In the Footsteps of Dracula

by Stephen Jones

  The half-naked woman wipes Prince Marshall’s forehead with her cloth. He is sweating blood.

  Daniel Weah’s head has slumped down again. Now he raises it and looks around and says, “I’ll tell you the truth, but you must loosen my arms. They pain me. Prince, Prince, just listen to me. I’ll tell you, but loosen my arms.”

  Two undead hoist the President upright in the chair; others crowd around. One, wearing a black cocktail dress ripped at the shoulders and a Hermes scarf in his hair, shows a mouthful of fangs at the camera. They are growing thirsty, Harry realizes, but they don’t know it. The room seems hotter, smaller, full of lurching shadows.

  A kind of interrogation gets under way. Sante tries to hold the video steady, although his hands are shaking. At some point he has pissed in his pants; Harry can smell it. He flinches when Harry puts a hand on his shoulder, then whispers from the side of his mouth, “This is the worst place in the world, Harry. We’re both going to die.”

  Harry remembers what Lomax told him, and can’t help laughing. “The worst place in the world, my friend? It lives inside us all, human and undead.”

  Prince Marshall has become distracted by an argument with one of the undead. He shouts, but Harry can’t hear what he is saying because the rest of the undead are shouting, too. Suddenly the rebel leader shoots the nearest; the man is knocked back by the impact of the bullet, but he remains standing and begins to laugh wildly, tearing open his khaki blouse to show off his wound.

  “You see!” Prince Marshall yells, leaning over the desk and brandishing the pistol in Weah’s face. “We are unkillable!”

  One of the undead rips a string of juju fetishes from around Weah’s waist and crunches the knots of feathers and small bones between sharp teeth.

  Weah begins to plead. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Please listen to me. We are all one. We are all brothers.”

  “That man won’t talk,” Prince Marshall yells. “Bring me his ear.”

  One of the undead slices at Weah’s left ear. Weah howls and tries to get loose, but he is held fast. The undead soldier tosses the scrap of gristle to Prince Marshall, who chews it with gusto.

  Daniel Weah groans. Blood runs from his mutilated ear, mixing with the sweat on his chest. Harry can smell it. His eyeteeth prick his gums.

  “I’ll ask again,” Prince Marshall says. “What did you do with all the money? What did you do with the economy of our beautiful country?”

  Weah says, “You know, gentlemen, if I told you, you wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Confess to the people,” Prince Marshall says. “Tell them where you keep their money.”

  “I was always working in the interest of the people. I keep only one account.”

  “The number. What is the number?”

  Harry realizes that Prince Marshall wants the access code of Daniel Weah’s Swiss bank account.

  “I don’t know.” Daniel Weah lifts his head, squinting in the harsh light of the video camera. “Loosen my arms, please. I can’t tell you while my arms are tied. Please, my ear is cut and my arms pain me.”

  This throws the undead, and they begin to argue among themselves. Prince Marshall watches, sunk in the black leather chair, sweat and blood mopped from his brow by the woman.

  “The Count,” Harry says. “The Count will drain the account if you don’t stop him.” He steps in front of Weah and addresses the throng of undead. “You are all my children. You are all changed by my blood. What you once were is irrelevant. What you wanted when you were human and alive is irrelevant. Listen to me. It’s more important to stop the Count than pursue your revenge.”

  Prince Marshall yawns, showing the stout yellow teeth that crowd his elongated jaw, and idly waves his big automatic. “I don’t care about this Count. His creature changed us, but we were stronger than his European science. We escaped, and we are the strongest army in this country.” His followers howl at this. Prince Marshall shouts over their noise, “This man claims he is our father. Let him show it. He’ll change this so-called President, and then maybe we’ll believe him!”

  Harry is seized and whirled around. He struggles, but two of the undead hold his arms and another has wrapped an arm around his neck so that he cannot breathe. But breathing is only a habit; Harry doesn’t need it.

  His head is forced down, an inch away from Daniel Weah’s neck. The smell and heat of the man’s blood is dizzying. Harry sees only red, with the light of the video camera blazing behind it. His teeth cut his lips.

