End of Days

by Max Turner

  “What’s that smell?”

  “Lighter fluid,” Charlie said.

  “So where exactly are we going?”

  Mr. Entwistle shouldered the pack. “Civic Hospital.”

  He stepped past me, then quietly opened the back door of the garage. Fresh air wafted in and the smell of dusty motor oil mixed with a blast of cedar. I closed my eyes. Even without looking, I knew that it was going to be a perfect night for running. The air had the right weight. Fresh and clear. Mr. Entwistle peeked outside, scanned the neighbors’ yards, then nodded for us to go ahead.

  “After you,” said Charlie.

  A second later the door was closed and we were approaching the sound barrier. I was much faster this time. Instead of struggling after, I let Charlie set the pace and tried not to run him over. We made good time and didn’t let up until we were in the parking lot of the new Civic Hospital.

  “Hold up.” Mr. Entwistle took off the backpack. “I need to ditch this.” He stowed it in the shadows against the wall, then smiled at me. “You looked better tonight. That blood did you wonders.”

  “I’d say so. And thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. But you might want to consider getting some body armor.” He slapped the plate over his chest.

  “How much would it cost me?”

  He took off his top hat and mulled it over. “More than you’re likely to make selling your life story, that’s for sure. Now come on, I’ve got a lot to do tonight.”

  “How are we getting in?” Charlie asked.

  “I’m using the front door. Did you have another strategy in mind?”

  Charlie shrugged and we entered the lobby. A hand-wash station was set up just inside the door. It must have looked ridiculous to the people in the waiting room when Mr. Entwistle cleaned his hands. He would have needed to swim in a vat of sanitizer to get all the germs off. He looked like a dried-up mud puddle. When he was finished, a nurse at the reception desk asked us if we needed help.

  “I just got a call to pick up my son,” Mr. Entwistle said. “He’s in detox again. Can you believe it?”

  The woman took one look at him. He could have been the poster boy for a life gone wrong. “Down the hall and to the left,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  Mr. Entwistle headed for the elevators.

  “We aren’t really going to detox, are we?”

  “Now would a guy like me need directions to detox? No, we’re going to radiology. Fourth floor. Actually, you’re going. I’m meeting another contact to see what I can learn about where Hyde holes up. He has to have a den or lair somewhere.” Mr. Entwistle pressed the button that would bring us an elevator, then handed me a slip of paper. It had a number scribbled in blue ink: 412.

  “So we’re staying here by ourselves?”

  “Not counting a few hundred patients and hospital staff, Charlie, and Agent X, yes, you’re all alone.”

  “Who’s Agent X?” I asked.

  “The man in room 412.”

  “But what about the spirit of the law—and being safer with you?”

  “Didn’t you spend eight years in a hospital ward? What could possibly happen here?” The elevator doors opened. He put his hand inside to keep them from closing. “Just make certain when you boys leave, that you take the stairs. Got it?”

  I couldn’t imagine why this was important, but I wasn’t about to argue with a man who could see the future. “Got it.”

  He pressed the button for the fourth floor, then stepped back as the doors closed. The elevator started to rattle its way up.

  “Man, that guy’s a piece of work. Can you believe it, my son’s in detox again?”

  I nodded. Mr. Entwistle was a disaster. But he was also our best hope for staying alive. I wished he weren’t leaving.

  “Do you think he really was a butcher—like Ophelia says?”

  I looked at Charlie. He knew my answer was yes. I didn’t have to speak.

  “Well, I’d hate to be in your shoes when we get home.”

  I imagined Ophelia coming back from the police station and finding the house empty. I should have left a note. “She’s going to kill me, isn’t she?”

  “You have to die somehow.”

  I could have called her on my cell, but I couldn’t stand the thought of hearing the disappointment in her voice. Or worse, that she might be scared. Or angry.

  The elevator stopped on the fourth floor. It opened, and I followed the signs to room 412. The door was closed.

  Charlie peeked in through the window. “Looks empty.”

