End of Days

by Max Turner

  Mr. Entwistle bent to a knee and examined the ground. Then he started touring the yard. Every now and again he would bend down to examine the grass more closely. When he was finished, he stuck his nose inside the shed.

  “What do you see?” Detective Baddon asked him.

  “Nothing as dramatic as I’d expected.” Mr. Entwistle pointed to a spot near his foot. “He landed here from that yard.” He indicated the fence. “He went straight to the shed, got a bit rough with the doors, looked inside, walked toward the back door . . .” He grunted here and examined the flattened grass more carefully. “Looks like he changed his mind, turned, and left that way.” He gazed toward the backyard behind us.

  I moved over to examine the prints. They were shaped just as I remembered them. Round and deep. The nails had left long scars in the lawn at the point of takeoff. “How long ago did this happen?” I asked.

  The detective was still standing on the back step. “With the exception of the ten minutes I was at your place, and a short trip to the station, I’ve been at the hospital all night. It could have been anytime.”

  “There’s a second set of footprints here,” Mr. Entwistle said. “I assume that was you.”

  “Yeah. I wanted to see what he’d taken from the shed.”

  “And what was it?”

  “Well, that’s just it. He didn’t take anything—not as far as I can tell.”

  The old vampire closed the doors. One of the hinges was broken, so they didn’t fit together properly. “So he didn’t find what he was looking for?”

  “It looks that way.”

  Mr. Entwistle returned to the back step. “So the question is, what did he want? Why come here?”

  “I have a theory.” The detective rubbed a hand over his eyes.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  He took a full chest of air and let it out. “Before Hyde appeared, Everett was very worried about the Coven. Apparently they don’t approve of child vampires, and the rate at which the pathogen is spreading here. Everett was worried that there’d be trouble, so he brought me into the Underground to help.”

  “Your timing could have been better,” Charlie said.

  The detective snorted a laugh. “You’re not kidding. He thought he was doing me a favor. I was struggling in Toronto. We both thought a change might help.” He sighed. I took it from his expression that the scene in his backyard wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind. “Neither of us knew that Hyde was coming down the track. He’s not just going after vampires. He’s taking the whole Underground apart. So when this thing killed Everett, it put me at the top of his list.”

  “You think Hyde is after you?” Mr. Entwistle asked.

  Detective Baddon nodded. “Yes.”

  “Is that why he was at the hospital?” I asked.

  “Maybe. Unless he was after you. Or John. It could have been any one of us.”

  “That doesn’t explain the shed,” said Charlie. “Why bother with it?”

  “I was doing some work in there yesterday. My wife never liked it when I cleaned my guns in the house. My guess is, he followed my scent there.” The detective adjusted his glasses and stared at the footprints all over the grass. “I don’t think there’s anything else in there of interest.”

  He held open the back door of the house and we walked inside. Just past the kitchen was a small living space with a couch and some chairs. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, led us through, and sat down. Then he started unscrewing the cap on the bottle he’d left on the coffee table.

  “You want one?” he asked.

  The old vampire shook his head.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The detective filled a shot glass and drained it.

  “I want to get on that trail while it’s still fresh,” Mr. Entwistle said. “Anything else you can tell us?”

  Detective Baddon shook his head. A photo was on the coffee table. A family portrait. I recognized him and his son. The woman at his side must have been his wife. Like the boy I’d seen in the hospital, she was fair and slight. Tall as well, and happy. There was another boy, too, clearly older. He was short and thick, like his father.

  Mr. Entwistle started fidgeting with his hat. I could see that he was impatient to be going. He had the same restless look in his eyes I’d often seen in Charlie’s.

  “Do you think this has anything to do with your son?” Mr. Entwistle asked.

  The detective thought for a moment. He was spent. He sighed and tipped his head so it was resting on the back of the sofa. “I don’t think so.”

  “Is he a vampire, like us?”

