The Plague-Bearer

by Brian Lumley

  “But of course,” Anthony had added as if on an afterthought, “if you should foolishly decide not to follow our orders or The Chemist’s instructions, then you’ll surely die—in agony! And if you should think to attempt any more ridiculous heroics here at Le Manse Madonie…there’s always the pit. But for now, if all I’ve said is understood, I shall unchain you. Then when you are feeling a little better, my brother and I will explain something of the task you’ll perform for us in Edinburgh.

  “So then, is all clearly understood?”

  After Mike had nodded his aching head, and croaked a single word: “Yes,” in reply, Anthony had unlocked his shackles, letting him crumple to the floor. And in a little while, as some of the stiffness went out of Mike’s joints, a pair of the brothers’ vampire thralls had come to help him move to a more comfortable room in Le Manse Madonie’s upper quarters, leaving him there to consider all that he’d been told and wait for the Francezcis to supply him with the rest of their instructions, his orders.

  But with what he had supposed was a deadly poison, a veritable plague coursing in his veins, each minute Mike waited had felt like an hour…

  Mike had been given “less than a fortnight,” perhaps twelve or thirteen days, to visit The Chemist in Bulgaria, obtain an antidote for his alleged condition, receive final orders and certain items of latent equipment, and then journey on to Scotland and the task in hand. Less than a fortnight, yes; but once the brothers had supplied him with The Chemist’s address, he’d been there inside twenty-four hours!

  Now in this shabby, cheap hotel room in Scotland’s capital, as night settled more surely on the ancient city’s streets, his thoughts were bitter as bile as he recalled to mind his time in The Chemist’s lonely Bulgarian villa in a densely forested area some miles from Gabrovo in the Balkans…

  Mike had flown to Sofia, hired a car and driven one hundred and twenty miles to Kazanlak and on through the Shipka Pass to Gabrovo. From Gabrovo a large-scale local map of the region’s frequently trackless mountain forests had seen him to the gates of a stone-walled private estate located in a valley between spurs radiating from the craggy spine of the Balkan Mountains: all of this travelling done by night—the night following his ordeal at Le Manse Madonie—so that it was almost dawn by the time of Mike’s arrival at his destination.

  From a distance the iron gates had appeared rusted, in part ivy-grown. But as a security camera situated in one of the high wall’s buttresses detected Mike’s approaching vehicle, and after he had halted the car, stepping out into a swirling ground mist and a probing light beam from a verandah under the jutting roof of the gloomy house at the end of the drive, then the gates had been activated, causing them to swing open on well-oiled hinges. For of course Mike had been expected.

  Having parked on a gravel-strewn hard-standing close to the house—a chalet-like wooden structure half hidden in the shade of close-towering, guardian evergreens—a place that seemed in excellent order, despite age-darkened timbers and the mistiness rising from some nearby stream—Mike had climbed the steps of an oak-boarded stoop to a heavy front door, also of oak. Now he understood why the house appeared in such good order: It seemed to have been constructed of quality oak from the ground up.

  The door had an old-fashioned iron knocker in the shape of a clenched fist; but even as Mike had reached out his own flesh-and-blood hand to the hinged hand, so the door had swung almost silently open, revealing The Chemist where he stood smiling his welcome.

  In that frozen moment of time Mike would have found it difficult to say what precisely he had expected; but it would never have been the bent figure at the threshold, or the warming glow of a fire behind him, reflected from a hearth deeper within the house. And after that moment had passed:

  “Come in, Mr. Milazzo,” the figure had stepped to one side, gesturing and inviting entry. “Please come in—and welcome to my house—my young visitor from Sicily! Come in man, and make yourself at home. For if you’re not comfortable then neither am I, and I insist on being at ease in my own home!”

  The Chemist’s voice—for all its robust-sounding message—had been no more than a whisper, fragile as last year’s wizened leaves. And as if to corroborate an impression of great age, he leaned on a walking-stick and shuffled as he led the way down a corridor to the main or living-room.

