Message-ID: <59699asstr$1260699004@assm.asstr.org>
From: Dreadpirate Tom <dptom@live.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Continued Story.  Blood Ties, Chapters 14-57
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Date: Sun, 13 Dec 2009 05:10:04 -0500
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Hi,

 

Story codes for this part are (Vampires, horror, MF, mF, sad, caution, viol).

 

Thank you very much,

 

Dpt
 		 	   		  
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http://clk.atdmt.com/GBL/go/177141664/direct/01/
<1st attachment, "blood ties chapts 14-57.txt" begin>

Author's Note: This story got away from me a little, and has ended up
dealing a lot more with the nature of vampires, their infiltration of
society, and their attempt to destroy civilization than I had originally
intended.

   As with the rest of this series so far, there is a great deal of graphic
violence, death and mayhem.  Read with caution.

   For those who are only interested in the sex scenes, they can be found
in chapters 17 (MF, sadism, oral, piercing), 24 (MFF, mind control, NC), 25
(MF), 30 (MF), 39 (mF), and 53 (MF, rough, S/M).



   Blood Ties

   Chapters 14 - 57

   By Dread Pirate Tom

   Chapter 14

   November Twenty-first

   "Look, you obstinate son of a bitch," Mark said vehemently.  "I'm
telling you that you've got this all wrong.  Tom and Mia aren't some kinda
evil monsters.  If it wasn't for them, Pittsburgh would have been truly
screwed.  You're wrong about me, too; I'm no friggin' traitor, to my
species or anything else."

   Balathu ignored him.  It was far from the first tirade the chubby cop
had made since Balathu and Iltana had abducted him.  Balathu was tired of
listening to it.  For that matter, he was tired period, having spent the
entire two hour drive to Spartansburg performing a particularly complicated
incantation.  At the conclusion, he had spent a hurried five minutes asking
questions while the effects of the spell were active.

   Mark's eyes had bulged out in shock when he found himself unable to
answer those questions less than truthfully or withhold any information. 
The worst part was that the spell had confirmed that the man actually
believed that the abominations were his friends.

   Balathu spared Mark a pitying gaze.  He seemed like a decent, honest
person, overall.  It must be horrible for him to be so in thrall to the
monsters.  Balathu wondered if any part of him realized what had happened
and was screaming with horror back in the dim recesses of his mind.

   If things went well tonight, Balathu would give him his freedom.  He
wondered how Mark would react.  Would he be overcome with guilt at the
atrocities he had no doubt committed while a slave of the abominations, or
would he want vengeance?  Perhaps, if the latter was the case, he would be
willing to assist Balathu in ridding the city of any remaining taint from
the undead.

   His original plan had been to get close to their lair and then wait for
daylight, but he had been forced to discard it following Mark's description
of the vault in which the abominations spent their days.  Still, with the
element of surprise and Sun's Anger, victory should be possible even at
night.

   Iltana turned the car onto the one lane gravel road that marked the end
of the directions that Mark had unwillingly given them.  A few minutes
later, they pulled to a stop in front of a large cedar home.  Balathu
stared at the place in bemusement.  He had expected something
more...foreboding.  After gagging Kimmel, he told Iltana to wait for him in
the car and marched the cop to the front door.  The arrogance of the
abominations was such that it wasn't even locked.  Following Mark's usual
practice they just walked inside.

   As they passed through the kitchen, a male voice, undoubtedly McNelly's,
called out from the other room, "Pizza's in the oven, Mark.  Go ahead and
grab a couple of slices and come on in.  We're in the living room."

   Freeing Sun's Anger and summoning the Sight, Balathu forced Mark down
into one of the kitchen chairs.  He quickly attached a pair of fur covered
cuffs he and Iltana had purchased at one of Pittsburgh's sex shops between
those that bound Mark's wrists and one of the chair's legs.  He then headed
toward the source of the voice.

   As the battle grew near, his heartbeat quickened, and he felt sweat bead
on his forehead.  He couldn't help the surge of fear that coursed through
him.  According to doctrine, the sword protected its wielder from
domination by the monsters, but Balathu had never put that to the test.

   When he rounded the corner from the kitchen to the living room, he saw
the female abomination, Mia, and the obviously pregnant Dana Smith sitting
on an overstuffed sofa.  They were laughing over baby sweaters that they
had been knitting.  Part of him noted that none of the four sleeves were
anywhere close to the same length.  McNelly was sitting on the floor in
front of a half assembled crib, mulling over a set of instructions.

   His blood running cold at the thought of what the creatures had planned
for the unborn child, he charged at Mia without hesitation.  All three
gaped at him in surprise as he rapidly closed the distance between them. 
At the last moment, Mia leapt to the side.  He dipped the sword to counter
her move, and was rewarded when it sliced deeply into her thigh with a hiss
and a puff of smoke.  Mia fell heavily to the floor, her scream of agony
echoing loudly in the large room.

   "No!" McNelly shouted as he threw himself atop his consort.

   Balathu readied the blade for a thrust that should pass through them
both, but he found he could not complete it.  Muscles straining hard
against nothing, he could only watch as McNelly dragged Mia far out of the
range of his sword.  In his peripheral vision - he could not turn his head
- he saw that Dana was in a state similar to his.  She stood frozen,
holding a lamp by its neck.  The heavy base had stopped mere inches from
his head.

   A resounding crash and the sound of shattering glass came from the
direction of the kitchen.  Moments later, a short, slight man came into
view.  With one hand he carelessly held Iltana by the shoulder.  Her eyes
were glassy, and she made no attempt to struggle.  With his other hand he
reached for Sun's Anger.  He gingerly pulled it from Balathu's grip, and
handled it like he expected it to bite him.

   "Ahh, much better," he muttered, seemingly to himself.

   Balathu's body relaxed, and, despite all of his efforts to resist, he
moved to stand at his ease in the midst of his enemies.  The newcomer
pushed Iltana over to stand at Balathu's side as he relieved Dana of her
makeshift weapon.  Guided by the newcomer's touch, she walked to the couch
and sat down.

   The newcomer walked from person to person, staring at each for a few
minutes before moving on to the next.  When Balathu's turn came, it was
like his life passed before his eyes in a flash of memories.  He wanted to
run, to hide, but his body remained relaxed and motionless.  After what
felt like an eternity, the ancient abomination, for he could be nothing
else, returned his attention to Mia and Tom.  Tom clutched the woman to his
chest and twisted around as if to shield her from the ancient's gaze.

   "Interesting," the ancient said softly, again apparently to himself. 
"Could you be what had Mother so excited?"

   Lowering his eyes to the blackened gash on Mia's leg, he said in a much
louder voice, "That will take a long time to heal.  The limb will be nearly
useless until it does.  See to it that she feeds, and feeds often."

   Without another word, the ancient turned on his heel and walked back to
the kitchen.  Screaming silently inside the confines of his own mind,
Balathu turned to follow.  He was dimly aware of Iltana keeping pace behind
him.

   The ancient led them back to Iltana's car, where they climbed docilely
into the backseat.  The ancient got behind the wheel and leaned Sun's Anger
carefully against the passenger seat with its point digging into the floor.

   Turning to face the pair, he said, "Sleep now."

   For Balathu and Iltana, all went dark.

   Inside the house, Mia, Tom and Dana stared at each other in shock as
they listened to the car turn around in the driveway and depart.  Mia
attempted to stand and fell back to the floor with a whimper.  His face
creased with worry, Tom gathered her up in his arms and placed her on the
couch.  Using a pair of scissors, he carefully cut away the denim around
the injury.  The three of them stared at the wound for a long moment.

   "It's not healing," Tom observed.

   Mia shook her head mutely as tears of pain ran down her cheeks.

   "Maybe it just needs a little help," he offered.

   Bending forward, he extended his tongue and tentatively licked at the
edge of the massive, blackened gash.  With a hiss of pain, he quickly
pulled his head back and clapped a hand over his mouth.

   "Od am, at urt," he cried out around his swollen tongue.  He immediately
looked chagrined.  "Thorry," he said to Mia, "a owe et us ee erse er eww."

   A muffled grunt of outrage emerged from the kitchen.

   "I'll get him," Dana said as she rose from the couch.

   Shortly, she returned with Mark.  The gag had been pulled from his
mouth, and Dana was helping him carry the chair behind him.

   "That bastard ran off with my keys in his pocket," he grumbled.

   "Come here," Mia said hoarsely.

   At her touch, the handcuffs fell to the floor.  Dana relieved Mark of
the chair and carried it back out to the kitchen.

   "Thanks," Mark said, rubbing his wrists to restore circulation. 
Examining Mia's injury, he commented, "Jeez.  Maybe you should debride
that." When they looked at him blankly, he elaborated, "Cut away the
blackened parts to expose the healthy stuff underneath."

   As Dana scurried off to find something with which to perform the amateur
surgery, Mark asked, "So, what the fuck just happened?"

   "I was sort of hoping you could tell us.  They did come with you, after
all," Tom replied hotly.  His tongue had already healed, giving him hope
for Mia's leg.

   Wincing, Mark said contritely, "The guy with the sword and his
girlfriend jumped me just outside my house.  They already knew the general
area that you lived in, and, on the way, he did something that made me give
him exact directions..."

   "They tortured you?" Tom interrupted in horror.

   "No, not at all.  He chanted some weird shit almost the whole trip, and
then started asking me questions.  I wanted to lie.  I tried to.  But, I
couldn't."

   With an effort, Tom suppressed his skepticism and decided to accept his
long time friend's story at face value.  After all, Tom was now a creature
out of myth and legend.  How could he legitimately reject tales of magic?

   "Anything you can tell us about them?" Tom asked.

   "Not really.  The only thing I'm sure of is that the guy had a real hard
on for the two of you.  He kept referring to you as abominations, and to me
as a traitor to my species for being your friend.  I tried to explain that
it wasn't like that, but he wasn't listening.  The woman called him Sam,
and he called her Iltana.  I would imagine that, unless they have shit for
brains, those aren't their real names."

   Tom turned to Mia, "Did you get anything from them?"

   She shook her head, "I was too surprised to root through his memories
when he first walked in, and then...  well ..." She cut off with a gesture
toward her injured leg.

   Dana returned with a razor knife, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and some
gauze strips.  Placing the items on the coffee table, she shifted from foot
to foot uncertainly.  "I grabbed everything we have, but I don't think that
I can do the, uh, surgery."

   Tom volunteered.  Pulling off his belt, he handed it to Mia.

   "To bite down on," he explained, wishing, not for the first time, that
painkillers or anesthesia worked on vampires.

   With the razor knife, he cut a thin layer of the blackened flesh from
the edge of the wound.  As they watched, the skin and muscle that was
revealed rapidly went from shades of pink and red to black.  Mia's cry of
pain was only slightly muffled by the strip of leather clenched between her
teeth.

   Spitting out the badly gouged belt, Mia sobbed, "No more.  Please.  It
hurts so bad."

   Tom immediately threw the knife onto the coffee table and gathered her
into his arms.  For her sake, he did his best to remain calm, but the agony
oozing through the bond had him on the verge of panic.

   In an effort to distract them, Dana asked, "What about that weird little
guy who showed up at the end?"

   "I have no idea who he was," Mark replied.  "He didn't come with us, and
I never saw him before in my life.  All I know is that he completely
trashed your front door."

   Her voice muffled by Tom's chest and strained with pain, Mia said, "He
stopped Sam, or whatever his name was, with telekinesis, not compulsion. 
He did it from outside.  By way of comparison, my effective range is a few
feet, at best.  I really can't imagine how old a vampire would have to be
to be capable of something like that.  We could well have been paid a visit
by a being who is more than a thousand years old."

   The other three met this disquieting disclosure with a thoughtful and
awestruck silence.

   "What do we do now?  Do we need to be thinking about defending
ourselves?" Dana asked fearfully, her arms wrapping around her unborn
child.

   All eyes turned to Mia, who shook her head.  "There is nothing we could
do to defend ourselves from such a creature.  If he had wanted us dead,
enslaved, or in any other state he could conceive of, that's what we would
be right now.  Obviously, he just wanted the two erstwhile vampire hunters.
We should be grateful for that.  All we can do is hope that he doesn't
change his mind in the future."

   "What about the 'Mother' he mentioned?  The one who was excited over the
two, or maybe the three, of you?" Mark asked slowly.

   No one had an answer.  From the expressions on their faces, Mark didn't
think they really wanted one.

   Chapter 15 November Twenty-second

   Daryl Scapelli trudged through the dirty snow and ice that covered Ford
City's bike trail.  Turning his collar up to guard against the biting wind
that had suddenly sprung up from nowhere, he tugged on the leash to hurry
his dog, Chuck, along.  The elderly dog looked up at him reproachfully, but
made an effort to move his painfully arthritic legs a little faster.  They
had barely made it another hundred feet before they began to be pelted with
what weathermen euphemistically referred to as a wintery mix.

   His face stinging from the impact of tiny pellets of ice, Daryl muttered
disgustedly, "How about that, Chuck?  And here we thought that things
couldn't get any worse."

   Seemingly in agreement, Chuck let out a little whimper and tucked his
tail between his legs.

   Things hadn't always been bad.  In fact, for quite a long time, life had
been great.  Until recently, he had a loving wife, two adorable kids, and a
tenured position as a science teacher at a relatively small high school in
New Hampshire.

   All of those things had come to an crashing end last spring, and he
didn't have anyone to blame but himself.  Over the years, there had been a
number of girls who had gotten crushes on him.  Although flattered by the
attention, he had met their fumbling attempts at flirtation with kind
indifference.  Eventually, they had all moved on to boys their own age. 
All, that is, except Amanda.

   She had pursued him relentlessly throughout the first two semesters of
the school year, refusing to be put off by his failure to respond to her
overtures.  Over time, she grew increasingly brazen.  At the end of nearly
every class, she had stayed to ask him questions.  Each time, she had
leaned over his desk to expose the creamy inner curves of her breasts,
heaving with each breath she took.  Occasionally, she would bend a little
lower to teasingly reveal the puffy pink tip of a nipple.  As she spoke,
she would draw so close that he could smell the sweet honeysuckle scent of
her hair and feel her hot breath blowing across his skin, leaving goose
bumps in its wake.

   During class, she would often draw his attention by running her tongue
lasciviously over her cherry red lips and then flash him a glimpse of her
panties beneath the shockingly short skirts that she always wore.  Many
times, her displays left him stammering, leading the other students to
laugh at his loss of composure.

   Shortly before Easter vacation, she had swayed into his classroom during
his free period and locked the door behind her.  When he had asked her what
she needed, she had pressed herself against him with a whispered, "You."

   He had tried to resist as she rained kisses across his face and neck,
but that resistance had melted when her lips met his.  He had taken her
virginity right there on his desk.

   Her youth and obvious desire for him had overwhelmed his senses.  He had
fawned on the girl shamelessly, spending every possible moment with her. 
Before long he started to lie to his wife, telling her that he had to go to
teacher conferences or lectures.  Instead, he would take Amanda to Boston,
the White Mountains, or Montreal.  His common sense suppressed by her
entangling limbs, he had convinced himself that they were being oh so
clever.

   Inevitably they had been caught.  Amanda's mother had grown suspicious
of her daughter's frequent, prolonged absences, and had surreptitiously
lifted Amanda's mobile phone from the girl's purse.  It had been full of
incriminating pictures, including one of him lapping happily away between
Amanda's luscious thighs.

   At the time she had taken it, she had promised that she would delete it,
but it had slipped her mind.  Confronted with the evidence, Amanda had
turned on him.  She had blamed the affair entirely on him, telling everyone
that he had told her that he would fail her and ruin her chances of getting
into a good college if she didn't submit to his insatiable lust.

   The following months had been little more than a witch hunt.  Although
Amanda was over sixteen, the general age of consent in New Hampshire, the
fact that he was her teacher, combined with the allegation that he had used
that position to coerce her, raised the age to eighteen.  He had been lucky
to get away with a fine and parole instead of jail time.

   That had been the only bright point of the ordeal: he had been served
with divorce papers on the same day that the school board had voted
unanimously to dismiss him.  Not that the latter really made any
difference: as a registered sex offender, he would not have been allowed to
continue working at the school under any circumstances.

   Now he was back in the small town of his birth, living in his parents'
basement; unemployed and nearly unemployable.  Even here he had been
vilified.  People he had known since he was a child now turned their nose
up at him.  He couldn't go out in public without hearing the words pervert
and molester being uttered in stage whispers behind him.  That was why he
was walking his dog, the only thing he had left from his old life, late at
night in a winter storm.

   Chuck's low whine pulled him from his reverie.  He glanced around to get
his bearings.  Through the thickly falling sleet, he could make out the
hulking bulk of the old PPG factory to his right.  Once it had been the
life blood of this town.  Now it was derelict; a rust streaked eyesore,
with more windows broken than not.

   "It's okay, boy," he said.  "We're almost home.  You'll be lying in
front of the radiator in no time."

   He jumped in surprise when a feminine voice came from his left, "Bad
time to be out for a walk."

   Turning, he found himself facing a woman who could have been beautiful
if she hadn't been so unkempt.  Her hair was in filthy tangles, and
appeared to have leaves and twigs caught in the tresses.  Smudges of dirt
marred her high cheek bones.  Still, he couldn't help but notice that her
heavy winter coat did little to hide her voluptuous curves.  She matched
her pace to his, staring at him levelly in a way he found unsettling.

   "Yeah," he replied.  "It looks like this storm is going to be pretty
bad."

   "Oh, I wasn't talking about the storm.  I meant being out here.  Alone.
In the dark."

   He was still trying to think of a way to respond to such a unusual
statement when he was rocked backwards by a flurry of punches to his head
and chest.  He staggered and fell to the ground.  On the verge of
unconsciousness, he watched blearily as Chuck, good, old, faithful Chuck,
lunged forward to stand between the attacker and his master.  Although he
bared his worn teeth threateningly, Daryl could see that the old dog was
trembling with fear.

   The woman eyed the dog cautiously for a moment before raising her hands
in front of her.  Daryl whimpered when her pointer fingers sprouted thick,
inch long claws.  A moment later, he lost the only true friend he had left.
He let out a mournful cry the likes of which hadn't been provoked even by
being served with the restraining order that forbade him from seeing his
children.  He was still screaming when a fist connected hard with his nose,
relieving him of consciousness.

   Alicia dragged the hapless Daryl into the vacant factory through a door
that had fallen from rusted hinges.  At the center of the large production
floor was a thick steel plate covering a pit that had, in better days,
housed some kind of large machinery.  Taking Daryl to the edge of the
plate, she laboriously shifted it to the side, creating a gap that led into
the darkness below.

   Jumping down into the opening, she pulled Daryl after her, laying him
next to Lei's motionless body.  The darkness presenting no impediment to
her enhanced senses, she studied the stake for a moment, making certain
that it had not moved.  She then turned her attention to Daryl.  It was
possible that he would wake before the end, and his struggles might
dislodge the tiny piece of wood that was all that stood between her and
destruction or worse.

   To ensure that didn't happen, she painstakingly broke each of the bones
in his limbs.  Lifting him by the scruff of the neck and the back of his
pants, she shifted him until his throat was over Lei's mouth.  Prying the
ancient's jaws open, she sawed his body back and forth until Lei's fangs
cut deeply into his flesh.  His blood gushed forth in a torrent, as much
running in rivulets down the side of Lei's face as went into her mouth.

   Shortly before the end, Daryl forced his eyes, heavy and leaden from
massive blood loss, to open into slits.  Through the dim light that
filtered in through the crack above him, he saw the lifeless face beneath
him haloed with a widening pool of his own blood.  He had been wrong again.
It had been possible for his life to take yet another downward turn.  As
bad as things had been, they had gotten worse.  As he considered how unfair
the universe was, his life, and all the good and bad that it had
represented, came to an end.

   Alicia held the body over Lei until she could feel it starting to cool.
Tossing it aside like refuse, she leaned in to examine the ancient closely.
Lei had been looking progressively worse every night, and Alicia feared
what would happen if Lei died nearly as much as she feared Lei going free.
Perhaps it was her imagination, but Lei did seem to look marginally better:
the skin wasn't quite as sallow nor the eyes as rheumy as they had been
before the feeding.

   Her fingers traced lightly over the stake that protruded from Lei's
chest.  Maybe it would be better if she pulled it out.  She had little
doubt that Lei's vengeance would be painful and terminal, but it would also
likely be swift.  Much better than the slow, wasting away that she was
suffering now.

