Leary backed away, ran up against the side of the tub, and crawled out. “What a minute. Wait.” Perhaps he was beginning to understand he had made a terrible miscalculation.
Then Alexsandru rushed in. “The FBI! They’re at the gates!” Suddenly everyone was scrambling. Into clothes and coats, passports and money stuffed into hands, the fugitives sneaking through the dungeon to the unguarded rear of the castle. The flower children, rising to the occasion, harassing and teasing the authorities.
The Learys took flight, and were safe.
The FBI were too stupid to see what Dracula was, and left after stern warnings about harboring criminals.
Dracula was alone with his motley crew, and as he looked up at the setting moon, he wept.
Years later, after the flowers and the pharmacopoeia and the dog-eared copies of the Tibetan Book of the Dead were locked in attic trunks, it was said that Leary died. It was said that his head was severed from his body and frozen. It was said that he had requested this action in the hope that he could be revived in a more advanced time and brought back to life.
When Alexsandru told Dracula of this, Captain Blood laughed. No one knew exactly why. Some claimed it was because he remembered Leary so fondly. Others, that he found Leary’s hope for a second chance as a disembodied head typically Leary, and very amusing.
And still others, that he had ordered the beheading, because that was one way to kill a vampire.
But everyone agreed that of a night, he took the hand of his best beloved Bride, who looked very much like Rosemary Leary, and they flew together over the rippling sidewinder desiccation, shadows like condors against the full and glowing desert moon.
For Alan Scrivener, dear and respected friend.
BRIAN LUMLEY produced his early work very much under the influence of the Weird Tales authors, H.P. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard and Clark Ashton Smith, and his first stories and books were published by the then “dean of macabre publishers,” August W. Derleth, under the now legendary Arkham House imprint.
Lumley began writing full time in 1980, and four years later completed his breakthrough novel Necroscope® featuring Harry Keogh, a psychically endowed hero who is able to communicate with the teeming dead. Necroscope has now grown to sixteen big volumes, published in fourteen countries and many millions of copies. In addition, Necroscope comic books, graphic novels, a role-playing game, quality figurines, and a series of audio and e-books in Germany have been created from the popular series.
Along with the Necroscope titles, Lumley is also the author of more than forty other books. He is the winner of a British Fantasy Award, a Fear Magazine Award, a Lovecraft Film Festival Association “Howie,” the World Horror Convention’s Grand Master Award, the Horror Writers Association’s Lifetime Achievement Award, and the World Fantasy Convention’s Lifetime Achievement Award.
Zack Phalanx is Vlad the Impaler
Brian Lumley
Back in Transylvania, a Hollywood film crew is about to discover that some old legends never die . . .
Harry S. Skatsman, Jr., was livid. He was a tiny, fat, cigar-chewing, fire-eating, prima donna-taming, scene-shooting ball of absolutely livid livid. Of all things: an accident! And on his birthday, too! Zack Phalanx, superstar, “King of the Bad Guys,” had been involved in some minor accident back in Beverly Hills; an accident which, however temporarily, had curtailed his appearance on location.
Skatsman groaned, his scarlet jowls drooping and much of the anger rushing out of him in one vast sigh. What if the accident was worse than he’d been told? What if Zack was out of the film (horrible thought) permanently? All that so-expensive advance publicity—all the bother over visas and work permits, and the trouble with the local villagers—all for nothing. Of course, they could always get someone to fill Zack’s place (Kurt Douglash, perhaps?) but it wouldn’t be the same. In his mind’s eye Skatsman could see the headlines in the film rags already: “Zack Phalanx WAS Vlad the Impaler!”
The little fat man groaned again at this mental picture, then leaned forward in his plush leather seat and snarled (he never spoke to anyone, always snarled) at his driver: “Joe, you sure the message said Zack was only slightly hurt? He didn’t stick himself on his steering wheel or something?”
“Yeah, slightly hurt,” Joe grunted. “Minor accident.” Joe had been driving his boss now for so many years, on location in so many parts of the world, that Skatsman’s snarls no longer fazed him—
—But they fazed most everyone else.