  As Mike had followed close behind his small, frail-seeming host, so the apprehension, the nervous tension he’d experienced throughout his journey dissipated. For The Chemist, who or whatever else he might be, was scarcely someone to be afraid of. Or so it seemed…but perhaps Mike should have remembered how he had felt much the same way about the Francezcis at one time…

  “A hearth-fire, on a warm summer night,” he’d observed, as he seated himself where his shrivelled host indicated, beside a small occasional table.

  Taking a chair directly opposite him, The Chemist answered, “I prefer the glow of a fire to electrical light. My eyes, much like yours, are not suited to bright lights, and especially the light of the sun. Also, the atmosphere—the air in this wooded valley—is damp for much of the year. It comes from the stream that runs to the rear of the house, where a waterwheel supplies the power for my basement laboratory. As for the fire, it keeps the rest of the house dry.”

  While he talked in this direct, open manner, Mike had studied his host more closely. The old man was bald, wrinkled like a walnut, heavily veined in what Mike could see of his scrawny arms, and wattled with folds of loose skin under a blunt chin. If what he had said about the light, more especially sunlight, meant what Mike suspected it meant, then the current state of The Chemist’s health didn’t say much for the alleged longevity of vampires!

  He had soon discovered his error, however, when he bluntly inquired: “So you’re like me, in thrall to the Francezci brothers, eh? A vampire, and one of their agents!”

  His host had meanwhile risen and shuffled over to a drinks cabinet. As he returned with glasses and a bottle, Mike’s question brought him up short. Frowning, and apparently surprised, he barked: “Eh? What’s that?” But then as he flopped back down into his chair: “Ah! I understand! Yes, of course! But no, I’m not like you or the Francezcis. No, not at all. With me it’s a disease of the eyes. A photophobia and incurable. Here, have a drink. Then we can talk about why you’re here. And don’t worry, Mike, for I’m aware that time is of the essence. Meanwhile, try some of this essence! Oh hah, hah!” And pouring liberal amounts from the bottle, he had offered a glass to his guest.

  Lifting his glass in the glow of the fire, and rotating his hand to cause the dark red wine to swirl, Mike had stared at it through narrowed, openly suspicious eyes. While food—ordinary food—no longer appealed to him, he had at least retained something of his appetite for good wine. The question, however, remained: How “good” was this wine?

  As if in answer to that question, his host had reached over to clink glasses with Mike, and with obvious relish had drained his own glass and refilled it. Seeing which, Mike had sipped at his wine and tasted its warm, fortified excellence. Then, somewhat easier in his mind, he’d sat back in his chair and allowed himself to relax more yet…

  “So,” The Chemist had smiled a yellow-toothed smile across the table, “you took me for a vampire! That tells me something: that you are new to your transition. Given time, if that should be your lot, you’ll recognize your own kind more accurately and instinctively—the way a dog sniffs out another dog.”

  “What?” Mike had leaned forward. “If it’s to be my lot? But isn’t that why I’m here, to earn myself more time? And are you insulting me, comparing me to a dog?”

  “Not at all, not at all!” The other had held up his arms in protest, anxious to deny it. “It’s just my way of speaking! But I agree: It was a poor and thoughtless illustration of vampire, er, sensibilities. And of course you are here to earn yourself more time—indeed, an entire lifetime! Please forgive me.”

  Scowling, Mike had nodded. “Okay, you can forget about it th
is time—but in future you better watch what you say and how you say it!” Reaching for the bottle he had refilled his glass, thrown half of it back and felt its warm smoothness going down. Then, after grunting his approval, he had continued: “Now maybe we can get down to business. For it’s like you said: Time—my time, if not yours—is of the essence.”

  “Oh, indeed!” The Chemist had answered him with a sharp nod of his own. “But don’t worry so, Mike. For while a remedy is at once to hand, it serves no purpose to be in such a hurry. Let’s face it, it’s almost dawn—and can you travel by light of day? No, I think not. Best that you spend tomorrow here, eh? And be on your way again come fall of night.”