   It had taken all of her will to feed her catch to Lei instead of keeping
him for herself.  She was nearly starving, not having fed since the hunter.
After leaving the site of Arthur's demise, she had traveled from small town
to small town.  They had not proven to be any safer or more fruitful than
the cities that she so adamantly avoided.  It was not until tonight that
she had caught someone walking alone with no nearby witnesses.

   While there had been other potential opportunities, each had presented a
degree of risk, and the memory of the arrows piercing her flesh was still
far too fresh in her mind for her to take any chances.  She hated herself
for her cowardice, but she could not put it aside.

   Her hand drifted away from the shard of wood.  She wanted to live.  She
loved what she had become far too much to give it up without a fight.  She
couldn't survive on her own in a city.  Towns were apparently also closed
to her as she could hardly depend on having a severe winter storm crop up
every time that she or Lei needed to feed.

   But this was rural western Pennsylvania.  There were a number of
isolated farms, and many people who chose to live in relative seclusion. 
She would still have to be careful, but perhaps she and Lei could live off
the sparsely populated countryside without drawing too much attention.

   Throwing Lei over her shoulder, she left the factory and vanished into
the storm.

   Chapter 16

   November Twenty-third

   Balathu woke up with a groan.  He rolled stiffly onto his back and tried
to get his bearings.  His immediate surroundings were dimly lit by an
electric lantern on nightlight mode.  Although the light faded well before
it reached the walls or ceiling of the chamber, there was still a cramped,
claustrophobic feel to the place.  The air was moist and warm.  Glancing
around, he saw a kerosene heater; its element glowing a dull red.

   On the other side of the small furnace, he could make out Iltana's still
form.  Like him, she was laid out on top of a sleeping bag and air
mattress. Taking hold of the lantern, he fumbled with the controls until
both of the long, fluorescent tubes lit up with a low hum.  He was stunned
when it illuminated a rough stone room, its uneven sides, floor and ceiling
indicating that it was a natural cave.  Checking the date and time on his
battered Timex, he saw that it was a little after six - he was unsure
whether it was morning or night - and that he had been unconscious for
roughly two days.

   He suddenly realized that his mouth was dry; his tongue swollen with
thirst.  He peered about and saw quite a few gallon jugs of water sitting
next to several cardboard boxes.  He rapidly crawled until he could reach
one.  He drank greedily for a moment until he realized that he had no idea
how long the supply would have to last.  After a last, long pull, he
regretfully resealed the bottle and carried it to Iltana's side.

   "Iltana, wake up," he said.  When she did not respond, he gave her
shoulder a shake and repeated the words more loudly.

   "Wha...What's going on?  Where am I?" she croaked as she blinked up at
him in confusion.

   "I'm not sure where we are, but we're in no immediate danger," he
replied as he passed her the water.

   After she had drank her fill, she complained, "Damn my head hurts, and
I've never been so thirsty.  How long were we out?"

   "About two days, I think," he answered.

   Her body tensed as memory returned.  Fearfully, she asked, "Is...is HE
here?"

   "I don't think so, but I just woke up, too."

   Walking bent over to avoid bashing their heads on the low ceiling, they
explored the tight confines of the cave.  Two tunnels led out of the small
chamber in which they had awakened.  One, initially barely high enough to
allow them to crawl on all fours, enlarged significantly before coming to a
dead end at a small underground stream.  The water was cold and clear, and,
although it had a slightly metallic taste, Balathu figured that they could
at least use it for washing.  The downstream end bubbled down through a
narrow fissure; perfect for other hygienic needs.  At this thought, his
bladder suddenly made its urgent need known.

   "Um, could you excuse me for a moment?" he asked.

   "What?" Iltana asked, confused, before realizing his intent.  "Oh. 
Sure. I'm next."

   When he was finished, he walked to the edge of the light and Iltana took
her turn at the fissure.  She seemed to take an inordinately long time.

   "Everything alright?" he asked without turning around.

   "Yeah, I just don't have a change of clothes or tp, and it takes a while
to completely drip dry."

   After she rejoined him, they explored the other tunnel.  They had gone
no more than five feet before it ended in a barricade of rocks and dirt. 
They dug at it for a moment, but many of the rocks were too large for them
to move.

   "We're entombed," Iltana said frantically, her voice filled with growing
panic.

   "Merely imprisoned," Balathu replied calmly.  "We have air, and the fact
that the fumes from the kerosene heater haven't built up shows that there
is plenty of ventilation.  We have light.  We have heat.  We have water. 
He wouldn't have left us those things if he wanted us to die here."

   "But what does he want with us?" Iltana asked.  The panic in her voice
had not receded.

   "I don't know," Balathu admitted.  "But do we really want to speculate?"

   "One thing was missing from your list.  Do we have food?"

   Turning back toward the main chamber, he replied, "Let's take a look."

   The boxes contained a variety of canned fruits and vegetables, cans of
spam, and tins of tuna.  It also held a can opener and a box of plastic
sporks.  Balathu dined on cold green beans and tuna, while Iltana supped on
spam and fruit cocktail.  When their simple meal was complete, she moved
over to sit close to him.

   "I guess that as long as we're not too picky this will last us for a
while," she commented.

   Now that their immediate needs were met, her thoughts turned to defense.
"Do you still have your gun?"

   He reached into his pocket and pulled out the snub nosed revolver,
placing it on the ground near their feet.

   "Yes," he replied, "But even if it could harm the thing that imprisoned
us, it would do us no good."

   "Why?"

   "It was never loaded.  Taking a life, even that of a traitor, would
violate everything I believe in.  I couldn't risk harming him, even by
accident."

   "I'm really scared, Sam," she said in a small voice.

   "I am, too."

   She leaned against him, seeking comfort.  He awkwardly placed an arm
around her shoulders, allowing her to settle more firmly against his side.
They sat in uncomfortable silence for a long moment.

   "The asshole didn't even leave us a deck of cards," Iltana observed in a
voice that was a little too innocent.  "What are we going to do to pass the
time?"

   "Place your hands behind your head," Balathu instructed, his voice tight
and slightly higher pitched than usual.



   "Huh?"



   "Trust me."

   "Oookaay."

   Once she had done so, Balathu continued, "Now, quickly sweep your hands
over the top of your head.  Imagine that your hands are gathering up all
your thoughts as they move across the top of your skull.  When your hands
reach just below your forehead, use a flicking motion to throw your hands
away from your face.  Feel as if all of your thoughts are being swept out
of your head and thrown out into empty space."

   "Excuse me?"

   "This is the most basic meditation exercise.  It helps to clear the mind
for more advanced techniques."

   "We've been trapped underground by a vampire for heaven knows what
purpose, and you want to teach me how to meditate?" Iltana asked dubiously.

   "It will pass the time, and being able to maintain your center may help
a great deal in the days to come."

   Iltana pulled herself away from him with a disappointed sigh. 
"Alright," she grumbled.  "What do I do again?"

   For the remainder of the day, or night, whichever the case might have
been, Balathu patiently guided her through the basics of meditation. 
Despite their circumstances, she showed an affinity for the subject, and
before they broke off he had started to teach her the 1000 petaled lotus.

   As Iltana staggered, mentally exhausted, to her sleeping bag, Balathu
asked, "Would you mind if I left you for an hour or so?"

   "Leave me?" Iltana asked.  "How are you going to manage that?"

   "Not physically.  I was thinking that I could gather information if I
projected.  The more we know, the better off we'll be when we get out of
here."

   "Well, aren't you just the optimist," Iltana remarked caustically.  "But
no, I don't mind.  All I'm going to be doing for the next few hours is
snoring."

   The lack of incense and the stress of their predicament made it far more
difficult than usual for Balathu to release his mind from the flesh, but he
finally looked down upon his body and Iltana from the roof of the cave.  He
passed effortlessly through the blockage, discovering that it extended for
more than ten meters.

   The cave emptied out onto a night shrouded, wooded hillside overlooking
a winding river.  He sped upwards and examined the area from the viewpoint
of a hawk.  The forest was vast with only a few dwellings or clearings. 
Seeing the lights of a large town in the distance, he traveled there with a
thought.

   He hovered motionless over the small city.  He had worked hard to
suppress his emotions throughout the day; Iltana had enough to concern her
without having to deal with his panic as well.  Now that he was alone,
though, he let it all out: terror at being the prisoner of an ancient
abomination; fear that the cave would turn out to be their tomb, no matter
what he had told Iltana; frustration that he had failed to kill McNelly and
Mia; shame and guilt that he had lost his Order's most sacred artifact and
powerful weapon; and, most of all, deep, numbing grief that he had gotten
Iltana involved in the debacle that his life had become, and, by doing so,
may well have cost her her own.  He was a failure.  A complete incompetent,
and everything he held dear was paying the price for his blunders.

   In his current form, he could not weep.  He could not gnash his teeth or
rend his hair.  He could not scream his rage to the heavens.  Nevertheless,
the emotions that coursed through his insubstantial form were rendered no
less powerful by the lack.  Finally, mentally numb, the raging emotions
faded to black depression, he floated through the town that the storefronts
and courthouse named as Clarion.  Passing through the locked doors of the
courthouse, he found a map pinned to a cork board in the foyer.  Moments
later he was speeding to the west.  His progress slowed well before he
reached his destination as he approached the limit of the distance that his
mind could exist apart from his body.

   The cedar home outside Spartansburg blazed with light.  The only
physical change to the place was that the windows in the front door had
been replaced with pieces of insulation, plastic trash bags and duct tape.
He found the residents in the living room where he had come so close to
slaying two of them.  They were huddled on the couch with Mia, covered with
an electric blanket, in the middle.  Dana and Tom gazed at her with concern
as they each held tightly to one of her hands.  A fourth person, a young
Asian woman of such beauty that she made his heart ache with longing, was
perched on the back of a recliner like a bird, watching the trio intently.

   Tearing his sight from the woman, he flitted about the room, looking for
signs of the ancient or clues as to where Sun's Anger might be hidden.

   "Were you responsible for this?" the Asian woman asked sadly.

   It took a while before he realized that the question had been addressed
to him.  Shaken, he nevertheless turned to face her.

   "You can see me?" he asked.

   "Of course," she replied.  She extended her legs through the chair and
walked towards him.

   "You're projecting," he exclaimed.  "Why do you look..."

   "Like a person instead of a cloud of glowing gas?" she finished for him.
"You can look like anything you like in this state, although there is
seldom anyone capable of seeing the product of your efforts.  I choose to
be myself.  Try it.  Fix the image in your mind and think, with all of your
being, that the image is you."

   Curious, he did as she instructed.

   A moment later she let out a musical laugh, "Not bad for a first effort,
but try it again with an image of you instead of me."

   Embarrassed, he repeated the exercise.

   "Hmm, not bad.  Not bad at all," she said in an entirely different tone.
"What is your name, boy?"

   "Bal ...  Sam," he stammered.

   "A pleasure to meet you, Balsam," she said with a chuckle.  Her voice
suddenly turned crisp as she continued, "But we have strayed far from my
initial question which was: did you do this?"

   "Yes," he said proudly.

   "Why?"

   "They are abominations," he replied in the tone of one explaining the
obvious to an imbecile.

   "Abominations?  Ahhh.  That explains much.  I take it that you are from
the ancient and glorious cult of Utu, whose members have hidden themselves
away for thousands of years in dirty rabbit warrens beneath what is now Abu
Habbah."

   "There is nothing dirty about New Sippar," he said defensively.  "What
would you know about it, anyway?"

   With a little snort, she said, "Not exactly the brightest of your
illustrious order are you?  I would have expected you to have figured it
out by now.  I am the one you've been hiding from, although I've always
known exactly where you are.  If memory serves me correctly, your order
refers to me as The First, The Devourer, The Great Enemy, or, when they're
feeling particularly verbose, She Who Sundered The Veil And Brought Forth
The Abomination." After a short pause, she added sweetly, "You, however,
can call me Lei."

   An icy chill passed down the spine he didn't currently have.  He tried
to flee.  At first the terrain flashed past him in a blur as he sped back
towards his body, but then he began to slow with a sensation like a rubber
band drawing taut and stretching ever closer to its limits.  He came to a
halt and then snapped back the way he had come until he was again facing
The Great Enemy.

   He stayed only long enough to see her grin at him with amusement before
he redoubled his efforts to return to his flesh.  For the next few minutes,
he snapped back and forth between the abominations' living room and the
cave like a supersonic yo-yo.  In the end, the ties to the former proved
the stronger.

   When he finally came to a stop, Lei arched an eyebrow.  "Done?" she
asked.

   "Yes," he said, grudgingly.

   "Good.  Now, I don't expect to overcome decades of mental conditioning
and propaganda in an instant, but I want you to look at these people. 
Truly look at them.  Do they seem like the evil monsters of which you were
taught?"

   Reluctantly, he glanced at the trio on the couch.  Since the time he had
started his escape attempts, a pile of dead rabbits had appeared on the
coffee table.  Dana and McNelly were embracing Mia from either side,
offering comfort and solace.  The blanket had fallen to the floor and he
could see that Mia's leg was wrapped thickly with gauze bandages.  Thick
yellow pus had soaked through along the length of the injury he had
inflicted.

   "However they might seem in their own lair, they regularly commit murder
and devour the souls of their victims.  They, and you, are evil incarnate
with no hope of redemption," Balathu said stubbornly.

   With a dry chuckle, Lei replied, "Unspeakably evil creatures who devour
souls, eh?  The propaganda has stepped up to a whole new level, I see. 
Utter nonsense, of course."

   "We have studied and hunted your kind for thousands of years.  Do you
expect me to believe that all that we are taught is founded on lies?"

   "Not all that you are taught, just the parts that relate to the
character of those you are sworn to destroy.  Come, child, even you must
admit that painting us as vile monsters is more than a little self serving.
After all, it is far easier to kill something without mercy or remorse if,
in your mind at least, it is inhuman, than it would be if you knew that
your victim was just like you except that he has to kill, not because he
wants to, but because he must in order to survive.  Once an adversary has
been dehumanized, it is easy to heap ever greater atrocities at their feet,
even ones that you should know are not based in fact.

   "Take the devouring of souls allegation for example.  Unless things have
changed significantly in the few centuries since I last poked around in
your glorified caves, I'm guessing that belief isn't held by all of your
Order.  It is, however, most likely a view that has been gaining popularity
over time.  You believe it because it makes the idea of killing us more
palatable, even though you should know it for the foolishness that it is.
Isn't the first of your tenets something to the effect of the zi flows
through all living things and unites them as one?"

   Shocked that The First would know the doctrines of his Order, Balathu
could only nod his ethereal head.

   "Haven't you ever thought about what that means?" she then asked.

   "That all living things are brothers, because all contain the zi.  A
family that excludes abominations like yourself who are empty inside."

   "Pffft," Lei answered contemptuously.  "How the mighty have fallen.  The
Temple of Utu in the twin cities called Sippar once produced some of my
most powerful and learned Masters of the zi.  Also several of my most
rebellious, but that is neither here nor there.  It saddens me to learn
that their descendants have become so ignorant."

   As Balathu sputtered with indignation, she continued, "By your own
tenet, the zi flows through all living things.  It is not constrained to a
single vessel.  That which contains your consciousness at this moment could
well have been inside a hundred different people this morning, or a herd of
deer, or a forest of trees, or millions of flesh eating bacteria.  When a
body is drained completely of zi, such as occurs when my children feed, it
is true that death occurs, as the presence of the zi is essential to the
vessel's existence.  However, what we take is not an intrinsic part of that
specific individual.  I do not know if we possess souls, but, if we do, the
zi is not it."

   "So where does the zi come from?"

   "There are two answers to that question.  First, it is generated by
everything that lives, each living thing adding its own drop of essence to
the vast ocean of life.  Second, it has always existed.  It is a
fundamental building block of the universe that permeates all of space. 
Because they cannot see it, modern physicists refer to it as dark energy
when they use it to balance their equations, but there is nothing dark
about it."

   "If all that you have told me is true, then why must you feed on people?
Why won't any life do?"

   Gesturing toward the pile of rabbits, Lei replied, "As a point of fact,
we can survive on animals for a time.  However, the zi is not inert.  While
inside a vessel, it takes on distinct characteristics unique to both that
type of vessel and the specific individual.  Because it was I, a human, who
fused with the Outsider, we require a certain measure of zi with a, shall
we say, human flavor, to sustain us."

   "There!" he said condemningly.  "By your own admission you must commit
murder in order to survive.  How is that not evil?"

   "Do you call it murder when a lion slays and eats a gazelle?  Is a cat
evil for devouring a mouse?  No.  They are acting according to their
nature, as do we.  Besides, everything that lives must eventually die. 
Hundreds if not thousands of people are murdered by their own kind for far
less reason every single day.  And, in the end, what does it really, truly
matter?

   "By conservative estimates, our universe has existed for more than
thirteen billion years; our planet for more than four.  In relation to such
vast time lines, - and these are the time lines that have actual meaning in
the grand scheme of things - what difference does it make if an individual
dies today or ten, fifteen or even a hundred years from now?

   "Quite simply, as individuals the vast majority of humans are ephemeral
and irrelevant; their lives meaningless.  In less than a tick of the
universal clock, they are born, grow old, die and are forgotten.  Only as a
species do they have any significance at all, and what we do does no
lasting harm to the species as a whole.  In fact, like most predators, my
children feed primarily on the edges of the herd, taking the weak, the
infirm, and the outcasts.  By doing so, we may even strengthen the species
as a whole.  But, I did not hold you here to discuss philosophy or debate
the value of human life."

   She hesitated for a long moment before asking, "What do you know of the
Outsider?"

   Horrified by her diatribe, Balathu still managed to reply angrily, "I
know that you brought it to our world through the Veil, and that it is an
enemy to all that lives."

   "True enough, I suppose, but lacking in a number of details.  Our
universe is not the only one.  In what theoretical physicists are now
calling eleventh dimensional space, there are an infinite number of
universes, each encapsulated within a membrane of space and time.  They
float around one another like bubbles in the ocean or cells within your
blood stream.  Some are similar to ours.  In others, what we call
antimatter won the battle at the moment of creation.  If something from
such a universe were to come to ours, its first contact with our matter
would result in mutual annihilation.

   "Similarly, zi, or life, is not the same in all realities.  In some,
life is in a form that is antithetical to our own.  If a being suffused
with what I'll call, for lack of a better term, anti-zi were to come to
ours, the first flow of its essence into the ocean of our zi would result
in annihilation similar to that caused by the contact of matter and
antimatter.  The being would, of course, die instantly.  There would also
be an explosion, not discernible in the physical realm, that would send
ripples through the zi, disrupting the normal flows throughout the
vicinity.

   "The Outsider is such a creature.  In its own realm, a universe so many
billions of years older than ours that it is approaching heat death, it had
proven to be the perfect predator: a creature capable of taking any form it
desired; a monster that was only capable of experiencing pleasure when it
killed; a ravenous beast that fed on the very essence of life itself.

   "Part of a race that has existed for aeons, and with individual life
spans measured in tens of thousands of years, its kind had traveled between
the stars of their own universe using nothing but the strength of their
will.  They enslaved or devoured every living thing that they encountered,
but they always hungered for more.

   "For millennia they had been peering through the Veil at our young, hot
universe and our life filled world with avarice and longing.  But even
their unsurpassed power could not allow them to cross the Veil and survive.
Not without help from our side.

   "With the assistance of hundreds of Masters, I pierced the membranes of
space and time, that which we called the Veil, and called out into the
void. The one that is now part of me answered eagerly from a world circling
a guttering sun.  With power beyond your imagining, we pulled it to our
world, and, in the very instant of transition, before its life force could
interact catastrophically with our own, caused it to fuse with me.  It and
I became one, not only in flesh, but in our very essence.  We created a
hybrid that is neither human or Outsider, zi or anti-zi, but has properties
of both.  A new life form that is capable of existing in this world, and, I
assume, in that of the Outsider.

   "To keep it from doing to our world and universe what its kind had done
to its own, we betrayed it in the moment of weakness that existed at the
very instant that the fusion took place, suppressing its intelligence and
will so that my mind would be in sole control of the unified body.

   "To prevent contamination of our zi, we sealed the hybrid life force
within the vessel of my body.  So, unlike everything that lives, the zi
does not flow through my kind.  The only time our essence can spread to
another is when our hybrid cells, things as much alien as human, take hold
in a human vessel that has been emptied of zi.  There, the cells multiply
and begin to generate the hybrid life force that grows ever so slightly
each time a life is consumed, and will, over the course of centuries, fill
the new vessel."

   Intrigued despite himself, Balathu asked, "So, each abomination could
potentially spawn an entirely new Outsider?"