Even as the big car ploughed steadily through mid-afternoon mist as it rose up out of the valley on old, winding roads that were often only just third-class, high above in the village-sized huddle of caravans, huts and shacks, up in the glowering Carpathian Mountains, Harry S. Skatsman’s colleagues prepared themselves for all hell let loose when the florid, fiery little director returned.
They all knew now that Zack Phalanx had been injured, that his arrival at Jlaskavya airport had been “unavoidably delayed.” And they knew moreover just exactly what that meant where Skatsman was concerned. The little fat man would be utterly unapproachable, poisonous, raging one minute and sobbing the next in unashamed frustration, until “Old Grim-Grin” (as Phalanx was fondly known in movie circles) showed up. Then they could shoot his all-important scenes.
This dread of the director in dire mood was shared by all and sundry, from the producer, Jerry Sollinger (a man of no mean status himself), right down to Sam “Sugar” Sweeney, the coffee-boy—who was in fact a man of sixty-three—and including sloe-eyed Shani Silarno, the heroine of this, Skatsman’s fourteenth epic.
Oh, there was going to be a fuss, all right, but what—they all asked among themselves—would the fuss really be all about? For in all truth Zack Phalanx’s scenes were not to be many. His magic box-office name on the billboards, starred as Vlad the Impaler himself, was simply to be a draw, a “name” to pull the crowds. For the same reason Shani Silarno was cheesecake, though certainly she had far more footage than the grim, scar-faced, sardonic, ugly, friendly “star” of the picture.
And most of that picture, filmed already, had been dashed off to Hollywood for the usual pre-release publicity screenings—except for the Phalanx scenes, which, now that the star was known to be out of it, however temporarily, Jerry Solinger had explained away in a hastily drummed-up, fabulously expensive telephone call as being simply too terrific, too fantastically good to be shown in any detail before the actual premier. Of course, the gossip columnists would know better, but hopefully before they got their wicked little claws into the story Phalanx would be out here in Romania and all would be well . . .
But meanwhile the important battle scenes, all ketchup and zen though they were, would have to wait on the arrival of Old Grim-Grin, injured in some minor traffic accident.
Producer Jerry Sollinger was beginning to wish he’d never heard of Vlad the Impaler; or rather, that Harry S. Skatsman had never heard of him. Sollinger could still remember when first the fat little director had snarled into his office to slam down upon his desk a file composed of bits and pieces of collected facts and lore concerning one Vlad Dracula. This Vlad—“Vlad” being a title of some sort, possibly “Prince”—had been a 15th-century warlord, a Wallach of incredible cruelty. Like his ancestors before him, he had led his people against wave after wave of invading Turks, Magyars, Bulgars, Lombards and others equally barbaric, to beat them back from his princedom eyrie in the foreboding mountains of Carpathia.
He was, in short, the original Dracula; but whichever historian appended the words “the Impaler” to his name had in mind a different sort of impaling than did Bram Stoker when he wrote his popular novel. Vlad V. Tsepeth Dracula of Wallachia had earned his name by sticking the captured hundreds of his enemies vertically on rank after rank of upright stakes, where they might sit and scream out the mercifully short remainder of their lives in hideous agony while he and other nobles laughed and cantered their warhorses up and down amidst the blood and gore.
The va
mpire legend in connection with Vlad V. probably sprang up not only from this monstrous method of execution, but also from the fact that a Wallachian curse has it (despite his lying dead for over 500 years) that Vlad the Impaler “will return from the grave with his warriors of old to protect his lands if ever again invaders penetrate his boundaries.”
This, roughly, was the information Skatsman’s file contained, and to its cover he had stapled a single sheet of paper bearing the following story-line, his synoptic “plan” of the epic-to-be:
Vlad Drac, (Zack Phalanx), scorned by his subjects and the sovereigns of neighboring kingdoms and princedoms alike for his chicken, pacifist ways, finally loses his cool and takes up the sword against the invader (something like Friendly Persuasion but with mountains and battle-axes). This only after his castle has been burned right off the edge of its precipice by the advancing Turks, and after his niece, the young Princess Minerna, (Shani Silarno), has been raped by the Turk barbarian boss, (Tony Kwinn?). To conclude, we’ll have Vlad V. suicide after his boys mistakenly stick his mistress, (Glory Graeme?), who has dressed like a Turk camp-follower to escape the invaders, not realizing that Vlad has already whupped them? Robert Black can whip this up into something good.