  He shook his head, then reached behind his back and pulled out his gun. He set it on the coffee table beside the open bottle and photo of his family. It was a grim still life. “I wish he were a vampire like you. It would certainly solve his problems.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s been in a coma for six months. He took a hit to the head that did a lot of damage. God—to think I could just give him an infusion of blood and he’d regenerate the way you three do. But it’s not like that. Then he got diagnosed with leukemia, like he wasn’t in enough trouble. It spread to his bones, liver, and kidneys. I thought he was going to die. The cancer’s gone now, but it probably doesn’t matter. I don’t think he’ll ever wake up.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “So am I.” The detective’s eyes were on the coffee table.

  “And the boy’s mother?” Mr. Entwistle asked.

  “She died. My older boy, too.” His hand reached out and fell upon the bottle. He lifted it and started pouring another shot.

  Mr. Entwistle put a hand on the detective’s arm. “Why don’t you stay with us at the apartment? If Hyde knows you live here, you’re safer with us. You can get some rest and see your son in the morning.”

  “I won’t get any sleep tonight. I haven’t been able to string more than two hours together in the last six months.”

  “A change of scenery might help.”

  “It can’t hurt.” Detective Baddon stood and stepped past the old vampire, then proceeded into the kitchen. When he came back, a small box was in his hand. It rattled when he set it on the coffee table. He sat and flipped the gun open, then started sliding the bullets from the chambers in the wheel. When it was empty, he opened the box in front of him and pulled out a shell. It caught the light of the room’s only lamp and lit up like a new coin.

  “I ordered these the night Everett was killed. Silver.” He started to reload the gun with the silver bullets. “I’m not taking any chances.” When the gun was full, he snapped it closed. His hand stretched out of his sleeve just enough so that the scars on his wrist were visible.

  “What happened there?” Mr. Entwistle asked.

  The detective looked at his wrist, then pulled his hand back so that the row of scars disappeared under the fabric. “I was attacked.”

  “Can I see?”

  He pulled up his sleeve. A large swath of pink scar tissue ran across the tendons just under his hand. “Ended my power-lifting career.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. But I read the report after I got out of the hospital. We walked in while someone was robbing the house. I didn’t see him in time. I got my hand up though. I’m told it saved my life.” He held up his arm so it was resting against his forehead. A smaller scar that I hadn’t noticed was on the top of his head. It lined up perfectly with the ones on his wrist, like pieces of a grisly puzzle. “He had a bottle. When it broke, it slashed through the tendons. Knocked me out.”

  I could imagine a bottle breaking against his head and wrist. He lowered his hand and picked up the picture. He stared at it for a long time before he continued. “He was more thorough with my wife and son. That little guy in the hospital is all I have left . . . I don’t know what I’m going to do if I lose him.”

  “We won’t let anything happen.” Mr. Entwistle spoke wi
th such confidence, I found myself believing him. He put a hand on the detective’s shoulder as he passed. “I’m going to stop this thing if it kills me.”

  He looked at me squarely when he said this. We both knew what he’d seen in his vision—the darkness that was coming.

  “Good luck tonight. Call me and let me know what you find.” The detective pushed himself up from the sofa and started to rise.

  “Don’t get up. We’ll see ourselves out.” Mr. Entwistle nodded to Charlie, who fell in step behind him.

  “Wait, Zachary,” Detective Baddon said. “I need another word with you, if you don’t mind.”

  I stayed behind. Charlie held the back door, but I raised my index finger. “One minute,” I whispered. He nodded and let it close.

  “I know you have to go, so I’ll be brief.” The detective’s hands were shaking. “If something happens to me and my son is still in his coma . . .”

  I didn’t think he was going to finish. He reached for the bottle on the table, then set it back and stood up so we were face-to-face.

  “Would you consider . . .” Again he stalled.

  I could smell his fear. I looked into his eyes. Saw his jaw clench. Then I realized what he was asking me.

  “Would I consider infecting him to keep him alive?”

  “Yes.” We walked to the back door. “Just think about it.”

  “If I infect him, he will wake up, but the Coven will come after him. They want to kill us—Charlie, me, Luna. There aren’t supposed to be child vampires.”