  The lights were off.

  I reached past him and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I hadn’t been told what to expect, so I opened the door quietly. “Hello,” I whispered. The room was dark except for a small red light that came from a machine of some kind. It was set beside an empty bed. I could tell by the wrinkled sheets that someone had recently been sleeping there. I listened. A tap was running in the bathroom. I could smell the chlorine in the water, clean sheets, men’s aftershave, and disinfectant. I quietly entered and knocked on the bathroom door.

  I heard a click and a whoosh, followed by a surprised “Ow!” I looked over at Charlie. His hand was on his neck. He looked at me, then his eyes rolled up and he collapsed into a heap on the floor.

  I heard a swish of fabric at my back. Then the light flicked on and I turned my head. A man in a white hospital robe was standing behind me. He was holding a semiautomatic pistol in one hand. He took his other hand off the light switch, used it to steady the gun, then cocked the hammer and backed away, all in one fluid motion. He was just far enough from me that I couldn’t lunge and disarm him quickly. He knew exactly what he was doing.

  I was shocked. I’d been betrayed once before, and the feeling wasn’t pleasant. My stomach felt as if it were falling out. The same question that had popped into my head the last time made a sudden reappearance: How did I get here?

  “Hello, Zachary. I’ve been expecting you.”

  The man looked different than I remembered. Skin hung more loosely over his large muscles now, and his head was completely bald. But his eyes were just as intense as ever.

  “Hello,” I replied. The word barely made it out.

  Then my uncle Maximilian, the vampire hunter, stared down the barrel of his gun, stiffened slightly, and pulled the trigger.

  — CHAPTER 21

  AGENT X

  In the movies, when a hero gets shot, he usually has time for some last words. The villains, if they don’t drop dead like a stone, usually stay alive long enough to look dazed and confused—as if they’re stunned that good could ever triumph over evil, as if it never happened in Hollywood before that one, shocking moment. I think I went out like a villain—stunned. I wasn’t instantly dead! What a surprise! I reached up to my neck expecting to find a gushing wound. I didn’t. Wonder of wonders! Something about the size of a cigarette butt was sticking out of my throat. What could this be? I pulled it out. A sting followed. Then I dropped, no wiser than before. Dazed and confused.

  My uncle caught me. Pain was radiating up and down my neck. It turned from a burn into a warm rush. This passed after a few seconds and a feeling of pleasant euphoria took over. Lightness filled my limbs. I’d felt something like this before. A runner’s high, it was called. When you run long enough, your body starts to produce natural painkillers. They act a bit like morphine. But I would’ve had to run to Pluto to feel this good.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “But all hell’s broken loose. Good people are dying out there. I can’t take any chances right now.”

  Forgive him? For what? This was heaven. My body was turning into air. The only thing that stayed heavy was my head, which was starting to feel like a medicine ball. If I didn’t lie down, it was going to roll right off my neck.

  “Just ride it out.”

  I managed to whisper the word “What?”

  “Nothing fancy. Mostly sodium thiopental and a mild opiate.”

  I s
miled. Why hadn’t I tried this before?

  Maximilian led me to a chair, then sat me down. I melted into it.

  “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

  I could hear him, which I assumed was good, so I kept smiling. Questions formed. “Are you going to kill us?” The words came out in slow motion.

  He shook his head. He was starting to look fuzzy around the edges. “Of course not. Charlie’s going to have a little sleep, and we’re going to talk.”

  “Thaaaat’s goooood.”

  He sat on the edge of his bed and slipped something under his pillow. Then he started talking about Vlad, and how dangerous he was, and that he wasn’t supposed to hurt anyone that night. I had trouble listening. I was staring at my hand. It looked interesting. So did my other hand. I waved them in front of my face. They were like two blobs of ice cream with peach-colored birthday candles sticking out the top. A birthday ice-cream cone . . . Why hadn’t anyone thought of this?

  My uncle gently brushed my hands away. Then he rolled up my sleeve and drew out a syringe. “Can you hear me?”