   "No.  There is only the one: me.  All of my children, while physically
separate and more or less free willed, are in a very real sense a part of
me.  I can feel them, wherever they may be in the world, like an amputee
continues to feel his severed limbs."

   "How is that possible?"

   "You must understand that the Outsider is the product of a very
different evolutionary path than ours.  Rather than a body of specialized
organs such as we possess, it is a collective of independent cells.  The
closest correlation on our planet would be the far less complex and more
primitive slime mold.

   "There are size constraints on such life forms in our world. 
Specifically, the need for food, water and respiration both prevents these
organisms from becoming so thick that the cells in the center cannot
directly interact with its sources of sustenance and provides an
evolutionary incentive for the specialization of cells into digestive,
circulatory and respiratory systems.

   "The Outsiders, however, feed on the very essence of life itself, and
have no other needs.  For this reason, they were not subject to any similar
limitations or pressures.  As they grew larger, the constituent cells
formed a collective intelligence and each developed an affinity for the
whole, a sense of connection and belonging that bound them together even if
parts of a particular collective were severed from the rest.  We used this
property as the backbone for the bond that exists between Master and
fledgling"

   Confused, Balathu asked, "So you're saying that an Outsider is just one
big brain?"

   "In a manner of speaking, I suppose.  Each cell contributes to the
collective consciousness, but the lack of the specialized structure of a
true brain makes it highly inefficient.  They do, however, make up for this
shortcoming through sheer mass and processing power.  As a result, the
largest of the Outsiders would far outstrip us in intelligence.  There are,
of course, drawbacks to such a loose organization.  Specifically, they are
completely lacking in creativity and imagination, they have only a limited
range of emotions, and they have difficulty organizing memories into a
temporal sequence."

   "Limited range of emotions?"

   "Think Keanu Reeves."

   "Oh.  Okay.  But I still don't understand.  If you were to cut an
Outsider into five pieces, would you end up with five separate creatures
that were each proportionally less intelligent than the original?"

   "No.  They would retain a single consciousness, which could move among
and inhabit any of the pieces it wished, although it could only control one
at any given time.  The physical separation would, however, leave it
diminished, and its first priority would be to physically rejoin its
parts."

   "Can you do that?  Move your consciousness among the other
abominations?"

   Lei cocked her head to the side as she considered the question. 
Finally, she answered slowly, "I don't know.  I've never tried.  But I
don't think so.  Vampires present a very different situation than a true
Outsider divided into pieces, as each of us has our own separate
consciousness.  At the very least, I would have to overcome the mind of the
one I was trying to possess.  In such battles, the home field advantage is
formidable."

   "Is there a limit to the number of pieces that the Outsider can be
broken into and still be able to maintain the affinity? ...  I guess what
I'm really asking is whether there is a maximum number of abominations that
the single Outsider in you can support?"

   "I find 'abomination' offensive.  I would ask that you use another term.
To answer your question: I have no idea, but I do have an untested theory.
To put it in simple terms, think of the me as a dart board.  When there is
an attempt to give someone the Gift, the cells that are invading the new
body must establish a connection with me, the source.  Think of that as
throwing a dart with a string tied to the end.  When there are just a few
of us, nearly every dart strikes home.  Once the board gets more cluttered,
however, an ever greater proportion of the incoming darts fail to reach
their target and fall to the floor.  So, how many darts can our
metaphorical board hold before no more can find purchase?  Certainly more
than a hundred, but, after that, your guess is as good as mine.  A
thousand? Ten thousand?  A million?  Pray that the answer is never known
for a certainty."



   After mulling this over for a time, Balathu asked, "You mentioned
earlier that the hybrid zi increases in abominations over time.  Is it this
that makes them stronger?"

   "Yes."

   "But not you."

   "Very astute.  You are correct.  I am ...  different.  As I am one with
the source, my abilities have remained much the same since the time of the
fusion.  It did, however, take me millennia to learn how to use those
abilities, and, even now, I have only begun to scratch the surface."

   "Why are you telling me all of this?"

   "Because there is a great darkness on the horizon.  One that could mean
the end of human civilization, possibly even the demise of the species. 
With your assistance, it could still be averted, and I thought that you
would be more likely to provide that assistance if you understood something
of what we are."

   He gaped at her in astonishment, unable to believe her audacity.  When
he finally came to accept that she was serious, he replied heatedly, "As
I'm sure you're aware, Devourer, I am the sworn enemy of you and all of
your kind.  Why would I take your word that such danger exists?  Not to
mention the fact that you're the most powerful being on Earth.  What could
you ask me to do that you can't?  For that matter, how did you know that I
would be here to ask?"

   "To answer the last of your questions first: I didn't.  I had come here
merely to look in upon favored children who had caught my interest.  Your
appearance, while unexpected, was an opportunity that could not be
ignored."

   She hesitated again, chewing on the perfect bow of her lip in
indecision. Meeting his gaze with a look so intense that it made him shy
backwards, she replied bitterly, "As to why I need your help, I made the
error of trusting a fledgling who was not my own.  During my distraction
with those in this house, she used what I had taught her to come upon me
unaware and plant a wooden stake in my heart."

   "I don't understand.  Doesn't that mean you're dead?" Balathu asked,
confused.

   "I have been dead for more than seven thousand years, but no, not in the
sense that you mean.  My body is paralyzed; all of my powers dormant and
useless.  Until last night, when my would be slayer decided to feed me, I
was completely helpless as even my mind was trapped within the bounds of my
body.

   "Two months ago, I could make the earth tremble with a thought.  Now, I
am reduced to an impotent voyeur, forced to watch as my former ward carries
me across the countryside slung over her shoulder like a sack of rice.  I
am not even capable of communicating with anyone who is outside the
ethereal realm."

   "I hope you were not expecting me to mourn your predicament, but, even
if I were inclined to help you, I could not," he said before adding sourly,
"At the moment, my body is trapped in a cave without much hope of rescue."
Gesturing toward the three physical occupants of the room, he asked, "Why
not just dominate one of your so called favored children and make them come
pull the stake loose?"

   Slumping in despair, Lei answered absently, "Just as the zi cannot be
manipulated from the ethereal realm, the powers derived from the Outsider
cannot be accessed when apart from the body.  How did you come to be
trapped?"

   Balathu hesitated for a moment before answering firmly, "That is none of
your business."

   His face creasing in confusion, he then asked, "If your powers don't
work in this state, how did you hold me here?"

   Still lost in thought, Lei replied absently, "A trick of the mind.  In
this realm, the will is paramount.  It is how we move and how we speak.  As
my will is stronger than yours, I can make you move, or not, as I wish."
Wryly, she added, "I have to admit, though, that you gave me more trouble
than I expected."

   A new hope kindled in her eyes at her last words, and she raised her
head to meet his gaze.  "Perhaps there is a chance that the world, if not
me, can be saved.  For there to be any hope, however, a true Master of the
Zi will be needed."

   Balathu interrupted, "Then the world is safe, as there are more than a
dozen Masters in New Sippar."

   Lei snorted derisively.  "In my day, even the most puissant of your
teachers would not have been allowed to step foot outside without one of us
nearby to wipe his chin and keep his bottom clean."

   Offended, Balathu retorted, "You know nothing.  The knowledge of the
ancestors has been faithfully passed down from generation to generation
since your day."

   Lei shook her head.  "You truly are naive, child.  However altruistic
the cause, human nature still comes into play.  One who holds knowledge
that others lack will always hold a little bit back to retain an advantage
over his rivals.  Then, with his death, the knowledge is lost.  This is
especially true for institutions like your Order where, to keep their
secrets safe from the outside world, they do not reduce the knowledge to
writing but pass it on orally from Master to apprentice.

   "I know your Order well.  Believe me when I tell you that your masters
are but a dim shadow of those who came before.  If you need proof, look to
the fact that there has never been any attempt to create a new, more modern
version of Buzur Ud Ug.  If your teachers retained the power to make an
assault rifle that could harm my kind, don't you think that they would have
done so?

   "Decide.  Will you accept the teachings of one who was counted among the
greatest Masters who ever lived; one who was second only to Enki and Enlil
themselves?  Will you strive to become a true Master for the sake of the
world?"

   Stunned by the abomination's offer, Balathu nevertheless saw its
weakness.  "It takes years of study and practice to become a Master.  How
could we possibly have enough time?"

   "You are thinking solely in terms of the physical.  In that realm, time
marches ever onward, more or less immutable and constant.  Such constraints
do not apply to the ethereal.  Through a simple exercise of will we could
spend what would seem like days here for each tick of the clock in the
physical realm."

   "Are you going to tell me what this supposed danger is?"

   "Before you started to interrupt me with questions, I was going to tell
you, as a way to goad you to free me.  However, if you are to be my
student, your mind will need to be unburdened by such concerns."

   After a long moment of silence, Balathu said quietly, "All of my life, I
have been taught that once a man becomes an abom...  one of your kind, that
which he was is lost forever, and he becomes immutably evil.  So, how can I
believe you?  How can I believe that this is anything other than a trick?"

   Letting the near slip slide, Lei considered the questions carefully
before replying, "Obviously, I can offer no proof that what I tell you is
true.  All I can say is that, because the mind of the Outsider was
suppressed, what a man was before he received the Gift, he remains
afterwards.  The only addition is the hunger.  While the hunger can cause a
man to perform acts that you would consider evil, or even distort his
character over the centuries, it does not have any immediate impact on what
he is.  Plus, what do you have to lose?  Even if I am lying, you will still
be obtaining knowledge that is no longer available from anyone else in the
world."

   Turning his sight to the physical occupants of the room, Balathu said,
"Tell me one final thing.  What do your 'favored children' intend to do to
the child?"

   It was Lei's turn to look surprised.  "Do to him?" she asked.  "What
most parents do to their children, I suppose.  They intend to love him, and
care for him, and, in Mia's case, spoil him shamefully.  They intend to do
their best to raise him properly so that he gets into a good school and
finds a career that he enjoys.  Unless you help me, though, none of those
intentions will ever come to pass."

   Not taking his gaze from the people who were still locked in a three way
embrace, he asked, "If I agree to be your pupil, will we be able to stop
whatever it is that's coming?"

   "Probably not," Lei answered bluntly.  "But if you refuse, the end is
certain."

   "I'll do it," he said in a subdued voice.

   Lei nodded as if his answer had been a foregone conclusion from the
beginning.  "You are reaching the limits of the time your body can live
without its zi.  Return to your body and rest.  Meet me here tomorrow at
dusk, and we shall begin."

   Before Balathu could frame a response, Lei waved her hand in dismissal.
The next instant, Balathu was back in his body in the dimly lit cave. 
Burying his face in his hands, he wondered how he would ever be able to
explain to his masters the deal that he had made with the being that, to
them, was nothing less than the devil herself.

   Chapter 17 November Twenty-third

   Arthur stood musing on the back porch of his new residence, his hands
clasped behind his back.  He briefly searched the night sky for the stars
that had become a permanent feature of his life, but the lights from the
nearby city of Ashburn, Virginia blotted out all but the brightest.

   It had taken two nights of driving around through the suburbs of
Washington, searching the minds of residents and travelers, to find this
place.  Other than the lingering odor of Ben Gay and the sharp, ammonia
reek of cat piss, it was perfect.  The elderly couple who had formerly made
the old farmhouse their home had no surviving relatives.  Their few living
friends resided in nursing homes, some here but most in Florida.  Best of
all, they had substantial financial resources, and money, for the first
time in centuries, was in short supply.  He had his accountants working on
tracking down the funds that had been stolen from his accounts, but he had
little hope that the efforts would bear fruit.

   He had made Colonel Woodard give the Gift to the wife, Dorothy.  The
husband, after providing Dorothy with the first meal of her new life, had
been made a permanent resident of the dirt beneath the snow covered garden.
Arthur had thoughtfully added the couple's many cats to the unmarked grave
to keep him company.  Dorothy, an uncommonly homely woman even with her
youth restored, had whined nonstop, more about the cats than her spouse,
until Arthur had asked Woodard to command her to be silent.

   Her eyes still glared at him in quiet judgment each time she was near, a
habit that Arthur found particularly annoying.  When her usefulness came to
an end in roughly a month, he would take great pleasure in tearing the
heart from her chest.  Until then, they needed her to answer the few
telephone calls that the couple received in order to keep any suspicion
from falling on this place.

   The enlisted soldiers that he had brought with him had obtained their
own place within the city proper.  They had already given the Gift to three
night duty police officers and two Vietnam vets who had been holding a
vigil at the war memorial.  The vets had been sent off to Charlotte, North
Carolina to start the process there.  The police officers were being kept
busy stealing duty rosters, personnel records, and evidence room inventory
sheets.

   Things were going equally well, and in most cases better, in the other
cities.  Nearly all of his initial soldiers had sent pairs of their own
fledglings to their secondary and tertiary targets and also commanded an
additional fifteen to thirty vampires in their own city.  As of this
evening, he had minions in forty seven cities across North America.

   So far, the only setback had been the death of both fledglings who had
been sent to Pittsburgh by the Harrisburg team.  There was no mention in
the news of anything that could explain their demise.  It was a worrisome
quandary.  He would like to dispatch another pair to the city, but, if the
authorities were responsible for the loss, doing so would risk alerting the
country to the danger it was in well before he was ready.

   A small sound behind him reminded Arthur of Susan's presence.  He turned
to regard the naked woman who was crouched on all fours upon the rough
wooden planks of the porch.

   "You have my apologies, Susan, for having had so little time to spend
with you," he said finally, "but I did pick you up a little something in
New Orleans to help make up for the lack of attention.  Why don't you
scurry along inside and get the bag that I left on one of the end tables in
the living room.  Oh, and on your way back, grab the jar of minced garlic I
saw in the icebox."

   Susan began to rise to do his bidding.

   "No.  No," he corrected her.  "There is no reason to stand.  You can
perform the tasks you have been given perfectly well on your hands and
knees."

   When she crawled back out to the porch, a bag clasped in her teeth and a
jar held carefully in one hand, he sat on the porch swing and commanded her
to kneel in front of him.  He upended the bag, causing a large variety of
hoop earrings to clatter onto the seat next to him.  Pulling a pair of
gloves from his suit pocket, he picked up one of the smaller rings and
dipped it into the garlic.

   "Hold still," he directed as he pushed the dull point of the clasp
through one of her brown, fleshy nipples.

   The next pair went into the skin halfway down her rib cage.  After that,
he started slightly below her ribs and placed one of the heavy rings every
inch down each side of the smooth, muscular flanks of her abdomen.  Blood
ran in thin trickles from the points at which the rings pierced her skin,
and the touch of the garlic caused angry red blisters to bubble upwards. 
Throughout it all, she knelt trembling, with tears rolling down her cheeks
and her mouth open in a silent scream.  Finally, all that remained of the
pile of cheap jewelry was a thick rod with balls on each end.

   "Stick out your tongue," he said mildly as he unscrewed one of the ends
and dipped it in garlic.

   "This is fun!" Arthur exclaimed gleefully as he impaled the thick muscle
of her tongue with the blunt rod.  "I can see why you so enjoyed probing me
with your needles and scalpels.  I really must get more of these the next
time I'm near a mall."

   He leaned forward to stare intently into her watering eyes.  "Why, it
almost looks like you have something to say," he said mockingly.  "While
I'm sure it would be eloquent and insightful, I have a much better use in
mind for your mouth."

   After making her rinse to purge her mouth of garlic, he opened the front
of his pants and pulled out his already stiff member.

   "You know what I want.  Get to it," he directed.

   Susan obediently leaned forward to take him between her lips.  As she
gently sucked on the fat head of his cock, he could hear the sound of her
blood dripping from the dangling rings to the porch floor.

   "The tongue piercing certainly adds something to the experience," Arthur
said approvingly, "Or perhaps it's the blisters.  I suppose to be certain,
we'll just have to keep both from now on."

   Susan's head was still bobbing several minutes later when Woodard
emerged from the house.

   "Uh, sir?" he said to draw attention to his presence.

   "Good evening, Woodard," Arthur answered with a wave toward Susan's
hindquarters.  "There are several orifices going unused if you would care
to indulge."

   "No thank you, sir," Woodard replied disapprovingly.  "You asked me to
remind you of your appointment."

   "Is it that time already?  Thank you, Woodard.  I will require your
services as a driver."

   Tucking his cock back inside his pants, Arthur rose and, with Woodard
following behind, began to walk to the dilapidated barn that the couple had
used for a garage.

   After only a few steps, he called over his shoulder, "Come, Susan."

   As she must, Susan obeyed silently, but her eyes and expression spoke
volumes on the subject of despair.

   The barn turned garage contained a rusted old pick up truck and a
lovingly maintained baby blue Lincoln Continental Mark IV.  Choosing the
latter vehicle, Arthur and Susan seated themselves in the back while
Woodard took the driver's seat.  As they rolled down the driveway, Arthur
had Susan resume her earlier activities while he made calls to the teams in
the most recent cities to be covertly invaded.

   With traffic, it took more than an hour before the car pulled to a stop
just outside the campus of Georgetown University.  Silently, Woodard
pointed out the tavern that was the agreed upon place for Arthur's meeting.
With a nod of thanks, Arthur left his fledglings behind.

   The bar did an admirable job of creating what was thought of as old
world charm, from the deeply polished oak bar to the brass beer taps to the
stone fireplace with its fake, gas fired logs.  A shallow scan of the
patrons' minds revealed that the place was a haven for local academicians.
After a brief search, he located the bearded and bespectacled professor he
had come to meet, sipping a Guinness and playing darts.

   Arthur approached the man and extended a hand.  "Professor Andrew
VanHauss?  My name is Arthur.  Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."

   The professor gave Arthur's hand a brief, limp shake.  "Andy, please. 
Pleasure to meet you, Arty.  What can I do for you?"

   The muscles in Arthur's jaw clenched briefly in annoyance at the casual
form of address, but his voice remained pleasant.  "I am very interested in
ancient Sumerian writings."

   "Are you a collector?" Andy asked suspiciously.

   "No, not at all.  My interest is purely academic.  I am considering
writing a book that involves ancient writings and want to get the details
right, but I'm afraid I know next to nothing on the subject," Arthur lied,
picking the cover story based on what Andy's memories said about his
character.

   Andy relaxed and, after taking a drag from a cigarette, said, "I'm
always happy to help an aspiring author.  Just to give you the bare basics,
Sumerian writing was known as cuneiform and, in various forms, was in use
from roughly 3400 B.C.  until it was replaced by the Roman alphabet in the
first century.  What do you want to know in particular?"

   "Has much of it survived?"

   "More than you might think.  They, and the Akkadians who also used the
language, were very prolific writers.  They wrote mostly on clay tablets
which, while cumbersome, are a lot more durable than papyrus or paper. 
There are thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of tablets in museums and
private collections all over the world."

   "Have they been catalogued?"

   "Hell, most of 'em haven't even been translated.  There are only a
handful or two of people who can read them, and, unless you know exactly
where and when a tablet was produced, translation can be a bitch.  You see,
the meanings of the characters changed over time and also varied by region.
With a lot of the tablets, we'll never know the when and where for sure. 
That's mostly because, until the latter part of the twentieth century, a
lot of archaeologists were more interested in treasure hunting than they
were in preserving history."

   "Are there any major collections of religious tablets?  One's dealing
with spells and incantations?"

   Andy laughed.  "Oh, it's going to be one of those kind of books.  For
the record, the Sumerians used the word 'nam-sub' to describe the act of
casting a spell.  The short answer to your question is not that I know of.
As I said, though, there are lots of 'em out there that haven't been
translated.  A juicy, old rumor that might be right up your alley is that
the Nazi's had built up quite a collection as a result of Heinrich
Himmler's obsession with the mystical.  If true, they were certainly never
recovered and were possibly destroyed by Allied bombs or Russian artillery
during the taking of Berlin." With a broad wink and a toothy grin, he added
suggestively, "Or maybe they just haven't been found yet."

   Having finished plumbing Andy's mind for the rest of the information he
was seeking, Arthur purged the professor's mind of all memories relating to
his appointment and exited the bar.  Needing time alone to digest the
information, he sent Woodard and Susan home and continued walking through
the nation's capital on foot.

   The taste of power that Lei had given him had whetted his appetite for
more.  While disappointed by what he had learned from Andy, he realized
that if obtaining the power was easy everyone would have it.  He, at least,
knew that it existed, and that put him well ahead of the pack.  From Andy's
mind, he had learned that one of the many vaults in the Smithsonian
contained a large number of tablets and tablet fragments.  When he had
time, he would have to investigate further.