To this brief, almost cryptic outline, Skatsman had appended his signature.
And from that simple seed the idea had blossomed, mushrooming into a giant project, an epic; by which time it had been too late for Sollinger to back out. Truth of the matter was that the producer was a little fearful of these so-called “epic” productions: just such a project had almost ruined him many years ago. But with such a story—with the awesome, disquieting grandeur of the Carpathian Mountains as background, with a list of stars literally typecast into the very parts for which they were acclaimed and which they played best, with Skatsman as director (and he was a very good director, despite his tantrums)—well, what could go wrong?
Much could go wrong . . .
And yet at first it had seemed like plain sailing. The new peace pact with the Eastern-bloc countries had helped them in the end to get the necessary visas; that and the promise of recruitment as extras of hundreds of the poor, local villagers into bit parts. And this latter of course had saved much on costumary, for the dress and costumes of these people had not much changed in five centuries. On the other hand, there had been little of the film star in them. When they were used, each fragment of each and every scene had to be directed with the most minute attention to detail, always through an interpreter and invariably with the end result that Skatsman, before he could be satisfied, would have the set in uproar. The stars would be threatening to walk out, the local “actors” themselves gibbering in fear of the little man’s temper, as though the director were the great Vlad V. himself resurrected!
Indeed, when finally those locals—all two hundred and eighty of them—had walked off the set, flatly refusing to work any longer on the giant production, Skatsman had been blamed. Not to his face, of course not, but behind his back the cast and technicians had “known” that he was the spanner in the works. This did not explain, though, the fact that when Philar Jontz the PR man went after the runaways, in fact to pay them their last wages, he discovered two empty villages! Not only had the rather primitive “actors” deserted the film—not that it mattered greatly, for all of their important scenes were already in the can—but they had taken their families, friends, indeed the entire populations of their home villages with them. Stranger still, the quaint old town into which they had all moved en masse was only a mile or so further down the mountain road. Whatever they were running away from, well, they had not bothered to run very far!
Ever the PR man, Jontz had followed them, only to discover that in the now badly overcrowded town no one would have anything to do with him, neither refugees nor regular inhabitants. Mystified, he had returned to his colleagues.
Within a day or so, however, rumors had found their way back to the mobile town in the mountains. The whispers were vague and inconclusive and no one really bothered much to listen to them, but in essence they gave the lie to anyone who might try to attach the blame to Skatsman. No (the rumors said), the villagers had not been frightened off by the little boss; and no, they had not found the work distasteful—the money had been more than welcome and they were very grateful.
But did the rich American bosses not know that there had been strange rumblings in the mountains? And were they not aware that in Recjaviscjorska a priest had foretold queer horror in the highlands? Why!—wasn’t it common knowledge that an ancient burial place in the grounds of certain crumbling and massive ruins high in the rocky passes was suddenly most—unquiet? No, better that the Americans be given a wide berth until, one way or the other, they were gone and the mountains were peaceful again.
Though of course he had his ear to the ground, still it was all far beyond Philar Jontz’s understanding, and even had he thought or bothered himself to look at a map of the region (though there was no reason why he should) it is doubtful that he would have noticed anything at all out of the ordinary. Maps being what they are in that country, in all probability the ancient boundaries would not be marked, and so Jontz would not have seen that the two deserted villages lay within the perimeter of what once had been the princedom of Vlad V. Tsepeth Dracula of Wallachia, or that the now bulging town lower down the mountain slopes lay outside the centuried prince’s domain . . .
Now all this had happened before the latest crisis, but even then Phalanx had been overdue on location, delayed for first one reason and then another in Hollywood. And so a number of restless, wasted days had gone by, until finally came that great morning when the poisonous little director received the telephone message everyone had been waiting and praying for. Old Grim-Grin was on his way at last; he would be on the mid-afternoon flight into Jlaskavya; could someone meet him and his retinue at the airport to escort them to the location?