  That had made sense, for by then Mike had been quite tired; and anyway, the wine was making his head swirl. “Yes, I suppose so,” he had answered at last…and been surprised to discover that he slurred his words a little. Also, almost without realizing that he had done so, Mike saw that he’d emptied his glass again. And not only that, but…but what was this?

  The Chemist was chuckling deep in his throat!

  “Why…why are you laughing?” Mike had tried to reach for the bottle, only managing to knock it over. Then he’d tried for his gun in its underarm holster, but his hands weren’t working!

  “What? Why am I laughing?” His host’s gurgling chuckles had fallen silent at once. “I’m just pleased that you’ve enjoyed my wine so much, that’s all.”

  That’s all? Mike hadn’t thought so. “Tell me,” he had tried not to slur his words. “If the Francezci brothers place so much faith in you—if they think so highly of your skills that they employ you at a distance like this—how come they haven’t made you one of their thralls? Or perhaps they have! Perhaps you are…are in fact…in fact a thrall! A fucking vampire thrall! Which would mean that you were simply lying to me like…like this lying…this lying fucking wine of yours!”

  “Lying, my wine? Well, maybe.” The Chemist had replied as a sinister smile spread across his face. “But me? No, never! I am just a man, Mike; but old, wise, and expert in the special arts pertaining to medicaments, balms and lotions, vaccines and antibiotics, and all and every manner of chemical agent, both natural and synthetic; including opiates, toxins, poisons and their antidotes. And likewise almost every physical disease that ever afflicted modern man…such as several that will soon afflict you! Yes, my friend, for I have developed the most terrible infections and their cures both; certain of which, er, sicknesses you must suffer for a while as a penance for previous errors—also as an incentive to obedience, of course—for which you’ll only receive the cures when your work for the brothers is done. Hopefully in time to save you from a very terrible demise…”

  There The Chemist had paused to catch his breath before continuing. “As to why the Francezcis never vampirized me: that is because unlike you I am loyal to them who pay me so well, trustworthy in my fashion, and beyond measure valuable to them. More than that however, I suspect that they daren’t turn me! Knowing what I am capable of as a mere man, can you imagine how I would prosper as a vampire, even as a Great Vampire? Why, given sufficient time and the brothers might well end up in thrall to me! Oh, hah, hah!”

  His sick laughter—surely that of a madman—had died away almost immediately, and he’d continued. “As it happens, I’m not interested in being a loathsome creature of the night; for as I have told you, Mike, I have problems enough already with strong light…” And finally he’d shrugged. “Hmm! So then, what do you say to all that? That is, if you are still able to say anything at all.”

  And: “You lousy…lousy old bastard!” Mike had managed to mumble, trying to will his limbs into motion and failing; while the room and his senses—enhanced or not—began to spin, turning faster and faster, until finally they whirled him down into darkness…

  VII

  Almost at once, within no more than two or three minutes as his skewed senses were able or willing to judge it, Mike had recovered just enough that he was able to feel his numb body bumping down cold stone steps, dragged indifferently along by spare but powerful hands at his ankles, into a subterranean room.

  The place had been illumined by a soft, clinical-blue light which filtered through his three-quarters shuttered eyelids and caused him to vaguely, dazedly picture himself in The Chemist’s basement laboratory. Accepting this, still Mike’s drugged brain made little or nothing of it. He had felt no fear but a surreal sense of wonder and a vacuous, dreamlike lack of control.

  In fact Mike had no control whatever as he was strapped to a table, felt a blanket thrown over him, and sensed the subdued lighting fading as the power was reduced. Following which he had been left alone in a faint blue gloom which, however paradoxically, had seemed far less malign than the previous darkness and even restful; so that Mike’s vampire tenacity—his obstinacy—had at last succumbed, letting him fall into a deep and almost natural sleep…

  But if what went before had been dreamlike, the rest was nightmarish. Mike had started awake with streaming eyes, his vampire senses assailed by smelling salts five times as potent as any a person might purchase from a legitimate drugstore; beyond doubt a concoction of The Chemist.