   On a sudden whim, he decided that, as long as he was already in the
city, he might as well obtain another piece that he needed to win the game
of apocalypse.  Picking up speed, he ran through the shadows to one of the
seedier sections of the city.  There, he spent several hours skulking in
alleys and dark alcoves while digging through the memories of whores,
pimps, drug dealers and other petty criminals.  None were acceptable.

   He had just turned a corner when he caught sight of a man running down
the opposite side of the street with five or six others in hot pursuit. 
Curious, Arthur exerted his will to divert the attention of the occupants
of a nearby police cruiser and joined in the chase.

   None of the pursuers had the traits he was looking for.  One by one,
they dropped back with bewildered looks on their faces until Arthur was the
only one left.  Reaching out with his mind, he touched the memories of the
pursued.

   Proponents of nurture over nature had never met Paul McGillacutte.  Born
in a small, predominantly Southern Baptist town, he had been raised by
loving and attentive parents.  Grace had been said before each meal, and
prayers were mandatory at bedtime.  Enrolled in Sunday school at the age of
four, he had been an altar boy by the time he was eight.  He had never been
abused, neglected or molested.  In fact, as far as Arthur could tell, all
of the teachers and priests in the boy's life had been dedicated and
caring.

   At the age of three, his favorite game had been to pull the wings from
flies or the legs off grasshoppers.  At the ripe old age of eight, he had
moved up to neighbors' pets.  At the age of twelve he was sent to juvenile
detention after being caught red handed skinning a neighbor's dog while the
beast still lived.

   When he was thirteen, he had strangled one of his fellow detainees while
the other boy slept.  He had done so for no better reason than wanting to
watch him die.  As there hadn't been sufficient evidence to link Paul to
the crime, he had gone free at fifteen.

   He had immediately run away from home and come here.  In the eight years
since then, he had scratched out a living by robbing convenience stores,
mugging pedestrians, and stealing cars.

   He wouldn't describe himself in such terms, his vocabulary limited by
juvie hall academics, but he was an anarchist and a nihilist.  He was
violent, amoral and sadistic.  Although his head was shaved beneath the
black wool cap he wore on his head, he was by no means a skinhead.  He
hated everyone and everything, but had an especially dark place reserved in
his black little heart for those who shared his race and religion.  In
short, he was everything Arthur was looking for and more.

   When Paul, near the end of his endurance, cut through an alley, Arthur
overtook him with a small burst of speed and sent him tumbling to the
ground.  Paul rolled over on his back, struggling to fill lungs ravaged by
years of crack, tobacco and marihuana abuse with much needed air.

   "Who the fuck are you?  You weren't at the bar," he gasped.

   "My name is Arthur, and I am the one who is going to grant your deepest
wish," Arthur said as he closed the gap between them.

   The contaminants and pollutants in Paul's blood left a foul aftertaste
in Arthur's mouth.  When the deed was done, Arthur wiped the smears of his
own blood from Paul's face.  Tucking the body under his arm, he carried the
awkward package to his fledglings' apartment.

   One of the fledglings, Marine Sergeant Enrique Lopez, was home.  He
jumped to his feet and stood at attention when Arthur entered the room.

   "At ease, Sergeant," Arthur said with a chuckle.  "There is no need for
such formalities among us.  How are you this evening?"

   "Good, sir," Lopez answered, his stance relaxing only slightly.  "Phil,
one of the new recruits and I each brought another police officer into the
fold tonight.  One of the other new recruits attempted to do so, but the
man he selected didn't rise."

   Arthur vaguely recalled that 'Phil' was the other soldier he had sent to
the city.

   "I'm sorry to hear that," Arthur replied, amused by the euphemisms the
men had already devised to cloak the actions that pricked at their
conscience.  "Do you need any assistance in taking care of the evidence?"

   "No, sir.  One of the recruits has a fishing boat.  Every time we
accumulate three or four, uh, unfortunate incidents, we load them into big
coolers and take them out to the middle of the bay."

   Arthur nodded solemnly.  "An effective solution to a difficult problem.
Very good.  Do any of the new, ah, recruits, have experience with
explosives?"

   "Not yet, sir, but the one that Phil recruited tonight was a member of
the city's bomb disposal unit."

   "Excellent.  Once he has fed and is oriented, have him come here,"
Arthur instructed and then, with a gesture at Paul, added, "If this one
rises, I want him trained in the use of weapons and explosives."

   Lopez examined Phil critically.  "With all due respect, sir, what place
could someone like him have in the new world?"

   Carefully keeping his face and emotions neutral, Arthur replied, "As I
said before, to bring about the new world we must tear down the old.  This
man, and those he will recruit, will take care of some of the more unsavory
tasks needed to do that.  Things that we shouldn't sully our hands with. 
He and his kind will not have a place once the new world is born.  Now, if
you'll excuse me, I need to go find him something to eat."

   Lopez nodded, his remaining doubts and reservations quelled by Arthur's
deft manipulations of his thoughts.

   Several hours later, when Paul's eyes again popped open, he found
himself supine on a bathroom floor.  Arthur was standing over him, his hand
on the shoulder of a kneeling, trembling derelict.  Ignoring the man who
had bitten him, all of Paul's attention focused on the dirty drunk. 
Although he could still smell the reek of cheap wine, urine and sour body
odor, those odors were overwhelmed by the most wonderful scent he had ever
experienced.  Instinctively, he lunged forward, his fangs extending as his
jaw gaped wide.  He screamed out his pleasure as the man's hot blood
bubbled down his throat.

   When he was through, Arthur guided him out to the living room were two
other men were waiting for them.

   Turning to face him, Arthur said, "Paul, this is Sergeant Lopez and
Police Sergeant Ryan.  They are going to teach you how to use an automatic
weapon and blow things up.  Do your best to learn quickly.  Time is short."

   He then leaned in to whisper additional instructions in Paul's ear. 
When he pulled back, a wide grin was spread across Paul's face, the first
genuine smile that he'd had in years.

   Chapter 18 November Twenty-fourth

   Maria collected the keys for a cruiser from Dispatch and headed toward
the motor pool.  She had only gone a few steps when Adam brushed past her
with a chilly glare that held so much recrimination it made her flinch. 
With a sigh, she watched him vanish around a corner.  She had made more
than a few attempts to apologize, and, by now at least, he should know that
she hadn't had any choice.  He had refused to hear her out.

   She sighed again and continued to the station's motor pool, which,
despite the title, was nothing more than an open air parking lot behind the
main building.  In the middle of the lot, she stopped and inhaled deeply,
taking in the scent of cheesesteak and Sicilian tomato pie from the corner
sandwich shop a few blocks down the street.  Two of her favorite things
that she would never get to enjoy again.

   She had just located her assigned vehicle when a authoritative voice
sounded behind her, "Officer Ramirez!  May I speak to you for a minute,
please?"

   Maria turned and waited for the man in the cheap but reasonably well
tailored suit to approach.  A detective's badge was prominently displayed
over the front of his belt.  He was young, relatively short and fit.  He
also had that odd look of uncertainty mixed with arrogance that practically
screamed that he had gotten his rank through a program at a community
college rather than by earning it in the streets.  Around the station,
there was a running joke about such programs: "Instant detective, just add
one asshole and let simmer for two years."

   When he got close, he offered her his hand and said, "I'm Detective
Cooper with Internal Affairs.  I'm the lead investigator in the matter
involving the disappearance of Officers Clay and Newton.  I understand that
you may have had contact with them shortly before they vanished.  May I ask
you a few questions?"

   When she took his proffered hand, he squeezed a little too hard in a
classic display of machismo.  She was unable to resist returning the
handshake with just a hint of her new strength.  Although her act was
subtle enough that it was unlikely to elicit real suspicion, she still felt
a twinge of pain for the minor violation of the rule against drawing
attention to herself.  She decided that the pain was worth it when he broke
the handshake prematurely and tried to discretely flex and shake his hand
behind his back.

   She knew what had happened to the subjects of his investigation, of
course.  Between them, she and Adam had lured more than twenty of the
district's steady night shift officers off alone.  Of those, Clay and
Newton had been the only two who hadn't returned from the dead.  The only
two from the Fourth District, anyway.  As of last night, there were nearly
thirty across the twenty-two other districts of the Philadelphia police
department.

   She pushed down the wave of guilt and remorse that flooded through her,
and gave the vague and ambiguous answers to Cooper's questions that Wilson
had prepared for just such an occasion.

   She could see the frustration in his face as she evaded his questions.
He was still new enough to the job to retain the ridiculous notion,
inspired by too many prime time police dramas, that any crime could be
solved in an hour, even with commercial breaks.

   Tucking the card he had left her into her pocket, she started her
monotonous warehouse patrol route.  Shortly after she began, she called
Wilson on her cell phone and gave the prearranged code word to let him know
that she needed to talk to him in person.  This probably demonstrated
excessive paranoia, but, on the other hand, cell phone conversations
weren't very difficult to tap.

   Wilson - Harris couldn't trouble himself to get involved in such minutia
- met her behind the Dockside Refrigerated Warehouse and listened carefully
as she reported her conversation with the Detective.  His subsequent
instructions were brief and to the point.  Right from the beginning, Harris
had told her that she was to obey Wilson's commands as long as there was no
conflict with his own.  So, as usual, she had no choice but to obey.

   Shortly before her shift was scheduled to end, she took out Detective
Cooper's card and called the home number he had printed on the back.

   He answered sleepily, "Hello?"

   "Detective Cooper, this is Officer Ramirez.  I'm sorry to wake you, but
I do have information on Newton and Clay.  I'm really scared.  What
happened to them could happen to me, too.  This goes so deep that I don't
know who to trust, but you seemed so strong and capable that I think that
maybe I can trust you.  I can't talk about it over the phone.  You'll
understand why when we speak in person.  Could you meet me at my apartment
in half an hour?  Alone?"

   As Wilson had assured her, the young Detective was ready to believe
ambiguous conspiracy allegations.  The generous massaging of his ego sealed
his fate.

   She arrived at her apartment with only a few minutes to spare.  The
place was covered in dust: she was required to spend most of her days in
the basement of the house that Harris and Wilson had commandeered from
another of the 'recruits.' Hopefully, the Detective wouldn't notice.

   When she invited him in, she could smell his excitement.  He was so
certain that what he was about to receive would put his career on the fast
track.  The look of surprise on his face when her knee slammed into his
groin was almost comical.  Unable to make a sound louder than a whimper, he
collapsed to the floor.  Several minutes later, she carried his limp, pale
body to her couch.

   "You're getting good at luring men to their doom," Adam said coldly from
her doorway.

   He had been sent as backup, to make certain that Cooper, and anyone he
might have brought with him, did not escape.  Based on the fact that Adam
was standing at his ease in her door, Maria guessed that the Detective had
been foolish enough to come alone.

   "Adam, I said that I was sorry.  I don't know what else you want from
me," Maria replied tiredly.

   "You're sorry.  Yeah.  Somehow, I don't think Hallmark makes a sympathy
card that covers seducing a guy so your friends can kill him and turn him
into a damn vampire."

   She had always been hot blooded, and his comment sent her temper
flaring. "Do you think I wanted to do it?" she yelled.  "You've done the
same thing.  Did you want to?  So they drained you and turned you into a
vampire.  Cry me a river, poonta.  Did Harris rape you first?  Did he stick
his dick in that too tight ass of yours?  Did he make you give your child
away?  No.  I don't think so.  Get over yourself or get out. ...  Actually,
just get out."

   In case he had trouble finding the way from his position in front of the
door, she pointed it out to him.

   He stood silently, refusing to meet her eyes.  "Is that true?  Did he
really do ...  those things to you?" he finally asked quietly, the chill
gone from his voice.

   Still pointing, Maria nodded.

   Looking down at his feet, Adam said, "I'm sorry, Maria.  I ...  I didn't
know.  You spend so much time with Harris that I thought you were a willing
participant.  I've been a dick, and I'm so sorry."

   "Yes.  You have been a dick," she replied icily.

   He offered his hand and said contritely, "If you can forgive me, I would
like for us to start over.  Hi, my name's Adam and I would like to be your
friend."

   She stared at his hand for a moment before relenting and giving it a
short, sharp shake.

   Taking a deep calming breath, an act that still worked surprisingly well
despite the fact that she no longer needed oxygen, she turned to face the
body on her couch.

   "Think he'll rise before dawn?" she asked as if the confrontation had
not occurred.

   "No, dawn's only an hour away.  He'll be out until dusk.  I'll take care
of getting him his meal.  It's the least I can do.  Again, Maria, I am
sorry for treating you like I have."

   Maria nodded in reply.  It was a start.

   Chapter 19 November Twenty-fourth

   Tom brought the car to a stop at the end of a dirt driveway.

   "Is this the right place?" he asked.

   Mia checked the list of nearby sex offenders that Dana had compiled for
them from the Megan's law website.  The address on the mailbox in front of
their car was the third on their list.  The first hadn't been home.  The
second's "crime" had turned out to be urinating behind a tree at a family
reunion picnic.  A police officer had happened to drive by at that
inopportune moment and arrested him for indecent exposure.  Because
children had been present in the campground and could have potentially seen
his genitals (although none actually had), his momentary minor lapse of
judgment had landed him on the life shattering sex offender list.  It had
left Tom fuming, both because of the time they had wasted finding his
secluded home, and the inappropriate and overly expansive use that was
being made of the sex offender designation.

   "This is it," she replied.

   Tom had been uncomfortable about using the list from the get go.  It was
one thing to take the life of someone who had recently committed a violent
crime and likely would again.  It was quite another to invade the home of a
person whose crimes had been committed years before and who had already
paid their debt to society.  They had little choice, however.

   Mia's injury had proven to be far more crippling than its size would
indicate.  She was incapable of walking even a short distance without
assistance, and her few attempts to hop along on one foot had each ended
with her falling to the ground in agony.  They had considered having Tom
carry her on the hunt, but doing so would certainly draw attention from
everyone in the vicinity, including those well outside the range of her
mental powers.  They would be seen, and they would be remembered.

   Tom drove the car up the driveway to the front of the rust streaked
trailer, and parked next to an old Firebird that sat on two flat tires and
four cement blocks.  Before he could exit the vehicle, the door of the
trailer flew open.  The man that emerged had more in common with a bear
than a human.  Well over three hundred pounds, his heavily furred chest,
arms and back were clearly visible under the bib overalls that, as far as
the pair could tell, was all that he was wearing.  A broad billed hat sat
askew on his incongruously bald head.  He brandished a baseball bat
threateningly.

   His long, thick beard quivering with anger, he shouted, "I've told yunz
before!  Just leave me be!  I done did my ten years in the pen.  Ain't that
enough?"

   Mia stared at him for a moment before turning to give Tom a short nod.
He immediately exited the car and approached the man while holding up his
wallet.

   "It's ok, sir.  We're with the police," Tom said, hoping the titan
didn't look close enough to see that all Tom was displaying was a driver's
license.  "We're here about the last complaint you called in."

   "'Zat so?" the man asked suspiciously, but he lowered the bat to his
side.  "Sure took yunz long enough."

   "Sorry, sir, but we've had a huge backlog," Tom said as he stepped
close.

   "It's just the damn kids won't leave me be, so they won't," the man
grumbled.  The anger had left him completely, and he slumped dejectedly.

   The air exploded from his lungs, and he fell to his knees as Tom's fist
drove into his diaphragm.  He could only struggle feebly as Tom locked him
into a full nelson and dragged him to Mia's side of the car.

   The struggles ceased altogether as Mia gazed down upon him, her large,
liquid eyes filled with sympathy.  He merely grunted as her claw opened his
throat.  Just before the end, she raised her head and planted a single kiss
on his brow; her lips warm and moist from his blood.

   "Rest easy, Billy," she said softly before she returned to feeding.

   "What was that all about?" Tom asked curiously as he lowered the body to
the snow covered ground.

   "He knew death had come for him, and he chose to accept it," she
answered.

   That wasn't the whole truth, but there was already too much guilt
flowing from Tom's end of the bond for her to burden him with more.  Billy
had been guilty of the crime for which he had been sent to prison.  On
numerous occasions, at the age of nineteen, he had intercourse with a
fourteen year old girl.  After they had been discovered, he had confessed
and pled guilty to multiple counts of a crime that his society deemed
particularly heinous.  What the court never took into account, what the law
forbade from being considered, was that he had loved her, and, if his
memories were any indication, she had returned the emotion.

   The sad part was that, in the village in which Mia had grown up over a
hundred and fifty years before, their relationship wouldn't have been
unusual.  Most young women had already been married for more than a year at
Billy's paramour's age.

   After Billy's imprisonment, his despondent young lover had run away from
home and, several years later, had died from heroin overdose.  The years
since had been long, lonely ones for Billy.  He had not only accepted the
impending death that he had seen when he met Mia's eyes, he had welcomed
it.

   Her claw hovered over Billy's forehead for a long moment.  In the end,
it dipped and quickly etched the words "Child Molester" instead of the four
very different words that Mia felt would be more appropriate: "Wrong Time.
Wrong Place."

   Chapter 20

   November Twenty-fourth

   John Duckworth exited the 7-Eleven carrying a large Slurpee and a
quarter pound big bite.  Not exactly healthy, but he should have plenty of
time for a four or five mile run before he had to be back at the White
House for tomorrow's shift.  Besides, it was hard to work up the ambition
to cook a healthy meal at home when he was working night shift.

   There was a police cruiser parked next to his Honda Civic, a uniformed
officer seated on the hood.  A middle aged man in a suit was sitting in the
passenger side of the cruiser.  He gave John a broad wink and a crooked
smile before the officer greeted John by name.

   "Agent Duckworth of the Secret Service?" the officer asked.

   "Yes," John answered, mystified by what the local police might want with
him.

   "I'm Sergeant Ryan of the Washington P.D.  Would you be willing to come
with us for a few minutes?"

   "What's this about?"

   "Really, sir, it would be easier to show you than it would be to explain
it.  You're not in any trouble or anything like that.  Something has
occurred that is in your area of expertise, and we would like to get your
opinion if it's not too much trouble."

   John's master's thesis in criminal psychology had been on the obsessive
compulsive tendencies of serial killers.  He was both intrigued by the
officer's request and flattered that someone was actually aware that he had
an area of expertise.  While he was surprised that his Special Agent in
Charge hadn't called to give him a heads up, it wasn't enough to raise his
suspicions.

   "Sure, why not?" he replied.

   He got into the back of the cruiser after Sergeant Ryan opened the door
for him.

   As he was fastening his seat belt, the middle aged man twisted around
and introduced himself through the thick wire screen, "It's a pleasure to
meet you, Agent Duckworth.  My name is Arthur."

   Chapter 21 November Twenty-seventh

   Arthur entered the farmhouse after an absence of several days to find
Jean and Woodard playing chess while Dorothy and Huffhamner watched.  Susan
was nowhere in sight, but he could sense her presence nearby.  All eyes
turned to follow him as he walked across the room, and he nearly laughed at
the notable increase in tension.

   Without preamble he asked, "May I speak to you for a moment in private,
Jean?"

   As he rose to his feet, Jean slid his queen across the board. 
"Checkmate, mon ami," he said lightly, "but you are improving.  Next time
you will beat me, non?"

   After following Arthur out onto the porch he asked guardedly, "Oui?"

   Turning to face him, Arthur said, "During my appointment the other
night, I learned that an old associate of yours, Himmler, may have had a
collection of ancient clay tablets.  Would you know anything of this?"

   Staggering backwards as if from a physical blow, Jean replied slowly,
"It was not Himmler, a man who I never met, who had the tablets, but
Fraulein Lieber, the monster also known as Amunet."

   His eyes glittering with interest, Arthur said, "Show me."

   Long buried memories pushed abruptly to the surface, and Jean found
himself back in Boulogne-Billancourt, just outside the center of Paris. 
During the first year of the German occupation, Jean, then a wealthy and
petulant young man of leisure, had played at the game of resistance, mostly
by providing an occasional safe house for his more ambitious and dedicated
countrymen.

   The resistance had been a thorn in the Germans' side.  So much so that,
in mid-1941, Amunet, grand mistress of the Ahnenerbe, popularly called the
Bureau of the Occult, was sent to root them out.  She arrived in the dead
of night and promptly moved herself and several truck loads of possessions
into a home that had previously been the residence of a prominent Jewish
businessman.  The following night, she had walked through Jean's front
door, and, without saying a word, had taken him for her own.