  Prince Marshall comes around the desk and shouts into Weah’s mutilated ear. “The number! Tell me the number or he bites you and makes you one of us!”

  “I don’t know it!”

  “It doesn’t work like that!”

  “Do it!” Prince Marshall screams. “Do it!”

  Harry does it. He tears out Daniel Weah’s throat, spits the lump of flesh into Prince Marshall’s face, and opens his mouth to the rich gush of blood. It runs like electricity through his body. He can feel every cell opening to it. Then he’s thrown aside. Maddened by the smell of blood, most of the undead are trying to get to Weah’s body. Prince Marshall knocks two aside, shoots a third in the head.

  The light of the video camera waves across the ceiling; the undead rebel in the wedding dress is attacking Sante. Harry plucks off the rebel, breaks his back, throws him into two more. Someone hacks at Harry’s leg with a machete; he rips it from the rebel’s hands and whirls and takes off Prince Marshall’s head in a clean sweep.

  The undead howl. Harry picks up Sante by the collar of his safari jacket with one hand, grabs a discarded AK-47 with another and fires it point blank into the floor-to-ceiling drapes behind the desk. The muzzle-flash sets the heavy material on fire; Harry dashes whiskey over the flames and they roar up to the ceiling.

  When he turns, the crowd of undead kneels in a ripple of movement that spreads from front to back. Firelight reddens their twisted faces as they stare up at him. Harry plucks the camera from Sante, smashes it, rips out the tape and tosses it into the fire behind him. He walks Sante through the adoring rebels, the wound in his leg ripping wide with each step, and slams and locks the tall doors shut behind him.

  Sante is crying. As they pass through the dark staterooms he says in French, “What are you? What are you?”

  “I used to think I was a monster,” Harry says. “Now I’m not so sure. What I’ve become sleeps inside you, waiting only for blood to waken it. I’m as human as you, Sante. My thirst made me forget that.”

  At the stairs, he pushes Sante forward so that the journalist stumbles down the first few steps. Invigorated by the President’s blood, Harry feels stronger than he ever has. Already the wound in his leg is knitting over; he can feel the muscle fibers swarming together. He tells Sante, “I’d like to say that this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, but I have unfinished business. There’s a colonel. Milton Tombe. Find him and tell him to look for the Count. These things won’t live long, but if the Count escapes he will start this again. Run, you fool. Run!”

  Sante looks at Harry. He seems to want to say something, but then he thinks better of it and scampers away down the stairs. Harry can hear the undead banging at the locked doors. They’ll break through soon enough, but it doesn’t matter. Without a leader they’ll be easy prey for the army.

  Lomax claimed to know where the Count is hiding, and Harry, remembering calm gray-eyed Petru, who could turn himself into a wolf, remembering the claims of the standard text, thinks that the crooked little undead was telling the truth.

  Harry runs up the stairs, with smoke from the burning rooms thickening around him. Beyond a plywood door, a service stair leads up to the roof. On one side, the glow of the fire illuminates clustered pinnacles and turrets; at the far edge of the other side a dark shape rises up against the thin gray dawn light. Harry raises the AK-47 and begins to fire as he runs forward, sweeping the muzzle of the weapon back and forth until it jams.

  The figure is gone. Harry leans over t
he parapet but the courtyard below is empty except for the shot-up Mercedes. Perhaps it was never there, he thinks, but a moment later, a dark shape flits across the blood-red disc of the setting moon, heading westward, chasing the night.

  Harry turns back to face the east, to wait for the cleansing light of the rising sun.

  GUY N. SMITH was first published at the age of twelve in a local newspaper. Following a career in banking, his first novel, Werewolf by Moonlight, was published in 1974. It was followed by two sequels, Return of the Werewolf and The Son of the Werewolf.

  Since then he has published well over 100 books in all genres, although he is still best known for such horror novels as The Sucking Pit, The Slime Beast, The Ghoul, Bats Out of Hell, Satan’s Snowdrop, Deathbell, Thirst, The Undead, Abomination, Snakes, Cannibals, Alligators, Fiend, The Festering, Mania, Phobia, Carnivore, The Black Fedora, The Knighton Vampires, The Cadaver, Maneater, Nightspawn, Spawn of the Slime Beast, Carnage, and the best-selling “Crabs” series—Night of the Crabs, Killer Crabs, The Origin of the Crabs, Crabs on a Rampage, Crab’s Moon, Crabs: The Human Sacrifice and the short story collection Crabs Omnibus.

