time he dreaded most, the awakening of nature.
Two days passed; the weather held and the miracle of spring began. Jaimie settled back into the routine, treading carefully with Mark, aware that his senior’s temper these days had a very short fuse. Jaimie knew Mark was worried, as he was, about Xeno, but he had no real idea of the extent of that worry. With Jaimie taking his share of the work load, Mark went off on solitary searches, returning ill-tempered, silent. He wanted to talk, but his training stopped him; his fears were based on guesswork, not facts. He could be wrong: Every single Xeno might long since have vanished into a predator’s stomach. Perhaps there was no cause for alarm. On the other hand …
*
Jake Steward, retired carpenter, a poor angler and part-time lush, was out early. He seldom cared about catching anything, contenting himself with the solitude and fresh air.
So there he stood beside the reed-lined lake, his large belly warmed by his first slug of the day, at peace with the world, watching his bobbing float with mindless contentment.
A sharp burst of unfamiliar sound broke his reverie. What the hell was it? He peered around, seeing nothing. He settled down again, resuming his peac
eful reverie.
Something flashed past, jerking him back to reality.
Despite all his years of fishing, he knew remarkably little about wildlife. A bird? Had to be. Again he ignored it, and with practiced ease pulled out his hip flask.
Even as he drank, he spotted something out of the corner of one eye, glistening in the growing sun. It was moving very fast and was lost in an instant behind him.
And as he dismissed the image from his booze-clouded mind, a blinding, searing flash dismissed him from life. The near-empty flask splashed into the still waters of the lake a split second before he fell face down among the reeds, the Xeno hideously busy upon his neck.
*
The farmer who found him assumed old Jake, whom he’d known for years, had had a heart attack. He climbed back on his tractor, reflecting on the frailty of life and comforting himself with the thought that there were worse ways to go. He headed for a phone; he’d let the cops break it to Jake’s old woman.
The police called the county police surgeon, Freedman. He drove out to the location, suspecting nothing. The state trooper pulled back the sheet. A single glance at the pallid face and Mark was alert, looking for the unusual. He found it. On the back of the victim’s neck, a blister, smaller than a match-head.
He stared at the mark, tingling with shock. With the aid of the trooper, he turned the body on its back. His intuition had been right: On the neck, two sets of faint red pressure marks, and centered between them a neat puncture, located exactly on the man’s carotid artery.
“What d’you think, doc?” The trooper’s eyes were just as sharp as Freedman’s, but medically untrained. He’d seen the hole, but it was, he guessed, too small to be lethal, and there was no blood. Maybe it was a boil the guy had beheaded shaving. “His color’s a bit strange, but it’s heart failure, ain’t it?”
“Could be.” Mark stared at the dead man’s face, his mind racing. “Get the body over to the hospital. I’d like to have a closer look.”
The trooper immediately turned professional. “Somethin’ screwy about it, doctor? Mebbe his old woman stuck a poison dart in him,” he grinned, “hoping to pick up on the insurance.”
“No. Nothing like that.” He wished it was that simple.
Within an hour he and Slim Lewis were conducting a postmortem, with Tatyana an absorbed, silent witness. Lab tests on the blister and a blood sample would take more time than Freedman could afford, but he thought he had enough to go on; Slim agreed.
Old Jake had either been killed or stunned by venom. Xeno had then somehow located the main artery in the neck, held itself in position by pincerlike claws — these caused the red marks — and sucked out some of the man’s blood. If Jake had been alive when Xeno fastened onto his neck, then he had been killed by an embolism, an air bubble, created by the sudden extraction of blood.
Freedman drove slowly back to his office, Tatyana beside him, nervously puffing one of her strong black cigarettes, filling the car with acrid smoke. His mind was still reeling with the impact of these new, awful facts. She broke the silence.
“This is not good, Mark,” she said heavily.
“You have a way with understatement,” he said edgily.
“Please?” She looked puzzled.
“Forget it.”
She began again. “There can be no doubt that this is the work of Xeno — ”
“None!” he snapped. “You saw the singed neck hairs surrounding the blister.” He touched his own eyebrow, remembering. “For me, that settled all doubts.”
Tatyana lowered her window, tossing away her cigarette butt, staring without interest at the view.
“And shut that window!”
As she did so, the significance of his terse order dawned upon her. “You think — ”
“I don’t know what to think, but I’m not taking any chances! I never doubted they’d survive. There are maybe forty or fifty of them out there. God knows what form they’ve taken, but I’m damned sure they’ll be fast.”
“Fast … and deadly.” Tatyana whispered the words, shivering. Her Slavic temperament asserted itself. “No — no! It is impossible! No God would do this — ”
“Really, Tatyana!” Mark scoffed, “I expected more than that from you! Such arrogance! Just because we’re in touch with an extraterrestrial entity with superhuman powers, people immediately assume it has to be the Ultimate — call it what you will.” His tone softened. “For all we know, we may have attracted the passing attention of a beggar outside the pearly gates — a guy unable to get in!”