   He had never understood why Amunet, who had once intimated that, as a
child, she had watched Cleopatra's pleasure barge cruise the Nile, had not
simply exterminated them all immediately.  He had no doubt whatsoever that
she had possessed the power to do so.  Instead she had collected a number
of minor players, like him, and forced them to perform a variety of
seemingly innocuous acts.  He still often wondered if she had been playing
a game of espionage so deep as to be beyond his comprehension, or if nearly
two thousand years of life had robbed her of her sanity and reason.

   The memories of the next year sped by in a blur, as Arthur skimmed
through the abuses and tortures that Amunet had inflicted on Jean's body
and mind.  They only slowed on those few occasions when she had shown him
her prize possessions: the tablets that she kept wrapped in layers of silk
and burlap and sealed in heavy steel chests.  She had claimed that they
contained the secrets of life itself, and had shown them to him not out of
any affection, but to emphasize how pointless opposition to the regime she
served was.

   On the evening of March 3, 1942, she had summoned Jean and those like
him to her mansion, a common occurrence.  Well after midnight, he had been
crawling down the basement stairs, seeking a dark corner in which to curl
up while his latest set of injuries healed, when he heard the drone of
aircraft overhead.  The world had exploded around him, and he had been
buried as the floors above him collapsed.  He had still been struggling to
free himself when dormancy claimed him.

   It had taken a good part of the following night to extricate himself
from the rubble, a task made exceedingly difficult by the fact that his
left forearm had been exposed to sunlight while he slept.  He had emerged
into chaos.

   Hundreds of his countrymen still scoured the area, searching for
survivors both in the remains of the nearby Renault factory that had been
the Briton's true target and in the surrounding neighborhoods that had been
the victims of the poor accuracy of the time's munitions.  Cradling the
blackened, skeletal remains of his hand, he had poked through the ruins
until he found her; the corpse only recognizable by the heavy silver ankh
she had worn around her neck.

   The multiple bomb blasts had torn apart the walls of the house which, in
turn, had skewered her with hundreds of shards of wood.  They had held her
paralyzed until the rising sun had found her.  The others she had created
had died around her, their torment and miseries brought to a merciful end.

   Jean paid the scant remnants of his fellows no attention as he pulled
her charred remains from the ash and rubble and gleefully decapitated her.
Horrible, croaking laughter had emerged from his throat and continued
despite all of his efforts to quell it.  By sheer accident and
happenstance, the Brits had struck a far more fearsome blow against the
Third Reich than they would ever know.

   His countrymen had found him kneeling over the barely recognizable body
of a known German agent.  They had mistaken his emotional outburst for
something quite different than what it was.  With whispered accusations of
collaboration, several had drawn sidearms and shot him in the chest.  What
was one more body among hundreds, especially when that one was a traitor?

   The force of the bullets striking him had thrown him onto his back.  He
had stayed in that position while they poked him, prodded him and checked
him for a pulse.  When all was quiet, he stood and ran.  As he exited the
ruins, he had come across several of her treasure chests.  One of the bombs
must have landed squarely in their midst: they had been burst asunder;
their contents reduced to a fine dust.

   Jean blinked his eyes slowly as he returned to the present.  Arthur had
turned away from him to lean with his hands on the porch railing.  The old
wood, covered with layer upon layer of paint, splintered in his grasp as he
vented his frustration.

   "Thank you, Jean, that was most ...  informative," Arthur said, his
voice low and tightly controlled.  "Now I have another task for you.  One
for which you are particularly well suited.  While in the city, I happened
to cross the path of a woman.  One who has such potential that I would like
for her to join us voluntarily."

   Jean listened closely as Arthur outlined the assignment and then
dismissed Jean with a wave.

   Returning to the house's interior, Arthur addressed the other
fledglings, "I can feel that you're all hungry.  Shortly, we'll ride over
to Ashburn and get you fed." With a nod toward Woodard and Huffhamner, he
continued, "First, however, I want the two of you to make a list of the
names and locations of the individuals who are most likely to be put in
overall command should the nation be attacked on its own soil."

   As the men scrambled to do his bidding, his eyes turned to Susan, who
had returned to the living room while he had been speaking with Jean. 
Pulling a small paper bag from his pocket, he held it up and shook it,
making the contents jingle musically.

   "While they're doing that, my dear, why don't we adjourn to one of the
bedrooms so I can give you some more presents?" he asked with a malicious
grin.

   When they emerged from the bedroom a little more than an hour later,
Susan had new rings adorning her lips, nose, navel and labia.  Arthur's
amusement soured at Dorothy's look of silent condemnation.  He was still
considering planting her alongside her beloved felines and not so beloved
spouse when Woodard and Huffhamner presented him with the list.  There were
many more names than he expected, and a number of them were in Iraq,
Afghanistan or Europe.

   As Woodard drove them to Ashburn, Arthur made calls to his agents in
Jerusalem, Mecca and Berlin to modify their orders.  Several ideas occurred
to him as he spoke, and he ended up making far more modifications than
expected.  When he finally tucked his phone away, he ignored the disgust
and horror that flowed through the bonds that connected him to Woodard and
Huffhamner.

   Chapter 22 December Sixth

   "I really thought I was going to be able to stay away that time,"
Balathu murmured, his mental voice weak from exertion.  His form shimmered
and blurred as his exhausted mind struggled to maintain the minimal
concentration needed to hold it steady.

   Across from him, Lei sat cross legged, her image as solid and certain as
always.

   With a crooked smile, she replied, "You are improving, Balsam, but Rome
was not built in a day."

   Each night they spent two subjective weeks in traditional instruction,
which, because they did not need to break for rest or food, was the
equivalent of months of training in the physical world.  They then spent
another subjective day doing what Lei referred to as "exercising his will."
This consisted of him trying to move away from the house while she held him
there.  He had come to believe that it was also intended as a lesson in
humility.

   At the end of each session, like now, Lei permitted him to ask any
question he wanted, although she continued to refuse to discuss the alleged
impending disaster.  As he cleared his metaphysical throat, she raised an
eyebrow expectantly.

   "Why blood?" he asked.  When her lips pursed in confusion, he
elaborated, "You've told me enough about the Outsider that I know that it
doesn't feed on bodily fluids, but, instead, directly drains the life
energy from its victims.  So why do you feed on blood?"

   "The short answer to your question is that it was the result of a
mistake.  You must understand that much of my nature was established by
conscious volition and careful planning.  I and the other zi masters knew
that the Outsider required life energy to sustain it, and that the hybrid
creature that resulted from the fusion would need the same.  We also knew
that, as it was, the human body was ill equipped to provide such
sustenance: most of the zi is long gone from the dead things we eat and
what little there is passes right through our digestive systems.

   "This is where our ignorance came into play.  You see, at the time, we
did not define life as science does now in terms of growth, the ability to
reproduce, metabolic activity, and the like.  Rather, we equated it with
movement, as that was the only way we could reconcile the life we knew was
in animals and plants with the facts that the flowing rivers teemed with
zi, and the stuff of life floated on the breeze.  We had no concept of
microscopic organisms.  We had no idea that the zi that we saw in the
rivers and the wind did not belong to those things, but to the bacteria,
algae and other single celled life that filled them.

   "Because of our erroneous belief, we assumed that the blood, which was
always moving, was the seat of the zi within our bodies.  Therefore, we
designed incantations that would make the human-Outsider hybrid able to
feed only on bodily fluids.  Unfortunately, we were wrong.  There is some
zi in the blood, of course, as it contains living cells, but not nearly
enough to sustain us.  It is not until the body is drained unto death that
the zi that fills it loosens its hold on the vessel enough for us to absorb
it."

   "Why not just use whatever the Outsider had that allowed it to feed?"
Balathu asked curiously.

   "Mainly because the Outsider can drain all of the life from thousands at
a time with little more than a thought," Lei answered grimly.  "We decided
that it would be best not to trust such power to the hands of any former
human."

   "Yes, I can see how that could be a bad thing," was his muted reply.

   After a brief silence, he asked, "What about the sexual effects of
feeding?  Were those also planned?"

   With a musical laugh, Lei replied, "Not at all.  It was a side effect of
the fusion.  Not everything that I am now came from the Outsider; much came
from me as well.  Humans are very sexual creatures.  We are so proud of our
sentience, but consider how we use it.  Think about how much thought is
dedicated to planning romantic conquests or on sexual fantasies.  Even the
non-sexual activities in which we engage are, more often that not,
ultimately motivated by sex.  Although they rarely admit it even to
themselves, most people who seek fame and fortune do so not for the sake of
having those things in and of themselves, but to increase the quantity and
quality of their sexual encounters.  At our core, we are still animals
driven by the basest of instincts.  It should be of no surprise to you that
this fundamental part of our nature found expression in and was amplified
by the fusion with the Outsider."

   Seeing his skeptical look, Lei laughed again.  "What?  You think that I
am too cold and calculating to be a sexual being?" She fixed him with a
smokey stare.  "Were we here in the flesh, I would show you just how wrong
you are."

   Balathu was appalled by the rush of desire that her words inspired,
desire so intense it threatened to overwhelm the proper and natural horror
he felt at the thought of physical intimacy with an abomination.  Lei
exploded with laughter at his reaction.

   Looking for an excuse to change the subject, he turned his attention to
the physical occupants of the home who were sitting around the kitchen
table.  He concentrated briefly to return his perception of time to normal.

   Mia was knitting again, this time a blanket.  Her skill had improved,
and her hands moved with the speed and precision of a machine.  Her leg,
now encased in an air cast, was stretched out stiffly in front of her and
propped up on a chair.  As far as he could tell, there had been little
improvement in the injury.  He was surprised by the amount of guilt that he
felt.

   Tom was leaning forward with his elbows on the table.  His face filled
with longing, he watched intently as Dana ate a cheeseburger and a salad.

   Grinning mischievously, Dana, who was very conscious of her audience,
rolled her eyes with exaggerated pleasure each time she took a bite, and
punctuated each mouthful by smacking her lips with a loud, "Mmmmm." She
chuckled evilly as Tom muttered something about Renfield having never been
so cruel to his vampire.

   "She's really not held in thrall, is she?" Balathu asked.

   "Only by the normal ties of love, affection and friendship."

   "All things that I was taught that ab...  vampires couldn't feel."

   "We have the ability.  What most of us lack is the inclination."

   "But why?  Those are the things that make life worth living."

   Lei was silent for a long time, and, when she replied, there was a
bitter edge to her voice.  "Watch everything you love turn to dust in what
seems like little more than an instant, not once but a hundred times over,
and see how inclined you are to love again.  I think we are done for the
night, Balsam.  Return to your body and rest."

   With a wave of her hand, he found himself back in the cave.  As his
physical senses returned, a wave of heat assailed him.  The air in the cave
was still moist, but was now hot rather than merely warm.  In the dim light
of the lantern, he could see that Iltana was inverted with her shoulders
and elbows resting on the thick layer of moss that now coated the floor and
her hips propped up on her hands.  Her legs were bicycling rapidly in the
air.  They were doing their best to maintain muscle tone, but the low
ceiling of the cave limited their choices of exercise.

   Because of the heat, she was wearing nothing but her panties; modesty
had not long survived their confinement in such close quarters.  He watched
the firm muscles of her buttocks alternately flex and relax until he could
hear his heart thudding in his chest.

   She must have heard his breathing become heavy because she glanced in
his direction.  Seeing that he was back, she smiled and rolled gracefully
to her feet.  His heart beat even faster at the sight of her breasts
bouncing slightly with her motion.

   She strolled slowly over to kneel behind him where she started rubbing
his shoulders and back, loosening muscles made stiff by several hours
without any movement.  Sighing with pleasure, he leaned back into her
hands.

   "Welcome back," she said, a hint of laughter in her voice.  "What did
the wicked, old witch teach you tonight?"

   "We went over what I did with the moss, and I think I know where I went
wrong when I altered it to generate heat.  I should be able to fix it."

   "Great!  When the kerosene heater ran out of fuel, I never thought that
I would have to worry about being cooked medium well."

   He winced.  "Sorry."

   She cuffed him gently on the back of the head.  "I'm just joking with
you.  I'd much rather be sweaty than frozen."

   She returned to rubbing his back for a few minutes before asking
hesitantly, "Did you ask her about ...  the other thing?"

   "Yes.  I hate to tell you this, but she said that I still have a long
way to go before I can manage bioluminescence.  Well...  actually what she
said was, 'Any idiot can make a simple life form tap into the zi and
convert it into general energy for heat, but it takes a master to channel
it along the fine line between light and conflagration.'"

   "What does that mean?"

   "That if I try it before I'm truly ready, I'm more likely to make it
burst into flame than give us light."

   Her hands came to a stop, and he could hear more than a trace of fear in
her voice as she said quietly, "We only have one more set of batteries
after the ones that are in the lantern die."

   He shared her concern.  The lantern ate through batteries alarmingly
fast, even on the lowest setting.  The thought of being entombed in
absolute darkness gave him nightmares.  Lacking the ability to escape with
projection, it would have to be even worse for her.

   He reached up to give her hand a reassuring squeeze.  "I'm learning
fast. I'm sure I'll figure it out in time." He immediately wished that he
had been able to instill his voice with more confidence.

   She wrapped her arms around his chest and laid the side of her face
against the back of his head.  As she hugged him tight, he could feel her
breasts squash up against his shoulders.  To his shame, he could feel
himself becoming erect despite the circumstances.

   "Promise me that you will.  I don't think I could keep my sanity if
everything was just black all the time," she whispered, her breath tickling
his ear.

   Clasping her hands in his, he replied fervently, "I promise." He hoped
he could keep it.

   He held her hands until the touch of her skin against his became too
much to endure.  Releasing her, he stood abruptly.

   "You were working out pretty hard.  Could your back use a little
massage?" he asked.

   Her lips were twisted with a mixture of amusement and frustration, but
all she said was, "I've never turned down a back rub."

   They quickly switched positions, and he started to work the tension from
her shoulders and mid back.  The feel of her soft, sweat moistened skin
beneath his fingers did nothing to ease his condition.

   "Mmm, that feels good," she sighed contentedly after a few minutes. 
"You can do my front, too, if you want."

   His body stiffened, and his hands came briefly to a stop before
continuing their ministrations.  "It wouldn't be proper," he said flatly.

   She was silent for more than a minute, chewing her lip in thought.  "Are
the members of your Order celibate?"

   "No!" he replied, scandalized.

   "Is it that you don't find me attractive?" she asked with a pout.

   "No...  I mean, yes...  I ...  I think you're very attractive."

   "Hmm, so not celibate or gay, just prudish.  I can work with that."

   The predatory undertones in her voice reminded him disturbingly of Lei.

   Chapter 23 December Seventh

   General Trevor Miller, USAF, downed a tumbler of Jack Daniels with a
grimace.  He then quickly refilled it and repeated the exercise, this time
using it to wash down a Plavix.  Alcohol, in copious quantities, was the
only thing that kept the guilt spawned nightmares at bay.  Once he deemed
himself to be sufficiently numbed, he walked wearily up the steps of his
on-base house.  He could easily afford a much nicer place off base, but
there wasn't any point any more.  With his wife gone, all that mattered was
getting the job done.

   In his bedroom, he readied his service dress uniform for the following
day.  He allowed his aide to shine his shoes, but he had always preferred
to do this himself.  He made certain that the numerous ribbons in his rack
were in place and then shined each of the eight stars before pinning them,
four to a side, on the shoulder boards.  When he was finished, he walked
over to stare out the window for a moment, but there was rarely anything
worth seeing in Omaha, Nebraska.

   With a despondent sigh, he set his alarm and crawled beneath the cold
covers.  His hand reached out to run over the slight depression in the
mattress that marked where his wife had slept; where she should still be
sleeping.  If only he hadn't...  He cut off that line of thought with a
grimace.  All the remorse and tears in the world couldn't bring her back,
and he couldn't afford to spend another sleepless night with nothing but
his guilt ridden conscience for company.

   Clutching a pillow to his chest, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to
will himself into slumber.  After a time, with the aid of the booze, he
succeeded.

   An indeterminable time later, he suddenly came awake when an icy breeze
blew across his face.  A dark shadow blocked the soft light from the
window. It moved closer until he was able to make out a gray haired man
with a young Asian woman riding his back like a child.

   He tried to reach for the Glock 9mm that he kept in his dresser, but
found he couldn't move.

   The man came to a stop a few feet from the edge of the bed.  The woman,
who he could now see was nude, unwrapped her legs from around the man's
waist and immediately dropped to all fours on the floor.  The man then
seated himself on her back and crossed one leg over the other.

   Appearing completely at ease, the man said, "Good evening, General
Miller, Commander of the United States Strategic Command.  My name is
Arthur.  Do not concern yourself overly much with the paralysis; there is
nothing wrong with your body and you have not been drugged.  Although it
hardly matters at this juncture, I feel that I should tell you that your
security is appallingly lax.  Reliance on patrols of armed men instead of
cameras leaves you vulnerable to my kind.

   "I am sure you are asking yourself why I am here.  Think of me as a
Marine recruiter, except instead of a few good men, I am only looking for
one.  Let us see if that might be you."

   Arthur leaned in close to Trevor's face, his eyes growing ever larger
until they encompassed the General's vision.  His life seemed to pass
before his eyes, and then Arthur leaned back with a disappointed sigh.

   "It is a shame about your wife.  Were she still alive, I might be able
to make use of you.  As things are, however, your devotion to your country
above all else and the little value you place on your own continued
existence make it unlikely that you would be willing to make the
compromises that I require, even with suggestions implanted.  What a pity."

   Arthur stood.  The woman immediately jumped up from the floor to
reattach herself to his back.  He climbed agilely out the window and,
clinging effortlessly to the sash with the fingertips of one hand, drew the
other down the torn screen, erasing the signs of forced entry.  Although no
one was touching it, the window closed, and there was a click as the lock
engaged.

   Arthur lowered himself until his eyes were level with the bottom of the
glass, and then looked up to meet the General's still frozen gaze.

   Every person has nightmares, phobias and shameful memories that they
lock away deep inside their subconscious.  Things that should not, must
not, be allowed to see the light of day.  Terrible things that would
threaten the bearer's sanity were they allowed their freedom.  Horrible
things that most only encounter when they wake up panting with their hearts
pounding in their chests, the nightmare already receding to a dim
recollection.  The General met his at that moment.

   He was suddenly behind the wheel of a car that he hadn't owned in nearly
a year.  Next to him, his wife was recounting the juicier bits of gossip
that she had picked up during the night's festivities.  Having had a few
martini's too many, he was driving faster than was prudent on the icy
Nebraska roads.

   He again experienced the sickening sensation of the tires losing
purchase, the throbbing of the pedal beneath his foot as the ABS brakes
fought to bring the heavy Lincoln to a stop, and the gut wrenching terror
as the car went over the edge of the hill and started to roll.

   Through the blood that was running into his eyes, he looked over at his
wife, yelling her name in desperation.  She was hanging limply, suspended
upside down by her seat belt.  Her neck was at an impossible angle.

   With a horrible grinding sound, her head twisted on that crooked neck
until her fixed and dilated pupils were staring at him through eyes that
were already starting to glaze.

   "I told you that you were drinking too much, Trevor," she rasped.  As
she spoke, a stream of bright red blood flowed from the corner of her
mouth, down along the side her nose to pool in the ridge of her eye socket.
"You wouldn't listen.  You never did.  You killed me."

   Before his eyes, she decayed.  Her skin split as the flesh beneath
swelled and putrefied.  Through the newly created gaps that oozed streams
of dark, foul fluid, he could see the squirming mass of thousands of fat
maggots.  Her cracked, shrunken lips pulled back to bare pearly white teeth
made seemingly huge by receding gums.  He could see her worm eaten tongue
wriggle as she struggled to form words.

   "You did this, Trevor.  You!" He recoiled from the fetid scent of rot
that was carried on her breath.

   Her cold, mushy, but still strong fingers closed around his throat.  He
struggled to pry them loose, but they might as well have been made of
steel. His vision grew dark.

   Suddenly, he was back in a car that he hadn't owned in nearly a year. 
Next to him, his wife was recounting...  The scene played over and over
again.  His heart beat faster and harder with each replay until it could
take no more.

   Arthur nodded slightly in satisfaction as the General's body heaved
convulsively upwards and then went still.  It would have been easier to
force the man to slit his own wrists or shoot himself with his home defense
weapon, but the extra effort had been worth it.  The more direct methods
would not have invoked nearly as much suffering and mental anguish, and it
was the little things, after all, that made the centuries worth living.