  The author has also written a number of non-fiction books about country matters, crime and mystery thrillers (as “Gavin Newman”), a series of children’s animal adventures (as “Jonathan Guy”), Walt Disney novelizations and soft porn (under a variety of pseudonyms). His how-to manual, Writing Horror Fiction, was published in 1996.

  Larry’s Guest

  Guy N. Smith

  Returning to England, the Count discovers that things have changed during his absence . . .

  Larry stumbled panic-stricken out of the old underground air-raid shelter at the bottom of the garden, almost screaming his terror aloud. Overhanging laurel branches reached out like cold wet hands to stroke him; he hit back at them. His breath came in short gasps, his heart was beating faster and faster.

  Then, to his sheer relief, the house loomed up ahead of him and he staggered in through the open back door, every ounce of his sixteen-stone frame trembling, his heavy-jowled unshaven features ashen. The wicker chair in the corner of the cluttered kitchen creaked alarmingly beneath him as he fell into it.

  Oh, please God, it was all in his imagination!

  Then he heard the kitchen door creaking slowly open, peered through the gloom and cringed from the stooped silhouette that was framed against the wan light from the hall.

  No, please!

  “Larry, are you all right? You were very out of breath when you came in. You haven’t been . . .”

  “I’m okay!” The hoarse whisper came from his quivering lips. He had only to move a yard and his mother was asking him if he was all right, shuffling to check on him like some grotesque ghoul. She was beginning to go senile, but that wasn’t surprising at eighty-six. He had wasted the best part of his life staying at home to look after her, all for a miserable inheritance that he might not even get if she outlived him.

  “Go back into the lounge, Mother, it’s nearly time for your television program. I’ll bring your tea shortly.” And just leave me alone, he added silently to himself.

  He heard her going back through the hall. Jesus, he didn’t get a minute’s peace these days. She still thought he was twelve instead of fifty-two. Right now, though, he had more important things to think about.

  Like that coffin out there in the disused wartime shelter which he used as a darkroom for his amateur photography. Jim had dumped it there, of course. Who else? It had to be him. For some months now Larry had allowed Jim to store crates and boxes in there. Temporarily, of course—booze and cigarettes brought back from transcontinental haulage trips. It had seemed a fair arrangement; one day the shelter would be full, the next it was empty. Jim had regular customers for his contraband—pubs and off-licenses presumably. Naturally, Larry’s mother didn’t know what was going on and she wasn’t likely to find out. She couldn’t even walk as far as the shelter with her arthritis and osteoporosis and, even if she somehow managed to, she was almost blind with cataracts. There was no fear of her finding out.

  There was always an envelope left for Larry on the shelf inside the entrance after Jim had been to collect his latest cache. Twenty or thirty pounds, sometimes forty. It was money for old rope. Until now.

  But what was a bloody coffin doing in there? Finding that hadn’t done Larry’s blood pressure a whole lot of good. He had just had one glimpse of it when he flicked the light on, then he had fled. It wasn’t a new coffin, in fact it looked quite old—like it had been lying around for some time. Larry almost thought that it might have been dug up from some graveyard. An exhumation. No, surely not. There wouldn’t be a corpse in it. Would there? No, of course not, Jim wouldn’t be into selling dead bodies, would he? Larry blanched at the thought, remembering that movie about Burke and Hare. He shuddered.

  Then he guessed what it was all about, and realization brought with it a flood of relief. Jim had used the coffin to smuggle cigarettes and that thought made Larry feel a whole lot easier. It was ideal for the purpose. Maybe the customs were having a purge on small-time smugglers and what better than a coffin to allay suspicion? They weren’t likely to open that up! Larry almost laughed aloud at the thought.