  I had forgotten how to speak, so I just hummed—like R2-D2.

  “The Coven doesn’t want people to know about vampires. Only the Underground is exempt, and they are selected with great care. When Charlie and Luna found out about you, the only thing Vlad was willing to do was absorb them as agents, or make them vampires. I would never have guessed he was planning an execution.”

  “Two executions.” My voice was coming back, at half normal speed. I held up two fingers in case he didn’t understand me, but it might have been four.

  “I’m going to set things right.” He snorted. “Ironic. In the end, you all wound up vampires anyway. And Vlad is finished.”

  I shook my head.

  “What do you mean?”

  “His body went missing,” I said slowly. “It disappeared.” I spread my hands for emphasis. It felt as if I were rising out of my chair, so I flapped my hands slowly a few more times to see if I could really fly, but the weight of my head made it impossible. It tipped forward. My uncle seemed to take up my entire view. “You look terrible.”

  He cleared his throat. It sounded like rocks breaking. “It’s the cancer treatment. If the chemotherapy doesn’t kill me, the radiation will.”

  “I hope not.”

  For a long time he looked at me without speaking. I tried to stare back and nod so that he’d know I was being honest, but it was hard to focus on anything because my eyes wouldn’t open all the way. The room seemed to be shifting, as if I were seeing it through a hazy waterfall. It made him sound far away.

  “Are there any rumors of him? Of Vlad? From Ophelia or Entwistle?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  “Do you know why the Coven wants you and Charlie dead?”

  I tried to focus. It seemed this was important. Why did they want us dead? There could be only one reason. “They just don’t know us very well. We’re actually really nice guys.”

  “What can you tell me about this creature—this vampire hunter?”

  He must have meant Hyde. “Ophelia and the others are hoping he’s a werewolf. I don’t know why. We call him Mr. Hyde, although he doesn’t hide. He attacks people with these huge claws.”

  “Why does she hope he’s a werewolf?”

  I hummed for a while—until he repeated the question. “I don’t know. No one tells me anything.”

  My uncle rose from his seat on the bed and started lacing up a pair of heavy black boots. When he took off his gown, I could see scars on his torso. He had lost a bit of weight, but he still looked like a powerhouse. He slipped on a shirt.

  “What is Entwistle planning to do?” he asked.

  “He wants to face Hyde on his own. He told me I needed to survive.”

  “You will. That’s a promise. Why does he have to face Hyde alone? He didn’t mention it to me.”

  “He saw it in a vision. He’s going to die.”

  My uncle stopped. Whatever he’d put under his pillow he removed and tucked into the back of his jeans. “He told you this!”

  I nodded.

  “Did he say when? Or where?”

  I tried to remember if he had. Nothing was coming back to me, so I shrugged.

  “What did Ophelia say about this?”

  “She doesn’t trust him because he’s a murderer.”

  “Who’s a murderer?”

  “Mr. Entwistle. But his real name is John something or other. Or it was. He was the Barber of England.”

  “The Barber of England?”

  That didn’t sound right. “No. The Butcher of England.”

  My uncle was putting on a windbreaker. His moving blur became a stationary blur. “John Entwistle is really John Tiptoft? The executioner for the House of York?”

  “Yes. Well, not anymore.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “Ophelia did. And Baoh.”

  My uncle moved closer. His face took up the whole screen. The words seemed to echo in my head.

  “You met Baoh? The prophet? Unbelievable! So he does exist!”

  “We played Nintendo. I beat him, but only because he let me win.” It was funny—our little men pulverizing one another.

  “What did he tell you?”

  I wondered what my uncle was talking about.

  “Baoh. What did he tell you?”

  He told me lots of stuff, but one thing stood out. “To be righteous.”

  “That’s it?”

  I sat up. My uncle’s tone was serious. “The End of Days is here. I have to die with a clean soul.”