  “I know.” He took a deep breath. It was a miracle he was standing. He looked like a man who’d run the Daytona 500 dragging his car.

  “But the alternative . . .” Again he didn’t finish, but there was no need. I understood his fear. That his son might never wake up. Well, I’d died before. It wasn’t as bad as everyone thought. It might be better than waking up alone, confused, in a strange place with his family gone.

  The detective reached past me and opened the door. “Be careful.”

  “I will.” Then I stepped out to join the others.

  Charlie waited for the door to close, then walked over beside me. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He just wanted to make sure we’d look after his son if something happened to him.”

  Charlie took a deep breath. “Man, that’s heavy. His kid would be an orphan, just like you.”

  Not quite like me. But I understood what Charlie was saying.

  Mr. Entwistle started talking into his phone. “Yeah, you need to send Agent X over here. Baddon’s a mess. Trust me, I’m an expert when it comes to nervous breakdowns. I have one every few years just to stay in practice.” There was a long pause. “Yes, he was here. He was looking for something.” Another pause. “We don’t know. Baddon thinks Hyde was looking for him. . . . We’ve got a trail to follow.” Mr. Entwistle looked at us and held up his hand—Stay right there, he seemed to be saying. “It means he knows where Baddon lives. We can’t let him stay here. Hyde might come back. . . . Because he might not. . . . I’m going to follow this trail. . . . No, they’re safer with me. . . . Then he can meet up with us. If there’s trouble, he can drive them back. . . . Sounds good.” Then Mr. Entwistle said good-bye and flicked his phone closed.

  “What did Ophelia want?” I asked.

  “She wants you two home.”

  Charlie started to protest.

  “Don’t worry. You’re with me. She’s just worried that if you leave, Hyde will find you; if you stay, Hyde will find you; and if he doesn’t find you, you might find him instead. But I think she knows you’re better off with me. Agent X might join us later if we need him.”

  “Or if you need to send us back,” said Charlie.

  “Or that,” said Mr. Entwistle. “Don’t forget, Luna and Suki are back there. If Hyde pays them a visit while we’re hopping backyard fences, you’re going to have a disappointing homecoming.”

  — CHAPTER 31

  THE TRAIL ENDS

  We followed Hyde’s trail east toward the downtown.

  “Do you really think Hyde was going after Baddon?” Charlie asked.

  Mr. Entwistle took a few backyards to think about it. “Probably. Hyde killed those other officers. He obviously has an interest in bringing down the Underground. I just hope we’re following the right trail.”

  I hadn’t realized there were others. When I asked about it, Mr. Entwistle hurdled a doghouse, ducked a clothesline, then answered over his shoulder, “We could have followed the trail backward and seen where Hyde had come from.”

  I hadn’t considered that. “So why did we pick this one?”

  “I was worried he might be heading for the apartment.”

  Charlie grimaced as we turned down an alley. Neither of us was keen to see Hyde do an about-face and head back to Ophelia’s. Fortunately he didn’t. The trail was clear. Nothing erratic, just a straight line out of town. Either he didn’t expect to be followed, or he didn’t care.

  “Those silver bullets Baddon was putting in his gun, do they make a difference?” Charlie asked.

  Mr. Entwistle shook his head. “Would it matter if I shot you with silver bullets? Anything traveling over two hundred yards per second is going to hurt. I don’t care if it’s a lima bean.”

  “So why do all the werewolf movies have that in them?”

  Mr. Entwistle slipped between two sections of a cedar hedge, then slowed to explain, “In ancient stories about vampires and werewolves, all you needed to kill us was metal. Regular iron was just fine. It had to do with the mysteries of metallurgy. Most people didn’t really understand how iron was forged. To the average person, it was a mystical process, and it represented a kind of triumph. Man rising above nature. And above the supernatural. I remember ghost stories as a boy about men who killed restless spirits with iron knives. Then when metal was more common, and less mysterious, silver became the new iron. At least in the stories.”