  All the same, Jim might have told him, it could have given Larry a bloody heart attack! Maybe he would give Jim a call just to put his mind at rest, check that there was nothing sinister about the coffin. No, Mother would overhear. Her limbs and her eyesight were in a bad way, but there was nothing wrong with her hearing. Doubtless Jim would take the coffin away tomorrow and there ought to be an extra tenner in the envelope for something like that.

  Larry glanced around in the failing light. He had gone out to the shelter to fetch a film which he had developed earlier in the day, but in his sudden fright he had left it behind. He needed that film, he wanted to check the negatives. There were a couple of autumnal landscape shots which he might be able to sell to a magazine. His mother always kept him short of money. That was her hold over him. You’ll get it all one day, Larry, so just you look after me in the meantime.

  He would have to go and get it, then.

  He glanced out of the window into the wilderness of the garden and saw that it was not quite dark yet. Once night had fallen there was no way he would ever go out there. It wouldn’t take a minute, the strip of developed film was suspended from a clothes peg just inside the doorway. His heart started to speed up again.

  Go on, it’s now or never. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Really, there isn’t.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Larry?” His mother’s concerned voice came from the lounge.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Where are you off to now?”

  “Just fetching some film from the shelter.”

  Her hearing certainly made up for all her other shortcomings.

  “Can’t it wait till morning?”

  “No, I need it.” He slammed the back door after him.

  It was deep dusk and it would be fully dark in ten or fifteen minutes. The laurel branches reached out for him again as if they wanted to drag him into the shelter. He shivered, slapped back at them, stumbled on the uneven ground and almost lost his footing.

  “Damn!” He yelled his fear and frustration out loud as he just managed to regain his balance. “And damn Jim, too, for bringing that bloody coffin here. He might’ve asked first, it’s only good manners. Give him an inch and he takes a bleedin’ mile.”

  He thought he had left the shelter door open in his flight, but it was firmly closed now. The latch was stiff; he had to force it, and it clanged as it came free. The door creaked open. It was pitch dark inside, but he could not remember having switched the light off. Obviously, he must have done so. He hesitated, almost changed his mind—he didn’t really need that film tonight, tomorrow would be soon enough. Still, having come this far . . .

  A faint noise had him stiffening, as if somebody had moved in the bowels of this World War II edifice. Larry�
��s mouth went dry, his pulse raced and his temples throbbed. It stank inside here, stale and musty and . . . something else which he could not quite place, an odor that was like damp earth. Well, this shelter was underground so it was no wonder that it smelled earthy.

  Definitely, something moved. Rats, probably. His flesh crawled, he hated rats. He had seen one in here once before. No, it wasn’t rats, it was too big and heavy. Jim, in all probability, come to collect his illicit cargo. At least he would get rid of it tonight. It must be Jim.

  “Jim?” Larry scarcely recognized his own voice. The name echoed in the confined space, came back at him.

  There was no answer. Just a soft footfall. Larry tried to peer inside the shelter but it was too dark to see. Then he had a sudden thought which, in its own way, was a relief. Maybe Jim had something really illegal in that box—like drugs—and he was hoping that Larry hadn’t found it. Just an overnight storage, and he might even try to dodge paying, too.

  “That you, Jim?”

  Whoever it was breathed deeply, an intake of breath which was released in a low hissing sound. Larry almost fled back to the house. Once indoors he would lock and bolt the doors, the way he always did at dusk.

  But he stayed. Maybe it was the thought of the money—which Jim might not leave if he thought his visit had gone undetected—that held Larry there. Or perhaps he was too shaken to flee. Whatever the reason, he stretched out a trembling hand, located the rusted, cobweb-festooned power point and flicked on the light switch.

  Larry was momentarily dazzled by the unshaded bulb, and he averted his head while his eyesight adjusted to the brightness. Then an inarticulate cry came from his lips as he stared in disbelief.

  A man stood in the center of the small brick-built underground chamber, his dark clothing starkly outlined against the dirty whitewashed walls. It certainly was not Jim! The stranger was much taller than Larry’s acquaintance—he must have been well over six feet. A garment was draped around his shoulders. It might have been a loosely worn topcoat or an old-fashioned cloak.