  As vivid memories returned and the tears dried on his face, Mike’s initial instincts in the blue light of the basement room had been to scramble to his feet, examine his circumstances…then seek out and deal with his tormentor, and harshly! But no, he was still strapped down; and struggling against whatever was binding him only caused burning pains in his wrists, ankles and neck. Then, as his eyes cleared, his captor’s withered face had swum into view, gazing down on him. And:

  “Ah, I see you’re awake!” The Chemist had nodded his satisfaction. “Yes, awake and strong, and your fingers itching to be at my throat, eh? But no, however badly you may want to, you’ll do me no harm, Mike; and you will soon come to understand why I had to quieten you down. For if you’d known what was coming…oh, out the window then with all the brothers’ rules, instructions and orders—and probably with a poor old Chemist, too!”

  While The Chemist was talking, Mike had managed to tilt his head forward enough to see the thin, blue-gleaming metal chains that restrained and apparently burned his wrists and feet. Moreover, he could feel another chain searing his neck. It was very odd, or maybe not. Normally he would expect to be able to break such chains quite easily, but—

  —But once again it had been as if The Chemist had read his mind.

  “Silver, Mike,” that one had informed him. “It has a chemical composition that is a poisonous acid to such as you. So you can stop fighting it and relax, while I shall endeavour to make you more comfortable.” With which he’d turned a wheel, rotating the table into a near vertical position. Then for several long, painful moments the silver chains had burned Mike more yet, but as his feet had touched the floor and taken his weight the pain had slowly died away. Until at last he’d found his voice, which had come scratchily from a throat as dry as sawdust:

  “What’s this all about, Chemist? Where’s the antidote I was promised? Why am I tied up in these silver chains? And what the fuck is going on here!?”

  The Chemist was a small man; his wrinkled, blue-tinged face had looked up at Mike, thin lips moist and quivering, eyes full of a monstrous fervour, as he replied, “I’ll answer your questions one at a time. First: This is all about your not doing me any harm. You’ll see what I mean shortly. Next: There is no antidote to the sweet water with which you were injected! That was simply a ploy, a threat to bring you here, where I shall inject you with the actual thing…or things! And the answer to your third question is the same as for your first. As for your last: the answer is this!” With which he had shown his victim a hypodermic syringe, spraying a thin fountain of its blue-glistening contents into the air.

  Mike had seen all this before; indeed, it was as if everything that was happening to him was like a recurrent nightmare. And as he had tried to shrink into himself, away from the shining needle, so he had groaned: “You lousy ba
stards! You and the fucking brothers—all of you—bastards! But listen, Chemist: Don’t go thinking you can poison me and then just turn me loose. Best that you kill me outright, now. Because if you don’t, then no matter how this turns out you can be sure I’ll be looking to kill you!”

  But: “No, you won’t,” The Chemist had shook his head as he plunged the needle into Mike’s neck. “And now I’ll tell you why not. The brothers had need of a plague-bearer, and you are it.” While speaking he emptied the syringe into Mike. “But the bubonic?” he had then continued, withdrawing the needle. “Just that one plague? No, not at all. You see, there are several diseases which are deadly to vampires and moon-children alike. The bubonic is one, and leprosy is another. Also, rabies is a slow but merciless killer, though more especially to dog-Lords and their moon-children thralls. So now tell me, Mike: Can you guess what sort of monstrous mixture is circulating in your blood? Oh yes, you can! I see it written in your wide, wild eyes! And you are right: You are infected with a combination of all three taints, whose poisons are working their way into and through your system even as I speak!”

  At which Mike had laid back his head, groaned his frustration out loud, and said: “Then you’d better kill me now, Chemist…for there’s no way you can ever turn me loose.”

  “You’re not thinking, Mike!” The other had at once snapped. “You must ask yourself the purpose of all this, which is simply to make you obey and follow the Francezci brothers’ orders. For if you don’t you will surely die! Ah, and now I see that you’re listening!”

  Mike had nodded, however uncertainly, and replied, “Are you telling me there really is an antidote for all this shit you’ve pumped into me?” For by then he could see that there would have to be, if he was to go on to Scotland on behalf of the Francezcis.