Tatyana looked at him doubtfully, not fully understanding his quick speech. “Mark, you must not joke with me.”
For a second his haunted eyes regarded her. “I’m not joking, my dear. And let me tell you something else: The biblical God sent seven plagues upon Egypt, so don’t bank on benevolence from on high.”
They remained silent for the rest of the journey.
*
Malin’s reactions were wholly predictable. “Are you sure?” he asked repeatedly, rousing Freedman to a frenzy of rage.
“Of course I’m sure!” he yelled into the phone. “Xeno is back — and it’s a goddamned vampire!”
*
In Nash County, the death of Jake the fisherman caused little comment. Those who knew him expressed surprise that his heart had packed it in before his rye-soaked liver, but that was all. Freedman certified coronary arrest as the cause of death, and was technically correct in so doing. He had no need of Malin’s urgent pleas to keep quiet about the rest. Maybe he was wrong; maybe there was only one Xeno left. He was as human as the next man: Lacking any idea how to combat the threat, he could only hope it didn’t exist.
But before Jake kept his last appointment at the crematorium, Freedman’s worst fears were confirmed by a small piece in the local newspaper.
At the bottom of an inside page, under “Baton Rouge Vampire,” was a piece recounting the discovery of two victims, well outside city limits, each with a neck puncture.
Freedman read the item twice, then reached for his phone. Malin confirmed that the local doctors had not noted any areas of blistered skin. Mark felt sure the blisters were there but that, lacking his experience, the doctors had missed the deadly signs.
“We have to face it,” he said. “We can’t kid ourselves that only one or two have survived.”
“But what can we do?” replied Malin irritably. “The committee’s gone nuts thinking. We’ve considered everything — napalm on the local woods, total evacuation — you name it.”
“You’re wasting your time. Until we know what we are up against, planning can’t even begin. Right now we don’t even know if Xeno walks or flies.” He added grimly, “All we know for sure is what it lives on — let’s hope it doesn’t need a meal too often!”
*
The Louisiana news made up Tatyana’s mind. She remained a patriot. Russia could have the same problem; it was her duty to return to inform her countrymen what she had learned.
Mark returned her parting embrace with equal affection, an unusual act for him. As a professional she had his respect; and he admired her warmth, her expansive, generous nature as a woman.
“Come back soon,” he added as optimistically as he could. “Let’s hope for better days.”
Her eyes glistened. “No, Mark. I do not think we will meet again.”
XXVII.
May was no great month commercially in Abdera Hollow. But it was still a very good time to be there, especially for those folks who liked simply relaxing in the open air.
Thursday, May 3, 1984, was just such a day. On Main Street, the stores opened in the early morning. The rest of Abdera yawned, stretched, and got down to another day.
Up on the ridge the Scotts breakfasted. Jaimie enthused over his wife’s culinary masterpiece, an un-cracked boiled egg. She was pleased, and they clasped hands over the table and kissed. Both dimly recognized her cooking had a long way to go, but that egg represented a distinct advance.
>
Usually Jaimie walked down to the office, leaving the car for Shane. Invariably they met for lunch in Mom’s diner, a relief for both of them; he would then drive her home, or wherever she wanted to go. But this particular morning, he decided to ride to work; he’d pick her up at noon.
Very probably the decision saved his life.
Mark Freedman got up a lot earlier. He ate a light breakfast and was out of the house by six thirty, walking in the woods. He saw nothing, and everything appeared the same as it did on any other spring morning — until he was on his way back. He could not decide exactly when it dawned on him, for it happened gradually. But there came a moment when he stopped, listening.
Down in Abdera, a tractor started up, a car horn blared, a dog barked. High above, a plane rumbled past, and in the distance, birds chattered and sang. In the distance.
For several minutes he remained still, listening with the growing certainty that he was dreadfully alone. Not a single bird sang; there was no sound at all, no movement. He guessed there wasn’t a bird within a hundred yards of him. His presence might have driven some away, but certainly not all. Anyway, if they’d fled at his approach, he’d have heard the alarm calls, and they wouldn’t have gone far; there are few birds that don’t know the exact limits of their territory. The distant racket emphasized the pool of silence in which he stood.
Freedman bit his lip, cursing himself for being such a crazy fool; he swore that if he got out of this alive he’d never do such a stupid thing again. He walked slowly, sweating with fear, scanning the trees. In three minutes, he was back in bird-occupied territory. He stopped, mopping his face, his hand trembling. Exactly what it meant he could not yet know, but he felt certain he had been very close to a Xeno. He’d never noticed this pool of silence during the winter; that could be for several reasons, none having anything to do with Xeno. On the other hand, maybe Xeno had not worried the birds then because it was inactive, whereas now … He shut his front door with considerable relief.