   Dropping to the ground, he ran towards the perimeter of Offutt Air Force
Base.  While tonight had been a disappointment overall, it had still been a
learning experience.  He hadn't taken Russia very seriously before, and the
nest of fledglings that he had in place in Moscow, like those in Europe,
was filling its ranks with those whose extreme wealth gave them a measure
of political power .

   General Miller had been an expert on the Russian military and its
strategy.  While the scenario of the United States being overrun with
vampires had never been specifically considered, it wasn't difficult to
extrapolate.  He couldn't very well allow his food to be burnt away by
nuclear fire.

   Soon, with Susan still on his back, he leaped over the perimeter fence
and ran the few miles to the place where he had left the car.  After he had
modified the orders of the fledglings in Moscow, he dug out a map and found
the quickest route to Little Rock, Arkansas.

   Several bodies had been discovered there the previous morning.  By the
time the fledglings had awakened that night, the investigation encompassed
too many people for them to simply 'recruit' those involved.  Fortunately,
the story had not been made public as of yet.  Arthur needed to get there
soon to root out the identities of all who were aware of the find and then
erase memories and destroy evidence.

   Such an event had been inevitable given the scale on which he was
operating.  With every day he waited, the likelihood that another would
occur increased dramatically, especially in the warm southern states where
the smell would keep the numerous mass graves from remaining a secret for
long.  He could only hope that he would be able to patch the holes in his
skiff quickly and thoroughly enough that no one would catch on to what was
happening until it was too late.

   He hadn't toiled so hard in centuries, but he did so love his work.

   Chapter 24 December Tenth

   "Yeah, that's it.  Ride that dick, baby," Harris murmured happily.

   Maria, who was straddling his hips facing him, let out a bored sigh,
but, as she must, continued to bounce up and down on top of him at a speed
that no mortal woman could match.  Occasionally, one of the cheeks of her
bottom smacked against the side of Angela's face.

   Tonight, Angela, another policewoman who'd had the misfortune of
striking Harris's fancy, had been assigned the odious task of laving his
testicles and anus with her tongue while Maria pleasured the rest of him.
Maria could feel the woman's disgust through the bond they shared, one of
ten that floated on the fringes of Maria's consciousness.  Well, eleven if
she counted the one connecting her to Harris.

   Despite having what Maria considered to be the worst of the assignments,
Angela occasionally reached up to run a hand soothingly and comfortingly
over Maria's lower back and buttocks.  Each time she did so, affection
flowed both ways through the bond.  Maria twisted around to give the other
woman a grateful smile, although their metaphysical connection rendered
such physical displays obsolete.  It still amazed her that despite
everything she had done to the woman, taking her life and turning her into
something less than human, Angela had become her friend.  That friendship
was one of the few bright spots in Maria's otherwise dismal existence.

   "Turn around, baby.  I want to watch your big, gorgeous ass bounce,"
Harris commanded.

   Maria stood and turned.  After waiting a second to allow Angela to
scramble out of the way, she crouched to again impale herself upon his
organ.  She lowered her head as her hips started to rise and fall, doing
her best to ignore the streams of people passing through the living room of
the house that Wilson and Harris had acquired.  Nearly all of the visitors,
whose attire marked them as police, utility company employees and hospital
workers, had come to see Wilson, who, in light of Harris's apathy, had
taken over the task of planning their expansion and eventual take over of
the city.

   She looked up again as a shadow fell over her.  One of the newest
recruits, the owner of a demolition company, had stopped to watch and then
stepped in for a closer look.  One of his hands still clutched the empty
canvas bag that he used to bring in the supplies of Semtex and
nitroglycerin that now filled one of the bathrooms to overflowing.  Despite
the man's assurances that the explosives were stable, their presence
terrified Maria.  Wilson had told her that someone from Washington, a guy
named Paul, would be coming to collect them soon, but, as far as she was
concerned, he couldn't get here fast enough.

   Harris extended a foot to prod Angela in the back.

   "Where are your manners, bitch?" he asked gruffly.  "Looking at you two
sluts made the man all horny, so it's only right that you help him out."

   Maria had to fight hard not to laugh at the scorn and contempt that
poured from Angela's bond.  Angela turned and they shared a little smile
before the other woman busied herself opening the explosive expert's
zipper.

   Maria watched with fascination as Angela took the man's entire cock
inside her mouth, her cheeks hollowing as she applied suction and then
occasionally bulging with the movements of her tongue.  Although the petite
brunette made no verbal protest, Maria could feel her annoyance as the man
took hold of the sides of Angela's head and began to drive himself
forcefully in and out of her mouth.

   Harris announced his approaching climax by spanking Maria's ass
repeatedly.

   "Beg me to fill you with my cum, baby," he ordered.

   Rolling her eyes disdainfully, Maria increased her pace as she uttered
the phrases which she had learned pushed his crude, primitive buttons.  She
couldn't bring herself to put any real emotion in her words, but he never
seemed to mind or even notice.

   "Oh, baby.  I want to feel you squirt deep inside me.  Please fill me up
with your hot cum."

   Even as the last word left her lips, she could feel him pulsing inside
her as he gave her what she had asked for.  Reaching forward, he took hold
of her breasts and used them as handles to pull her back until she was
lying on top of him.  She flinched as his teeth sank into her shoulder, and
then she was caught in the throes of her own orgasm.  She ground her hips
against his loins as they both screamed out their pleasure.

   When they were through, he continued to hold her there by her breasts,
pinching and mauling them crudely, as he hunched his hips upwards to thrust
his softening member into her a final few times.  She cringed in shame at
the thought of the obscene view that she was giving the still flowing
stream of visitors.

   Abruptly, he pushed her forward off his lap, and gave her a final smack
on her buttocks.  "What do you say, bitch?"

   Maria immediately spoke the phrase that had concluded all of their
nightly sessions.  "Thank you for your cum, Master."

   "That's a good fuck slave.  Lean back and spread your nasty pussy open
to show everyone what I gave you, baby, and then go get dressed.  You're
going to be late for work."

   After grabbing her uniform from one of the bedrooms, Maria hurried to
the bathroom that wasn't used as an explosive depot to clean herself up. 
She was only half dressed when Angela joined her.  Maria eyed her
fledgling's face for a moment before picking up a wad of toilet paper.

   "Let me get that for you," Maria said sympathetically as she wiped away
the greasy semen that was smeared across the other woman's cheeks and chin.


   As she did so, she sensed the rage and humiliation rising inside her
fledgling.  Emotions that matched her own.  Without any need for words, the
two women held each other tightly for a few minutes, each taking comfort
from the simple fact that there was another who shared in her ordeal and,
thus, understood.

   Maria ran out of the house a few minutes later, and stood waiting along
the curb.  Heavy black clouds blotted out most of the stars: it was looking
like there was going to be more snow added to the seven inches that were
already on the ground.  An unusually cool, wet summer had turned into an
early, bitterly cold and snowy winter.

   Less than five minutes later, Adam pulled up in front of her in his car.
She smiled as she approached the vehicle: after he had forgiven her for her
part in taking his life, they had become friends, and now that friendship
was blossoming into something more.

   Once inside, she leaned over to kiss him warmly and lingered to rest her
head on his shoulder.  He wrapped an arm around her comfortingly as he
started the drive toward the station.  She wished that they shared the
intimacy of the bond, but it had been Harris who had taken him.

   "Bad night?" he asked gently.

   "Actually, it wasn't as horrible as usual," she replied with a disgusted
sigh.  "The puta didn't make us do anything that was particularly
degrading, demeaning or painful tonight."

   After a moment's pause, she cried out, "Do you have any idea how it
makes me feel to be grateful that I was only raped?"

   He gave her shoulder a squeeze as he replied sadly, "No, I can't even
begin to imagine.  I'm so sorry, Maria."

   "It's not your fault.  I'm the one who pulled you into this mess."

   "I try to look on the bright side.  If it wasn't for the vampires, you
never would have agreed to go out with me."

   He grunted, more in surprise than pain, as her fist jabbed into his
ribs.

   "This is serious, Adam," she said fiercely.  "Don't try to laugh it off
with a joke."

   "Actually, I was being completely serious," Adam replied as he rubbed
his side gingerly.  "While I admit that I would rather be alive, I can't
think of a person I would rather be undead with than you."

   She studied his face and, once she realized that he really was being
sincere, leaned in to kiss him soundly on the cheek.  Clutching his arm
tightly to her chest, she returned her head to his shoulder.  They rode in
silence for a few minutes.

   "Do you think they ...  we'll actually be able to do what they're saying
we will?" she asked.

   "A week ago, I thought it was a pipe dream.  Now, I'm not so sure.  I
was listening to Harris and Wilson talking the other night, and there are
vampires in more than a hundred cities.  If we're as strong everywhere else
as we are here, it might just be possible.  There are more than five
hundred of us here already.  A week from now, there could be well over a
thousand."

   Nuzzling into his shoulder, she asked, "If everything turns out like
they say, what do you think the new world will be like?"

   "I guess that depends on whether there are more of us like Harris or
more like Wilson.  Wilson is already working on plans to limit civilian
casualties, to create a provisional city government, and to restore day
time law enforcement as quickly as possible.  He also has an outline put
together for the new justice system.  Although I don't think he's figured
out a way around the fact that none of us here can actually read minds, I
think that if there are a lot of us like him, things could work out okay.
On the other hand, if there are more like Harris, it would be hell on
Earth. I guess it sorta depends on us.  Well, people in our position,
anyway."

   "How so?"

   "Well, generally, we are the ones who decide who is going to be
recruited next.  If we stick to those we know we are good cops, we weigh
the scale on the Wilson side."

   "True, I guess.  Still, it's hard for me to pick out the good cops when
so few are rising."

   "Yeah, I know what you mean.  No matter what the Grand Poobah down in
D.C.  says, a drop from better than nine out of ten rising from the dead to
little more than half cannot just be a statistical anomaly.  Speaking of
which, I've been assigned to drive the van up to Allentown tonight to dump
the most recent batch of bodies down the ventilation shaft of that old coal
mine.  I hate to say it, but I'm going to have to take a rain check on our
date."

   She gave his hand a squeeze and looked at him with pity.  The task,
unpleasant under any circumstances, was made even more so by the deliberate
mutilation of the bodies to prevent easy identification.  More than a few
times she had been required to assist in removing teeth, shaving off
fingertips, and cutting off tattoos.

   As they were sitting at a traffic light, she raised her head again. 
"Why do you suppose we were suddenly ordered not to try to recruit daytime
protectors from the gangs and street criminals?"

   "I can only speculate.  It's my guess that there's no incentive for them
to help us.  If they join us and we lose, they'd most likely be eradicated
along with us.  If we win...  well, what could a world in which those
guilty of a crime are always caught and punished offer them?  I understand
that the D.C.  guy has an alternate plan, but he hasn't shared it yet."

   Their nostrils flared as the wind carried the familiar and delicious
scent of fear through Maria's half open window.  They quickly exchanged
glances.

   "We should investigate," Maria said firmly.

   Nodding his agreement, Adam pulled his car over to the side of the
street.  They followed the scent for more than a block, covering the
distance nearly as quickly as they could have in the car.

   The mugger was just standing back up from removing the victim's watch,
wedding ring and wallet when they rounded the corner to the alley in which
he had committed his crime.  The elderly male victim, the source of the
smell, was lying flat on his back.  The rapidly spreading blood stain on
his white, button down shirt showed that he had tried to resist and had
been stabbed or shot for his trouble.



   The mugger started with surprise when they appeared and immediately
turned to run.  He had only made it a few steps before Maria overtook him.
Although he was nearly a foot taller than she was and outweighed her by
more than a hundred pounds, she easily threw him down to the pavement.  As
she took a hunting knife from his belt and bent his arms behind his back to
put the cuffs on his wrists, he, too, began to exude the heady aroma of
fear.  Forcing her fangs to retract, she read him his rights.

   Adam was kneeling over the victim, whose pallid, clammy skin indicated
that he was in shock.  Maria could see the hunger in Adam's eyes, and his
fangs caused him to speak with a lisp as he calmly and soothingly assured
the unfortunate old man that help was there and he was going to be okay. 
He pulled the shirt aside and examined the injury.  Looking up to meet
Maria's eyes, he spit into his hand and rubbed the saliva deeply into the
wound.

   Maria used her radio to call for an ambulance as Adam took the greatly
recovered victim's name, address and phone number.  Once the paramedics had
come and gone, they marched the mugger back to the car.

   As they pushed him into the back seat, Adam said serenely, "See?  This
could work.  It all depends on people like us."

   When they walked into the station, their prisoner between them, Maria
felt resentment and anger pouring into her mind from one of the bonds. 
Following the direction she could sense from it with her eyes, she found
herself staring at Detective Cooper from Internal Affairs, the man who had
been investigating the initial disappearances among the city's police
force.

   At Wilson's command, she had lured him to her old apartment with a
promise of information, only to fall upon him as soon as he entered the
door.  The following night, Harris had assigned him to drive a van, loaded
full of those who hadn't risen, including the young officer who had been
the detective's first meal, to the old mine, and he had received the
knowledge that he had wanted.

   Unlike Angela and Adam, he hadn't forgiven her for what she had done,
and she couldn't blame him.  Averting her eyes to avoid his angry gaze, she
continued into the station; the hope that the time with Adam had given her
souring and fading to nothing.



   Chapter 25 December Eleventh

   Kelly Sullivan stormed out from under the glass archway that covered the
entrance to the CIA's headquarters at Langley.  She had just gotten word
that she had been passed over for promotion to the position of Deputy
Director in charge of the Near Eastern and South Asian Analysis Office of
the Intelligence Directorate.  Again.

   She had been recruited by the Company immediately after she had gotten
her masters in computer programming and electrical engineering, but they
had been far more interested in her language skills.  Having grown up in a
predominantly Arabic section of New York City, she was fluent in five of
the ten main dialects of Farsi, three of the five major dialects of Arabic,
and could speak the other dialects of both languages passably well.  She
could also muddle her way through Hindi and Turkish.  In addition to her
talent for tongues, she had a keen analytical mind and could piece together
an accurate picture of the plans and ambitions of others with only a few
solid bits of intelligence.

   As a result of those skills, she had risen rapidly through the ranks
during her first few years with the agency.  Then she had reached her
current position and hit the proverbial glass ceiling.  They had told her
to be patient, that she just needed more experience and seasoning, and that
eventually she would continue climbing the ladder.

   During the past eight years, the Deputy Director position had been
filled five times.  The first three times her immediate supervisor had
claimed the vacancy, often by taking credit for her work.  The last two
times, however, men who were less senior and less qualified than she was
had been selected.

   This one had been particularly galling.  Only yesterday, the Director of
Intelligence, Charles Mancini, had hinted that she could earn the promotion
on her back.  Appalled, she had refused.  Today, she had been forced to
watch as Ben Waters, a man who she had trained and whose errors she had
corrected time and time again, shot her a smug, oily grin as he moved his
personal belongings from his cubicle to his new private office.

   She was convinced that personnel decisions at that level were made, not
in a board room, but on a golf course.  The kind of golf course that would
never allow a woman to set foot on the fairway.  In the Company, the good
old boy network was alive and well.

   Her fury continued unabated as she drove to the fitness club,
unabashedly chain smoking the entire way.  Even after an hour on the
Nautilus machines, tread mill, and exercise bike, she was still simmering.
It was only as the hot water of the gym's shower was pounding into the
tired and sore muscles of her back that she recalled her date.

   She finished her ablutions with frantic haste, and ran at least three
stop signs on the drive to her apartment.  It had been years since she had
last had even a semblance of a relationship; her dedication to her job had
left little room for a social life.  She didn't really understand why she
had reversed that habit, but she was glad that she had.

   Less than two weeks ago, he had approached her to ask the time just as
she was getting home from work.  She wasn't sure why, but she had lingered
to chat, and had ended up spending the next few hours talking to him on the
steps that led to the front door of her apartment building.

   He was so easy to talk to: sympathetic, non-judgmental, and warm in a
way that she, who had spent so many years among the cold, ambitious members
of the intelligence community, had forgotten men could be.  Best of all, he
seemed to know instinctively when she wanted advice and when she just
wanted to vent.

   Since that night, they had spent nearly every evening together, although
she had not yet invited him to her bed.  So far, all of their dates had
been impromptu affairs, initiated by him calling her at the last minute to
ask if she wanted to join him for a movie, dancing, or simply walking among
the monuments of the capital.  Tonight, though, he had promised something
special.

   Her anger and frustration forgotten, she rooted through her closet with
growing desperation: her wardrobe was ill suited for a night on the town.
She should have bailed out
from work a little early to go shopping for a dress: it wasn't like her

employer could screw her over any worse than it already had.

   She still hadn't found anything appropriate when the door buzzer
sounded. She glanced at the clock on her night stand: he was almost a half
hour early.  Mortified, she threw on a robe and went to the intercom on the
wall by her front door.

   "Hello?" she asked.

   "Bonjour, ma belle," Jean answered immediately.

   "Come on up," she said as she buzzed him in.

   She stepped over to the door.  She could feel her heart fluttering
wildly and her face growing hot.

   "Stop that," she chided herself fiercely.  "You're thirty-five years old
for Christ's sake, not some high school bimbo."

   It didn't help.  Even after less than two weeks, she was already
hopelessly infatuated.  The worst part was that she knew so little about
him.  She had run his name through the CIA's database, of course, but,
although that had produced a driver's license and birth certificate that
set his age a good ten years higher than she would have guessed, she still
had only a vague idea of what he did.  She had no idea at all where he had
grown up or whether he had any family.  Sometimes even the French that
peppered his speech sounded more like he had googled English translations
rather than having a true understanding of the language.

   When his light knock sounded on her door moments later, she threw it
open.  She was ashamed of the silly grin that she knew was plastered on her
face, but she was unable to do anything about it.

   He looked dashing in his well tailored black suit.  With a warm smile,
he presented a half dozen roses with a flourish.

   "Des fleurs!" he announced, his voice hinting at self directed laughter.

   Taking a box from behind his back, he added, "Please do not be offended,
but I took the liberty of getting you this humble offering as well.  To
celebrate your grand promotion!"

   All of her rage boiled to the surface again.  She threw herself into his
arms and buried her face against his chest.  She didn't cry: she hadn't
done so since before she was old enough to walk.  Her body did, however,
tremble with the anger that seethed just beneath the surface.

   He held her loosely, running his hands soothingly through her hair and
down her back until the shivers subsided.

   "Les boules!  I am guessing that you did not get it," he said with a sad
sigh.  "Truly, ma cherie, they are fools who do not know what a treasure
they have in you.  Tu es magnifique!"

   She pulled back and answered with a wan smile, "Yeah?  Well, I don't
feel very magnificent."

   "Trust me, you are," he replied sincerely.  After a moment's pause, he
added, "Perhaps my surprise will help make you feel better.  While I will
certainly understand if you are not in the mood for a night on the town, I
happen to have two tickets for 'Black Nativity' at the H-Street Playhouse."

   Her eyes widening with astonishment, she asked, "How on earth did you
get those?  That show has been sold out for months!  I've been dying to see
it!" Her body slumped with a sigh.  "But, I was just digging through my
closet, and I don't have anything to wear that wouldn't make it look like
you picked a bag lady up off the street."

   "Ma cherie, the other women would quiver with jealousy at your beauty if
you wore nothing but a burlap sack, but perhaps you should look in the
box," he said as he again raised it.

   Taking it from him, she opened it curiously.  It contained a dark green
evening dress that would suit her flaming red hair and light, freckled
complexion well.

   Holding it up to her chest, she whispered, "It's beautiful, but it's too
much.  We've only been going out for a couple of weeks, I can't accept
something this extravagant."

   "Of course you can," he replied with a gentle smile.  "It is but a
trifle.  At least wear it for the show, should you choose to honor me with
your company.  Afterwards, if you do not want it, I will march it directly
to the store and return it."

   At the mention of returning the dress, she involuntarily clutched it
more tightly to her chest, and immediately hated herself for doing so.

   He chuckled kindly at her action and reaction, and said, "Truly, Kelly,
a night on the town may be exactly what you need.  In any event, it would
be much better than moping around your apartment, non?"

   A number of hours later, Jean helped steer the unsteady Kelly up the
front stairs of her building.  After the show there had been dancing, and,
for Kelly, more than a few drinks.  At the door, she spun to wrap her arms
around his neck and press her lips to his.

   "Coming up for coffee?" she asked.

   "I'm afraid that I don't touch the stuff," Jean replied playfully.

   "Me either.  Coming up anyway?"