  My uncle reached down to a black bag that was on the floor. “You’re not dying on my watch.” He took out something in a thin leather case. “I’m leaving this with you. Be extremely careful. It’s lethal.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a knife. The blade has been treated with dioxin. It’s sixty thousand times more potent than cyanide, so leave it in the sheath until you need it.”

  I looked at the knife. The blade was buried inside a narrow leather sleeve, but it must have been about the same length as my hand. My hand . . . It really did look like an ice cream cone, especially when I made a fist. Then I lifted my other hand and the two started waving to each other.

  My uncle dug back into his black bag. This time he pulled out something that looked like a space gun I’d once seen on Teletoon. “This is going to cause some swelling.” He put the gun against the back of my shoulder blade and pulled the trigger.

  I felt a jab of pain. Right away the area under the skin started to bulge. It felt like a pimple.

  “Don’t pick at it.”

  “What’s that for?”

  “It’s a microtransponder, so I can find you if I need to.” He took out a small case and removed a syringe. He screwed a needle into the end and stuck it in a small bottle. After drawing some fluid into the syringe, he told me to roll up my sleeve.

  “Is that poison?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  He helped me roll up my sleeve, then injected my arm with something.

  “You’re going to sleep for a while, but you’ll be safe here. The door’s locked. Mr. Entwistle will be back before the sun comes up. I’d stay, but this Hyde creature appears to be nocturnal. I have to see if I can find it before Entwistle gets himself killed.”

  Was he crazy? My head slumped forward. It was too heavy to lift again. My eyes were starting to close. I fought against it. There were things I had to know. “How can you kill this thing?”

  He grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the chair, then slipped his shoulder under me and tipped me onto the bed. “Poisons work best. Cyanide, arsenic, or dioxin. I’ve used Conium maculatum effectively in the past, but your father preferred venom from Hydrophis belcheri.”

  Hydrophis belcheri? What was that? It sounded like a burping water dragon. “Do you have any?”

  “Only what I’ve given you. The dioxin. It’s the Cadillac of poisons.
” He was moving toward the door.

  The Cadillac of poisons? What I needed was the bulletproof, floating Cadillac of poisons with huge tires and twenty-four hundred horses under the hood. Then I could drive back to Weed World. Hyde would never find me there. I laughed. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? I was full of good ideas tonight.

  My uncle was leaving. I needed to ask something else. “Where have you been all this time?” I hadn’t seen him in a year. He was sliding in and out of focus.

  “Hunting a werewolf.”

  “Was it Hyde?”

  “No.”

  Now he was a complete blur. “Did you catch it?”

  He said something, but I couldn’t make it out. I wanted to ask him to repeat his answer, but my tongue got all tied up and my eyes just wouldn’t open. I heard the door. Then it closed and I fell asleep.

  — CHAPTER 22

  ABOVE THE TILES

  I awoke feeling like death. My tongue was sandpaper and my head was a swollen wound. I couldn’t move. I wondered for a minute if this was what a hangover was like. Charlie had once described one to me, but they couldn’t have been this bad or no one on earth would have risked taking a drink. The thought of moving made my stomach tremble and my brain scream. I didn’t want to move a muscle, but the clock on the wall said 4 a.m. I’d been asleep for several hours. If I fell asleep again and didn’t wake up in time, I’d wind up on fire.

  I sat up. This required I wait a few minutes while my head adjusted to its new elevation. Why are you doing this to us? it asked. It repeated the question when I stood. Then I noticed the knife on the bedside table. A parting gift from my uncle. I would say this for him, he was a hard guy to figure out. I picked it up and examined the handle. It was molded and had a compass built into the knob on the end. I wasn’t wearing a belt, so I stuck the sheath in my back pocket and pulled my shirt over the top to keep it out of sight.

  Charlie was asleep on the floor beside me, a towel balled up under his head like a pillow. I gently touched his shoulder.

  “Ohhhh,” he groaned. “Go away.”

  “Charlie, wake up,” I whispered. “We have to get going. The sun will be up soon.”