  “Why?” Charlie asked.

  Mr. Entwistle took a detour around a patio party. Someone had a stereo blasting, so Charlie had to repeat his question.

  “Silver doesn’t corrode like other metals. It gives it an aura of purity. It’s all poppycock, of course. If I shoot you with silver, steel, lead, or Botox, it’s going to do some damage.”

  In the next backyard he stopped. A large addition to a two-story house was in front of us. He took off his top hat, flattened it to pancake dimensions, and stuck it inside his coat. His hair looked fresh from a Jell-O mold. He rubbed his fingers through it, then wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his coat. He started scowling and his head swung back and forth in disbelief.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  He was looking down at the ground. I could see a deep footprint. Then he nodded toward the roof of the house. “I think he must have taken this in one stride.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he jumped straight up onto the roof.” He looked at me with his eyebrows high on his head, as if I ought to be impressed.

  I was. “You having second thoughts?”

  “No. I’m way past that. More like tenth or eleventh?”

  Charlie looked at me. He was incredulous. All of us were.

  “Think happy thoughts,” said Mr. Entwistle, then he started up again.

  “Happy thoughts,” Charlie repeated, shaking his head. “Where did you find this guy?”

  I hadn’t found him. He’d found me—in a mental institution. That was before Hyde. Before Vlad. Before that night. Those years at the Nicholls Ward were starting to look like the glory days.

  We were moving east down Parkhill Road by this time, away from the city and into an area with lots of farms. Mr. Entwistle picked up the pace. With no cars on the road, we really dropped the hammer. I bet we broke the speed limit. I spent the whole time thinking about Luna and what she would think if she could see me. I looked like the Michelin Man. My shirt was puffed up
like an air balloon. It was the only thing that kept it from catching fire. We were that fast. After a few miles, Mr. Entwistle slowed. We were far out of town. I couldn’t smell the Quaker Oats factory anymore.

  “Why are we stopping again?” Charlie asked.

  Mr. Entwistle was bent at the waist. His breathing was heavy. I was panting, too, and I wasn’t running in body armor. He was so smooth and fast, I often forgot he had it on under his overcoat. It was a wonder he hadn’t melted.

  “Why? Because if we catch up to Hyde panting like overweight geriatric patients, he’s going to slice us into small pieces.” Mr. Entwistle was looking at the ground. “And because he stopped here himself.” The old vampire started hopping from foot to foot. He looked like a drunk sailor trying to master an awkward version of hip-hop. Then I realized he was putting his feet in Hyde’s footprints.

  “What is it?” Charlie asked.

  “He left the road here,” Mr. Entwistle said.

  I wondered why. “To avoid a car maybe?”

  “Maybe.”

  We followed the trail off the road and into a pasture. There we found another set of tracks. These ones led back into town. Mr. Entwistle bent down to inspect them. His nostrils flared. “The ones heading back in are fresher. The scent on them is stronger.”

  “Did he turn around here?” Charlie asked.

  Mr. Entwistle shook his head. “No. He continued that way.” He pointed in the direction we’d been running—out of town. “He must have done an about-face somewhere ahead.”

  “So what do we do?” I asked.

  Mr. Entwistle peered skyward. A few hours of night remained. He paused for a moment to think. “If we follow the first trail, we might find his lair. Or at least where he turned around. But, obviously, if we’re out here, and he’s back in town . . .”

  “We need to find out where he lives. Where he hides,” said Charlie.

  “Yes, we do. Eventually. But these tracks won’t disappear overnight. We can follow the first set again if we have to and see where they lead.”

  Charlie nudged me on the shoulder. “What are you thinking, boy genius? I can see the gears grinding.”

  I was thinking that Hyde knew he was faster than us. Maybe he planned for us to follow him out here. Then he could double back and do whatever he wanted in town because we were wasting our time chasing shadows. I looked at Charlie, then at Mr. Entwistle. The old vampire seemed to know what I was thinking. I heard his teeth grind. So we turned and took off in the direction of home.