Could someone meet them, indeed! Skatsman himself would meet them; and without further ado the delighted director had set out in his huge car with Joe, his driver, down the steep mountain roads to distant Jlaskavya.
For once in his life Skatsman had been truly happy. He had known (he told Joe) that it was all going to be okay. Nothing ever went wrong on his birthday—nothing dared go wrong on his birthday! And thus he had snarled cheerfully to Joe all the way to the dismal airport . . . where finally he had been informed of his superstar’s latest and most serious delay.
Having picked up a smattering of the local language, it was Joe who first received the news, and when Skatsman had recovered from his initial convulsions it was Joe who phoned the facts through to Philar Jontz in the overcrowded town where the PR man had not yet given up trying to solve the mystery of the runaway extras. Jontz, in turn, had taken the dread message back to his film friends in the mountains.
Later, it also fell to the PR man to spot the horde of extras—all costumed for a battle scene, helmeted and leather-sandaled, with a variety of shields, swords, maces and lances—as they came creeping down out of the higher passes, flanked by riders astride great warhorses. The PR man had been astounded, but only for a moment, and then he had given a whoop of understanding.
Why, Skatsman, the old fraud! They might have expected something like this of him. Wasn’t it his birthday? This explained everything. The runaway extras, the alleged “accident” of Zack Phalanx: it had all been a build-up to the Big Surprise. And surely that great, grim-faced, leading rider was Zack Phalanx?
Dusk was settling over the mountains like a great gray mantle by that time, and the actors and technicians and all were already settling in their caravans and tents, preparing for the next day’s work or bedding down for the night. Philar Jontz’s cry went up for all of them to hear:
“Well, I’ll be damned! Zack! Zack Phalanx! Where’s that old rogue Skatsman hiding?” Then they heard his quavering, querying exclamation of disbelief, and finally his awful, rising scream, cut off by a thick sound not unlike a meat cleaver
sinking into a side of beef . . .
Something less than an hour later, Harry S. Skatsman’s big car came round the last bend in the winding mountain road and turned off onto the fringe of the flat, cleared area that housed the sprawling units of the vast, mobile film town. The headlights cut a swathe of light between the shadowed ranks of shacks, trailers, trucks, caravans and tents—illuminating a scene that caused Joe to slam on his brakes so hard that Skatsman almost shot headlong over into the front of the car. Twin rows of stakes stretched away toward a bleak background of dark and sullen mountains, and atop each stake sat the motionless form of a dressed dummy, head down and arms bound.
“What in hell—?” Skatsman snarled, leaping from the car with an agility all out of character with his shape and size. A hundred torches suddenly flared in the dark behind the shacks, trucks and tents, and their bearers came forward out of the shadows to form a circle about Skatsman and the car.
And suddenly the director knew, just as Philar Jontz had “known,” what it was all about. Why, this was one of Zack’s scenes! The stakes, torches, the grimly helmeted warriors . . .
“Where is he?” Skatsman roared, slapping his thigh and doing a little jig. “Where’s that bastard Zack Phalanx? I might have known he wouldn’t forget my birthday!”
The silent torchbearers closed in, tightening the circle. Down the path of stakes horses came clopping, the lead horse carrying a huge figure clad in the cape and apparel of a warrior prince.
“Zack! Zack!” cried Skatsman, pushing forward—to be grabbed and held tight between two of the encircling torchbearers. And then he smelled a smell that was not greasepaint, and beneath the nearest helmet he saw—
“Zack!” he uselessly croaked once more.
At the same time Joe, too, noticed something very wrong—namely, the skeletal claw that held a torch close to his driver’s window. He convulsively gunned the car’s big motor, twisting the wheel, spinning the car on madly screaming tires. A hurled lance crashed through the windscreen and pinned him like a fly to the upholstery of his seat. His arms flew wide in a last spasm and the car turned on its side, splintering the nearest stake and flinging the grisly corpse it supported in a welter of entrails at the director’s feet. No dummy this but a dumb blonde!—Shani Silarno, naked but for a torn and bloodstained dressing-gown, eyes glazed and bulging.
In the Footsteps of Dracula Page 10