   They were barely inside her apartment before she turned her back to him.

   "Unzip me," she commanded.

   The dress fell from her body with a soft susurrus of cloth on skin to
lie in a puddle around her feet, revealing that she hadn't bothered with
undergarments.  She turned slowly to face him, coyly covering her small
breasts with her hands.

   For a time he stood motionless, his eyes roving admiringly over her
body: from her bright green, slightly tilted eyes; down her barely crooked
nose; over her firm, freckle speckled breasts and flat, toned stomach; to
the flaring hips and the strip of bright red hair that decorated her slit;
and, finally, down her long, muscular legs.  The heat of his gaze brought a
blush to her face, but she stared back at him challengingly.

   "Magnifique," he whispered in answer to her unspoken question as he bent
to kiss her.

   While they kissed, her hands deftly undid buttons, snaps and clasps
until his clothes also adorned the floor.  He reached down to cup her
muscular buttocks in his hands and pick her up from the floor.  Not
breaking their kiss, he bore her quickly to the living room and seated her
on the arm of the couch.

   Sensing what she wanted, he dropped to his knees and placed his hands
around her thighs, lifting them until they were over his shoulders.

   Panting, she stared down at him, her eyes wide with passion.  "Yessss,"
she hissed.  "Lick my pussy!"

   Her hands curled around the back of his head and pulled him toward her
steaming center.  Teasingly, he twisted his head at the last second to run
his tongue along the crease of her inner thigh.  As he did so, he inhaled
deeply.  She smelled of floral scented soap and sex.

   He smiled as she half-seriously exclaimed, "Bastard!"

   One of her hands left his head and pushed down between her legs to give
herself the stimulation that she craved.  He disengaged slightly so he
could take in the erotic sight of her fingers rubbing the sides of her
swollen clit and delving between the thick, shockingly bright pink lips of
her sex.

   She groaned in frustration as he pulled her hand away and then moaned in
pleasure as it was replaced by his lips and tongue.

   "Yes!" she screamed.  "You're licking my pussy so good!  Eat that cunt!"

   Her stomach arched upwards as he sucked lightly on her clit, sliding
first one finger and then two into her hot, wet depths.  He drove them in
and out with wild abandon, filling the room with liquid slurping sounds and
the light slap of flesh on flesh as his palm impacted with her plump outer
lips.

   He pulled the fingers free and replaced them with his tongue.  He then
trailed the dripping digits up the length of her body.  Shortly after that
hand rubbed over a soft breast and hard nipple, his fingers were again
engulfed by liquid warmth as she took them into her mouth.  Her tongue
swirled as she cleaned them of her juices.

   "I love the way my pussy tastes," she murmured.  "Isn't it yummy?"

   "Oui ...," he began before her hands forced his face deeply back into
her crotch.

   "Shut up and keep licking," she commanded.

   With a grin, he followed her order.  A short time later, her hands
pulled at his hair as he swirled his tongue over her taint, heading
downwards.  He teased the pink, puckered hole with the tip of his tongue
before pressing slightly inside.

   "What are you doing?  That's my asshole!  No one has ever..." her words
cut off with a deep intake of breath followed by an incoherent squeal.  Her
thighs crashed against the sides of his head and squeezed it tightly as her
body trembled.

   He paid homage between her thighs until her she was panting for breath
and her body quivered endlessly.  With a final soft kiss and a lap of his
tongue, he abruptly disengaged and stood.  Easing forward, he rubbed the
spongy head of his cock up and down between her juicy labia.

   She weakly lifted her head to look, and her eyes went wide with
trepidation as she saw his member clearly for the first time.  Before she
could protest, he lined it up and sank it smoothly and deeply inside her.
Even as she threw her head back with a groan, her hands reached up to grab
his upper arms, pulling him atop her.  As they toppled backwards onto the
couch cushions, her arms twined around his neck, and her legs wrapped
around his hips.

   "Damn, you're so fucking big.  I feel sooo full," she gasped.  "It's
been too long ...  God, I love being fucked.  Fuck me!  Fuck me hard!"

   As he again complied with her demand, her nails dug long, pink furrows
in his back; furrows that healed immediately in the wake of her fingers. 
With each of his strokes, her hips thrust up to meet his, and her legs
alternately tightened and relaxed around him as she strove to make him go
faster and drive into her more deeply.

   Her moans grew in volume and duration as she drew ever closer to her
peak.  With a final scream, her head shot upwards and she bit into his
shoulder while her body trembled.  When her spasms slowed, she went limp
beneath him.

   "Sorry," she mumbled.

   "Think nothing of it, mon amour," Jean replied with a smile as he stood.

   Taking her thighs in his hands, he pressed them back into her chest,
making the pink lips of her sex gape widely and wetly open.  He then
returned his cock to her hot sheathe.  Through half closed eyes, she stared
up at him in wonder as he increased the pace of his thrusts, swiveling his
hips with each so that the plum sized head pressed hard against every inch
of her vaginal walls.  Then her eyes squeezed shut, and she threw her head
back with another cry of pleasure.

   "That's it!  Fuck me just like that!  I love it hard and fast!" she
panted.

   She squealed in surprise as he abruptly withdrew, grabbed her hips and
flipped her over onto her stomach.  Taking hold of her arms just above the
elbows, he pulled back to lift her chest from the couch before forcing
himself back inside her.  He pulled back on her arms with each thrust,
smashing his loins against the upthrust cheeks of her ass.  He moaned out
his pleasure as her rapidly contracting pussy massaged his length.

   Her head lolled loosely as her orgasm seemed to go on forever.  When she
was finally able, she wrenched her arms from his grasp and braced herself
against the couch cushions.  After telling him to stand still, she pushed
herself back and forth, rolling and churning her hips as she impaled
herself on his length over and over again.

   He groaned in appreciation as she skillfully brought him ever closer to
the brink.  His hands, which had been lightly caressing her lewdly heaving
buttocks, slid down to grip her hips tightly as his climax neared.

   "Wait!" she cried out.  "Don't cum in me!  I want to taste you."

   At the last second, he pulled himself free.  She immediately twisted
around and dropped to the floor in front of him.  Looking up into his eyes,
she took as much of him as she could into her mouth.  Her tongue swirled
around the tip while her hand rapidly stroked the rest of his length.

   Holding her eyes with his, he ran his fingers through her sweat damp
hair.  With a moan he thrust himself farther into her mouth as he erupted.

   Clamping her widely spread lips down on his shaft, she sucked hard even
as she increased the pressure of her tongue against his glans.  To her
surprise, another orgasm coursed through her body as she swallowed his cum.

   "Mmmm, I love pussy flavored cock," she sighed blissfully as she pulled
free with a smack of her lips.

   She grinned up at him before leaning back in to give the head a kiss. 
Her tongue stretched out to swirl over the tiny hole to make certain that
she had missed nothing and then swept across the corner of her mouth to
catch an errant drop of his seed.

   Suddenly feeling bashful, she turned her head to break eye contact as a
blush rose to her cheeks.  Reaching down, he took hold of her shoulders and
pulled her to her feet.  One of his arms settled around her waist in a
loose embrace, while his other hand gently guided her mouth to his.

   "I have never seen such passion and such beauty together in one person,"
he whispered fervently when their lips again parted.

   Her eyes darted up to meet his to see if he was serious.  When she saw
that he was, the embarrassment faded from her face.

   With an uncertain but languid smile, she replied, "Maybe too much
passion.  I'm sorry I bit you." Her fingers traced across his shoulder,
searching for the injury.  Stretching up on tiptoes she examined the area
closely.  "Oh.  Nevermind.  I thought I got you pretty good, but there's
not even a mark."

   With a shrug of her shoulders, she took his hand and led him back toward
the bedroom.  "Don't even think about telling me that you have to go. 
You're staying the night if I have to tie you to the bed."

   "I wouldn't think of leaving, mon amour.  But, perhaps the precautions
you mentioned wouldn't be such a bad idea ..."

   Once they were under the covers, she shivered as she pressed up against
him.  "Brrrr, you're freezing!  Cuddle up close, and I'll warm you up."

   For a time they engaged in the light pillow talk familiar to all lovers.
Then, keeping his voice light and casual, Jean asked, "Tell me, do you ever
dream of getting even with those who wronged you today and so many times
before?"

   With a lazy smile, she replied, "Pretty much every time I close my eyes
I fantasize about Cheneying them until they admit that they're misogynistic
assholes, and then sending them to infiltrate the Emperor Penguins in
Antarctica."

   "What if I told you that I could arrange for you to have the power of
life and death over them?"

   She jumped from the bed and turned to face him angrily.  "I knew you
were too good to be true.  Who do you work for?  Russia?  China?  MI6?"

   He lifted a placating hand.  "I don't work for any nation," he said
quietly.

   "Then who do you work for?"

   He hesitated.  "A vampire."

   Her face twisted in derision.  Before she could speak, he opened his
mouth and extended his fangs.

   "Like I am," he added.  "That is why your bite left no mark, and why my
body remained cool when any mortal would be flushed and hot."

   She reached over to flick on the light, and then leaned in to study him
closely.  After a moment, she wrapped her arms around herself and spun away
from him.  "This can't be happening.  The stress I've been under must have
triggered some kind of psychotic break."

   She reached for her phone, but he moved impossibly fast to stop her.  "I
swear that I will do you no harm.  Hear me out.  If, when I am done, you
still want to call the authorities, I will not stop you."

   He returned to the bed and laid on his side facing her.  "First, let me
assure you that I am very real.  I was born in Paris in 1920.  In 1941, I
was reborn into a life of eternal night.  I am a vampire.  A nosferatu.  I
can offer you eternal youth and power beyond your wildest dreams.  Unlike
the organization that you currently serve, I can also promise that we're
well aware of your true worth and will treat you accordingly."

   "But there's a price."

   He smiled sadly, "There always is."

   She shifted back and forth on her feet as she eyed him indecisively. 
Her first thought was that she should run, that she should call ... 
someone.  But why?  She owed nothing to the organization that had spurned
her time after time, and if the promises were real...  To be young forever.
To never die.  To spend eternity with the man that she might just love. 
Surely, such things would be cheap no matter the price she must pay.

   With a lengthy sigh, she hesitantly climbed back beneath the covers. 
Meeting his eyes without fear, she said, "Tell me everything."

   He spoke at length and then answered her questions for more than an
hour. Arthur truly had chosen well.  She was intrigued by the advantages
that becoming a vampire could offer, and, having spent years working in a
field where her word could result in air strikes and assassinations, the
thought of causing the death of others didn't overly trouble her.

   She had been silent for so long that he thought her questions were at an
end, when she suddenly asked, "If you can compel absolute obedience in
anyone you turn into a ...  uh, vampire, why are you asking my permission?
Why not just take me?"

   He parroted back the words that Arthur had spoken when giving the
assignment, "The one I serve believes you to be special and wants your
voluntary service."

   Even as they left his lips, he knew the words were a lie.  She had been
a test of his loyalty, nothing more.  Arthur had chosen the assignment to
give Jean the opportunity to warn the nation, simply to see if he would
take it.  He shuddered as he considered what would likely have happened to
him - and to Kelly - if he had.

   "And you?"

   "I've known for a fact that you're special from the moment I laid eyes
on you."

   A whimsical smile fleetingly crossed her features.  "Will I still be
able to smoke?"

   Jean chuckled.  "Technically, yes.  And you will never again have to
worry about cancer, emphysema or any of the other health consequences. 
However, nicotine has no effect on us, and, with your senses of taste and
smell heightened, you will find it most repugnant."

   She again went silent, chewing on her lip as she considered the
strangest offer that she had ever received.  Her eyes darted up to meet his
as she asked her final question.  "Can vampires love?"

   "Oui, mon amour," he replied as he ran a gentle finger along the line of
her jaw.  "We can, and we do."

   Holding her eyes locked to his, she whispered, "I accept." A hint of
uncertainty entered her voice.  "Will it hurt?"

   "A pinprick followed by pleasure such as you've only rarely known."

   Reaching up, she brushed her hair back from her throat.  She gasped as
his fangs pierced her skin.  Then, while he drank deep, she moaned and
quivered; her arms wrapping around him to hold him tight.  She was feeling
lightheaded when he pulled back.

   He opened his own jugular with a claw.  His voice thick with the
pleasure of feeding, he said softly, "For this to work, you must drink from
me as well."

   She met his eyes briefly before raising her head and clamping her lips
over the seeping wound.  He held her close and crooned softly into her ear
as she took the greatest Gift he could offer.

   Shortly after Kelly went still, the door to her apartment swung silently
open.  Arthur entered with a blank faced man in ragged clothing following
closely behind him.  They immediately marched back into the bedroom.

   "I took the liberty of bringing her breakfast," Arthur commented as he
pushed the other man in Jean's direction.  "If she wakes, feed her and
command her to follow my instructions as if they were yours, then give her
the usual orders to prevent any chance of betrayal.  As she has a rather
key role, I'll give you a week to teach her whatever you feel she needs to
know.  After that, I need you to go to Pittsburgh and find out what
happened to the fledglings that were sent there."

   "Placing her under your command wasn't part of our agreement, mon ami,"
Jean said in a low, dangerous tone.

   "Do it anyway.  While you're out of town there might be a need for her
special skills.  I will also need to question her concerning the identities
of case workers and agents that her employer has in certain areas of mutual
interest, or, at least, I will need the identity of someone who possesses
that information."

   Jean met his stare for a moment before surrendering with a nod.

   "I have to feed Susan and then get started on a trip to Florida to
examine the next general on my list.  I'll be back within a week.  Make the
most of the time you have." Arthur said as he made his exit.

   For the next half hour Jean busied himself by thoroughly bathing the
homeless man: one's first meal should not reek of feces.  With that task
complete, he paced rapidly back and forth at the foot of the bed, trying
desperately to quell the terror that kept growing within him.  Kelly was
not Amunet, he kept telling himself, and, even if she was, she would be at
the wrong end of the bond to be able to do him harm.  Unfortunately, as is
so often the case, this fear proved to be impervious to logic.

   As much as he feared that she would rise, the alternative terrified him
more.  He had maintained a number of casual relationships with many
different women over the last fifty years, and he had always managed to
avoid becoming attached.  He could no longer make that claim.

   What made Kelly different?  He half suspected that Arthur was to blame:
he certainly wouldn't put tampering with his mind past the older vampire.
The thought that the emotion had been artificially forged to bind him more
firmly to the cause made part of him want to run out the door and never
look back.  But what if his feelings were real?

   When he felt the bubble of emotion begin to form, an involuntary whimper
escaped his lips.  Trembling with agitation, he crossed the room to sit on
the bed at Kelly's side.  Concentrating hard on every good memory he could
drag from his rebellious mind, he managed to calm himself.

   "Welcome back," he said gently as her eyes opened.

   "Hi," she replied, a slow smile spreading across her face, "Is it done?
Am I a ...  a vampire?"

   Returning her smile, he answered, "Indeed you are, mon amour."

   Chapter 26 December Seventeenth

   "So, why aren't you fat, or really tall, or ...  well something?"
Balathu asked.  "Or are you in the flesh?"

   Blinking her eyes in confusion, Lei replied, "Why would I be either of
those things, here or physically?"

   "Well, you fused with the Outsider, and you've told me before that, in
their own universe, they can be as small as a man or as big as a house.  If
you're both in one body now, shouldn't you be huge?"

   Lei chuckled.  "I am no larger in person than I appear to be here.  Part
of the reason for that is simple vanity: I had no desire to look monstrous.
There was also a very practical reason.  It takes a substantial number of
hybrid cells to take hold in a new host fast enough to prevent the neural
pathways from decaying.  If the number is insufficient, higher brain
functions are lost, and the result is a feral.

   "If all of those cells had to come from the creator, the creation of an
intelligent fledgling would take too much from her, leaving her weak, at
least for a time.  So, to put it in the simplest terms possible, we scraped
off the excess hybrid cells at the moment of fusion.  I cannot adequately
describe the place where they were stored.  Think of it as the timeless
void that exists in the interstices of the universes in eleventh
dimensional space.

   "They remain connected to the whole, and I can sense their presence just
like I can that of one of my children, although the mass seems to be both
everywhere and nowhere at the same time.  A distinctly odd sensation, I
assure you.

   "When an attempt is made to create a new fledgling, and the invading
cells manage to forge a connection with the source, they are also
establishing a connection with that mass.  Dozens of cells are transferred
along that pathway for each that was in the new host to begin with.  So,
while it still takes a significant number of starting cells for higher
brain functions to be preserved, it is nowhere near what would have been
required were the mass not present."

   Balathu digested this information for a minute.  "Wouldn't the mass be
exhausted eventually, making it impossible to create an intelligent
fledgling without the, ah, downsides?"

   "No.  The path works in both directions.  Once a fledgling awakes,
begins to feed and starts to grow new cells on their own, some of those are
transferred back to the mass."

   After a few subjective minutes of silence, Balathu asked, "There's
another thing that I've been curious about.  What's so special about the
heart?"

   "When the Outsider takes hold in a new host, it does so through the
circulatory system.  The heart, as the center of that system, serves as a
sort of ganglionic interface between the new, hybrid tissue and what
remains of the human that was.  As time goes on and the vampire's body
becomes predominantly hybrid, it loses some, but not all, of its
importance."

   She held up a finger to forestall any additional questions.  "You have
been outside your body for more than twice the period that you could have
managed when we began your training.  It is time for you to rest."

   "One more question?"

   "Make it short."

   "If the Outsider lives solely on zi, how can it grow or repair existing
parts of itself?  I mean...  well, if there's nothing of substance taken
in..."

   Lei laughed.  "Although you have asked a difficult question, I shall
strive to give a simple answer.  Mass and energy are different sides of the
same coin.  The Outsiders, and, to a lesser extent, vampires, possess the
ability to convert the latter into the former."

   A dubious expression crossed his face.  "The speed of light squared is
an awfully big number.  It would take incredibly huge amounts of energy..."

   "Indeed, but energy is readily available in the quantities needed.  As
I've told you before, dark energy, which is the modern, albeit
inappropriate, term for zi, makes up nearly three fourths of the mass
energy of the universe.  It is especially concentrated in the living things
on which the Outsider feeds."

   "You said vampires only do this to a lesser extent?"

   Lei sighed in exasperation.  "You really need to get back to your body,
but yes.  Vampires break down and use the blood that they consume.  Far
more efficiently, I might add, then you use your own food.  It eases their
need to consume zi to a certain degree."

   "That is enough for one night.  Return to your body," Lei said
perfunctorily as she waved her hand.

   Her mouth dropped open in surprise when he remained where he was. 
Before she could speak, he gave her a cheeky grin and willed himself back
to his flesh.

   The entire cave - walls, ceiling and floor - was now coated in a thick
layer of moss that emitted a soft, greenish glow.  The only exception was a
clear area on the wall opposite the entrance.  In that small space, he and
Iltana had laboriously carved the words, "Marcus, Lei needs help.  Wake
us." Unfortunately, the ancient who had imprisoned them had yet to return.

   When he had told her of how he and Iltana had come to be trapped, an
extremely excited Lei had asked for a much more detailed message to be left
in case Marcus forced them to sleep before he entered.  However, after it
had taken Iltana and him an entire day to scratch the first word into the
rock, they had opted for something a little more succinct.

   As awareness of his body returned, he was overcome with shivers.  While
not truly cold, the interior of the cave was far cooler than it had been,
and the chill settled into his very bones when he was motionless for hours
at a time.

   The reason that he had turned down the heat so substantially was curled
up and snoring softly on the sleeping bag next to him.  Ever since he had
admitted that he found her attractive, Iltana had kept herself amused by
trying to seduce him.  While her actions remained just as brazen, the
lowered temperature at least kept her fully dressed.

   To his shame, that passive-aggressive act was his only attempt at
curtailing her actions.  Although he knew that succumbing to her advances
would be wrong outside of marriage, he enjoyed the flirtation and physical
contact entirely too much to make any serious attempt to put a stop to
them.

   After paying a visit to the room with the stream, he effortlessly
summoned the Sight with little more than a thought.  In addition to being
far easier to summon, it was now much more acute.  He could actually see
the flows of zi in the background shifting to and fro through ...  well
everything.  He then put into practice what he had learned in theory from
Lei that night, at least to the extent that he was able with the limited
number of life forms at hand.

   It was while he was increasing the efficiency with which his
dramatically altered moss converted zi to light, heat, and the sustenance
it needed to maintain itself that he realized how close he had come to
recreating a primitive form of the Outsider.  The thought sent a cold
shiver down his spine, and made him resolve to make certain that every last
bit of it was destroyed should they ever manage to escape.

   Once he was fairly certain that his lessons would stick with him, he
returned to the sleeping bag.  As he settled in next to Iltana, she pressed
up against him; her arm falling lazily across his chest as one of her legs
entangled his.

   "Mmmm, welcome back," she murmured sleepily.  "Did you learn how to turn
the heat back up a bit?"

   He struggled hard to get his breathing back under control.  "Um, no," he
lied, but he couldn't help but wonder what the harm would be in raising the
temperature just a little.



   Chapter 27 December Eighteenth

   As he had every night since the boy had killed the mysterious
fledglings, Marcus stood vigil on the top of the U.S.  Steel Building in
downtown Pittsburgh.  His hope was that the sixtyfour story vantage point
would extend his ability to detect others of his kind, and let him know
immediately if they so much as entered the outskirts of the sprawling city.

   That they would come he never doubted for an instant.  The ones whom the
boy had slain were far to young to be working on their own.  Eventually,
their master would either send others or come himself to investigate the
loss, and then Marcus would hopefully have the answers to his questions:
Who was the master who tread so perilously close to violating the law? 
What was his or her intent?  And, most importantly: Where was Mother?

   He stood completely motionless as the wind whipped around him.  Because
he did not wish them to, none of the people on the streets so far below
took notice of his presence, even when the moon silhouetted his form.

   When dawn was only a few hours away, he stepped off the edge.  After he
had plummeted down nearly two thirds of the building's height, he reached
out with his mind to brush lightly against the side of the building,
slowing his descent.  As he touched down on the sidewalk without a sound, a
businessman, hurrying along to start his workday early, walked past, taking
no notice of Marcus or his sudden appearance.

   On his way back to the park in which he still spent his daytime
dormancy, he stopped at the largest of Oakland's hospitals.  There, he
passed by the rooms in the critical care unit like the angel of death,
feeding on the life force of those least likely to recover.  He could
obtain more sustenance from the healthy, but with an unknown potential
enemy at work in the world, it was better not to draw too much attention to
his presence.  Chaos erupted in his wake as the lines on a number of
different monitors inexplicably went flat.

   Once sated, he turned his thoughts to those he had imprisoned far to the
north.  He was loath to abandon his nighttime vigils, but they had to be
nearly out of food, fuel and batteries.  He would prefer not to let them
die; they were unusual enough that they might have some use.

   If only he had managed to master the art of projection, he might have
maintained a semblance of a watch on the city as a dominated mortal drove
him north.  Unfortunately, all of his attempts in that area had met with
failure.  Mother had often told him that he invested too much of his sense
of identity in his flesh to allow his mind to break free of it.

   As he lowered himself into the cold but comforting embrace of the earth,
he decided that he would wait until the end of the year.  If, by the close
of December, no other vampires had come, he would abandon his watch for the
evening it would take to resupply his prisoners.



   Chapter 28 December Nineteenth

   Arthur brought a small Toyota to a stop more than a hundred yards from a
row of storage garages.  The place was completely indistinguishable from
the numerous others that dotted the countryside between the profusion of
small towns in central Virginia.  Nothing about it gave any hint of its
unusual contents.  The military guarded its valuables behind high fences
protected by many men with guns.  Bankers locked theirs away in strong
steel vaults.  The CIA, however, hid theirs in plain sight.

   Kelly had identified the Director of the National Clandestine Service
branch of the CIA as the individual most likely to know the names and
locations of key agents in Europe, Moscow, the Middle East and India.  When
Arthur had gone for the man earlier in the evening, he had gotten the names
he wanted, and so much more.  Now his fledglings in those far off places
were busily recruiting those who had experience in the arts of espionage
and infiltration, and he ...  well, he was here.

   He knew he should be concerned that the sudden suicide of the Director,
and the probable loss of at least half of the agency's principle field
agents in the target areas, would raise suspicions, but he wasn't.  With
his plans so near fruition, he couldn't help but feel a giddy sense of
invulnerability.  The simple fact of the matter was that mortals reacted
far too slowly to stop him now.  For them, time had already run out. 
Besides, the thing that he truly feared, that Lei would move to stop him,
had not occurred.  While he often wondered why, he saw her inaction as a
good omen, perhaps even a blessing.  Despite the one law, she had, after
all, approved what he had done in Pittsburgh.

   As he closed the distance to the storage facility, his face rippled with
change, taking on a rough approximation of the features of the Vice
President of the previous administration.  The cameras that monitored the
area fed directly to Langley, preventing him from tampering with them
directly.  His hope was that the crude disguise would generate enough
confusion to last the few days that were remaining.

   Approaching the last garage in the row, Arthur held his hand over the
lock.  It immediately became obvious that he was in the right place: the
lock was far more complex and used a much thicker bolt than had ever been
installed in any normal commercial storage operation.  Once the lock
clicked open, Arthur raised the half-inch thick titanium alloy garage door
upwards.

   The interior was filled with tarp covered furniture, pieces of old
machinery and a thick layer of dust.  Extending his senses, Arthur found
the man who even now was watching Arthur on a camera monitor.  Oblivious to
the nature of the threat, the guard was picking up a phone to report the
breach of security while reaching for a button that would no doubt fill the
room that Arthur was in with something quite unpleasant.  Arthur drove into
the guard's mind, causing him to drop the phone and enter the code that
would open the next door that stood in Arthur's path.

   With a rumble of hidden machinery, a large rectangle in the center of
the floor dropped down and moved to the side, revealing a set of steps. 
Hidden fans kicked on, stirring up the dust so that it would resettle in an
even, undisturbed layer after the entry.  Arthur descended and passed
through another locked door to the security guard's desk.  The man stood,
and for the benefit of the cameras, went through the motions of checking
Arthur's identification and allowing him admittance.  He continued
standing, his eyes vacant, as Arthur, ignoring the retinal scanners and
other security devices, released the locks to the large airtight door on
the other side of the room with a thought.

   The door swung outwards to reveal a small room lined with hazmat suits
with self contained oxygen supplies.  There was an identical door on the
other side.  It took him a little longer to open it, connected as it was to
a system that prevented the door from releasing until the opposite door was
sealed and the airlock had cycled.  Finally, he felt the pressure drop; the
facility was kept negatively pressurized to reduce the chance of
contaminating the surrounding area in the event of a containment failure.
The inner door opened with a hiss.

   As he pressed deeper into the facility, he passed through several other
air locks, a room lined with ultraviolet lights, another full of caged
primates, and a chamber that was kept at a near vacuum.  To his
displeasure, at nearly every door he was doused from above with a variety
of solvents designed to break down that which the lab produced.

   There were very few people present.  The facility could not operate day
and night or with a large staff and maintain the cover of a storage
facility.  Besides, it didn't take many to accomplish the place's purpose.
Those he did encounter gaped blankly as he erased their memories every few
seconds until he was well past.

   In the deepest part of the facility he found a laboratory filled with
vials, beakers, distillation columns, centrifuges and a variety of other
equipment that would be familiar to college chemistry students everywhere.
What they made was not especially difficult to produce, although it was
very hard to keep stable.

   At the far end of the lab was a vault door secured with key locks that
had to be turned simultaneously, a retinal scanner, and a numerical pad. 
Arthur ignored them all and opened the lock directly with his will.  The
room on the other side looked much like a morgue, with stainless steel
drawers, walls, floor and ceiling.  The drawers themselves, however, were
far too small to hold a corpse.

   Rubbing his hands together in gleeful anticipation, he unlocked one of
the drawers with a thought and slid it out to reveal a dozen aluminum
canisters.  They were roughly the size of a thermos, and their sides were
stamped with chemical hazard symbols and stenciled stock numbers.

   "Hello, my little beauties," Arthur said with reverence as he placed
them inside a gym bag.

   Their contents were illegal under more than a few international
treaties, but the agency whose job it was to be paranoid had not only
maintained production, but had greatly improved upon the formula that so
many nations had found reprehensible decades ago.  They had then happily
stored their product away for the proverbial rainy day.  Arthur had to
admit that it truly was an impressive operation that only the CIA could
have kept hidden for so long.  With their multiple levels of oversight,
none of the branches of the armed services could have managed the like.

   On his way out, he looked up into the camera with a mocking grin on his
new face before erasing the guard's memory of all that had transpired. 
When the response team arrived in a few minutes, the man's obstinate
insistence that no breach had occurred might delay any pursuit.

   Abandoning the Toyota, he raced across the countryside in blur. 
Choosing a house at random, he killed the occupants with a small handgun he
had brought for that purpose and took their car.  He switched vehicles six
times before finally crawling behind the wheel of the antique Lincoln.  He
gave the gym bag a fond pat as he placed it on the seat beside him.

   Chapter 29 December Twentieth

   Jean ambled slowly along Fifth Avenue in downtown Pittsburgh.  He had no
idea what Arthur could possibly expect him to accomplish here.  He had
checked the house that had been taken by the fledglings who had been sent
here and found it abandoned.  He had scanned the thoughts of a number of
policemen and found nothing.  Not that the last was surprising: he could
only look back a week or so into a person's memories, and the fledglings
had vanished long before that.

   Briefly, he considered running away, but the knot of emotion that
represented Kelly ended that train of thought.  Even putting emotional
concerns aside, he had given her the Gift.  She was his responsibility now,
and he could not leave her to Arthur's not so tender mercies.

   On a sudden whim, he decided to go to the place where Arthur had almost
been killed.  He hadn't dared try to probe the elder vampire's thoughts or
memories, but no such concerns applied to Susan.  Jean had learned enough
from her to have a decent idea of where to find it.  Perhaps he would toss
a coin into the temporary grave with a wish that Arthur's next one would
prove to be far more permanent.

   With this plan in mind, he returned to the parking garage and retrieved
his scooter, drawing odd looks as he steered the small motorbike through
the cold, slush covered streets.  He had to make the last half mile of his
journey on foot; no one bothered to maintain the roads leading to the
abandoned steel town any longer, and the thick ice and snow rendered the
way impassable to his bike.

   Once inside the town, it only took him a few minutes to locate the place
that should have been Arthur's final resting place.

   "Bonne chance," he said cheerfully as he flipped a quarter into the
large hole in the ground.

   Suddenly his arms and legs went rigid, and he rose several inches into
the air.  His body twisted violently through a one hundred and eighty
degree spin, and he found himself facing a small, thin man who stood,
impassive and motionless, about twenty meters away.  Jean floated rapidly
in the man's direction, the toes of his shoes digging furrows in the snow.

   When less than a meter separated them, Jean came to an abrupt stop.  The
man stared up at him with glittering black eyes that were devoid of
anything resembling pity or mercy.  Jean tried to probe the man's thoughts,
but there seemed to be nothing to read.  With a sinking feeling in the pit
of his stomach, Jean realized who it was that he was facing.

   "I know you," he whispered fearfully.  "You're the Roman.  Marcus."

   "Indeed," Marcus answered quietly, "And who might you be?"

   "Je ...," Jean started before his jaw went rigid.

   Starting with memories of his earliest childhood, his life began to pass
before his eyes.  Seconds later, he again had to relive his time with
Amunet.  Here, the flow of memories slowed.

   "I met your Mistress once," Marcus said softly.  "A hedonistic creature
of gluttonous appetites.  To answer the question that has always troubled
you: even by the Renaissance she had
begun to lose her grip on reality, unable to cope with the changes in

the world around her.  The rapid advancements of the nineteenth and
twentieth centuries would have been especially hard on her.  I imagine
that, by the time she gave you the Gift, she would have fully retreated
into a fantasy world of her own making."

   The flow of memories resumed their former pace until they reached the
preceding month.

   "He would dare?" Marcus asked incredulously, and then repeated those
words in a roar.

   Marcus's fists clenched and unclenched; his features twisted with fury.
Suddenly, as quickly as the anger had come, it was gone, and his face
became smooth and wooden.

   "You were not a willing partner in Arthur's venture, so I will not kill
you outright," he said coldly.  "Nevertheless, however poor the choices he
gave you might have been, you still did choose, and that cannot go
unpunished.  How badly do you want to live?  Do you thirst for life and
desire that it continue with all of your being, or are you apathetic and
weak?  Let's find out."

   Jean's eyes bugged out above his still paralyzed mouth as all of the
bones in his limbs and extremities shattered like glass.  A soft, keening
wail escaped his stiff, still lips as sharp, redstained shards of bone tore
their way out through his skin.  His abdomen distended and then burst, his
innards spilling to the snow covered ground with a wet splash.  The force
that held him upright abruptly released him, and he fell to the ground to
lay in the pile of his own offal.

   Marcus bent down and whispered in his ear, "With the loss of so much
blood and the lack of available food, such severe injuries will take a long
time to heal.  Until they do, every waking moment will be a study in agony,
but pain is a thing of the flesh.  When the will is strong, sensations of
the flesh are irrelevant.

   "If you truly desire life, you will probably be able to drag yourself to
shelter using nothing but your chin or, perhaps, your tongue.  If your will
to live is lacking, you will die with the rising of the sun.  Should you
happen to survive to see Arthur again, tell him that once I sweep his
vermin from my city, I will come for him.  He will beg for the sweet
release of true death for centuries to come."

   As Marcus ran to the east, ripples of change coursed over his body.  He
was not yet capable of forming the fine and delicate muscles that allowed
flight.  Instead, his chest thickened and he fell forward onto all fours.
The huge, powerful mastiff never once glanced back as it sped away more
quickly than the human eye could follow.

   Air travel to the east was always problematic for his kind.  If he went
as a passenger and there was even a slight delay, he could easily find
himself bursting into flame before he reached his destination.  Similarly,
if he traveled as cargo, a curious customs official could bring his
existence to an end on the tarmac.

   He could do his city no good if he died en route.  For that reason, he
set a course for Portsmouth, Virginia, with the hope that a ship would soon
be embarking for Italy or could be hired to do so.

   The thought of his prisoners in the cave to the north didn't occupy his
mind for more than the briefest of instants.  While interesting, their well
being was not worth any delay in reaching his city.  They would either find
a means of escape, or they would starve to death.  If the latter, two more
deaths on his tally sheet would hardly make a difference.



   Chapter 30 December Twenty-first

   With a small murmur of contentment, Mark settled back into the big,
fluffy pillows on the king sized bed and did his best to arrange the
comforter around his chest without disturbing Jenny.  She gave him a small
smile before returning her attention to the crossword puzzle she was
working on.

   Settling a pair of reading glasses on the tip of his nose, Mark started
leafing through the latest issue of Newsweek.  The first article purported
to give a psychological profile for the Cain killer.  With a snort of
disgust, Mark skipped past it.  He knew who the Cain killer or, more
correctly, killers, were: Dana had told him as she was driving him home
after all the hoopla the night he had been abducted.

   At first he had been enraged, and had seriously considered reporting Tom
and Mia's actions to the Chief.  Limiting their diet to animals had been
the primary condition that the Chief had set when he had allowed them to
remain free.  The more Dana had talked, however, the more his anger had
faded.  Especially when she told him of the shape that they had been in,
and that the change in diet had been her idea.  In the end, Mark had kept
the information to himself.  Despite Tom's recent actions, the man remained
his friend.

   He was still having a hard time dealing with the consequences of that
decision: each time
a new Cain killing was mentioned in the paper, guilt nearly overwhelmed

him.  He hadn't been able to bring himself to talk to his friends since
that night.

   He was startled when Jenny suddenly asked, "Birthplace of Europa.  Four
letters.  Second one is probably a 'y.'"

   After a moment's thought, he replied, "Try Tyre, t-y-r-e."

   "You're so smart," Jenny said teasingly as she wrote it in.

   "Benefits of a classical education," he replied with a wink.

   The second article in the magazine discussed the sudden epidemic of
tardiness, AWOL's, and the abandonment of spouses and children among the
nation's police forces.  The tardiness had become so blatant that many of
the individuals even failed to show up for their disciplinary hearings. 
Nevertheless, most kept their jobs because so many other police officers
were dropping off the grid that many departments were having horrendous
staffing issues.

   The conclusion, based on the results of numerous internal affairs
investigations and, more recently, a federal fact-finding commission, was
that there was nothing to worry about.  There was no foul play, and no one
was actually missing.  The problems were simply the result of institutional
guilt arising from the failure to stop the terrorists who had rendered such
a large part of New Jersey uninhabitable, at least for the next decade or
two.

   Another contributing factor that was mentioned was that so many
retirement accounts, already doing poorly as the result of the greed
induced recession, had, on average, lost more than half of their remaining
value as a result of the post attack stock market crash.  According to the
article, an increasing number of men and women in blue just weren't willing
to put their lives on the line for so little reward.  The economic strife
also added strain to marital relationships and was a major cause of the
increase in divorces and abandonment.

   Give them time, the article suggested, and, once the depression and
trauma induced stress had run their course, things will return to normal.

   Mark thought it was a load of bullshit.  Hell, at the current rate of
return, he'd have to work until his late eighties to get his 401k back to
where it was a year ago, and he was still on the job.  For that matter,
there hadn't been any extraordinary problems with tardiness or absenteeism
in Pittsburgh and, heaven knew, they had more reason to be depressed than
most.  Besides, the neat, packaged explanation didn't explain why homeless
people and migrant workers were vanishing in droves, and barely explained
why so many of those in the military were deserting.  There had to be a lot
more to it than what they were saying.  Maybe he would have to call a guy
he knew in...

   "German mercenary.  Seven letters.  I'm pretty sure the fifth one is an
'i.'"

   "Uh, hessian?"

   "You sure?  I'm doing it with a pen."

   "Yeah, I'm fairly certain.  Make the letters small, just in case."

   "Hmpf, that doesn't sound very confident to me," she said, but he
noticed that she was writing it in anyway.

   He skimmed through the next three articles, one on global warming,
another on the record breaking cold winter that was hitting most of the
country, and a third on the former Vice President being detained for
undisclosed reasons by a number of federal agencies, before he found
another that piqued his interest.

   It seemed that a number of National Guard and Army Reserve armories had
been broken into, and the M16's, M4's and M60's stored in them had been
stolen.  Investigations had been conducted, and arrests had been made.  The
supposed motive of those arrested, who all insisted that they were
innocent, was that they were arming themselves in preparation for the
economic collapse that they feared was coming.  Mark found it interesting
that the article made no mention of whether any of the weapons had been
recovered.

   "Original host of 'America's Got Talent.' Five letters.  I don't know
any of them."

   "Hell if I know.  You know that I don't watch that crap."

   "I thought you might have picked it up around the water cooler.  I know
how you and those scamps you work with love to gab."

   "Bah.  My scamps and I are hardcore.  We don't touch water unless it's
heavily laced with caffeine.  Plus, no one would dare mention a show like
'America's Got Talent.' Not nearly manly enough.  It's 24, one of the
CSI's, or nothing at all."

   "You do recall that the doctor said you need to cut down on the coffee,
right?"

   "Yes, mother," he grumbled.

   She reached over to give him an affectionate and slightly condescending
pat on the head.

   The final article was a follow-up on the Jersey reactor.  Mark was happy
to learn that the government had followed the example of Chernobyl by
completely encasing the entire facility in concrete.  They had also managed
to drain most of the highly radioactive water from a nearby laboratory
facility and should be able to start recovering bodies shortly after the
holidays.  That was good: burying the last of the casualties would be an
excellent step for the nation in putting the tragedy behind it.

   With a sigh, he put the magazine away and rolled over to face Jenny.

   "Here's one for you," he said with a lecherous grin.  "It's what I am
right now.  Five letters.  Starts with an 'h' and ends with a 'y.'"

   With a little smirk, she put the crossword aside and rolled over to face
him.

   "Hmm.  Gimme a second.  How about 'happy?' Aww, how sweet.  I'm so glad
you're happy.  I am, too."

   "Although I am deliriously, almost insanely, happy, that's not quite
what I had in mind."

   "Well, damn.  I thought for sure that was it.  Okay.  How about
'homely?' Are you still worried about that?  Don't be.  I hardly notice it
any more.  Although it would be nice if you'd wear a paper bag over your
head more often when we went out in public."

   Narrowing his eyes in mock indignation, he grumbled, "That's six
letters, woman."

   "Oh.  So it is," she replied innocently.

   "Here, I'll give you a hint," he said as his hand stretched out beneath
the thick comforter to wrap around her waist and pull her close.

   He kissed her warmly before trailing lighter kisses across her cheek. 
He then blew softly into her ear while sucking gently on her earlobe.  She
shivered with delight as she melted against him.

   "Figure it out yet?" he asked in a whisper.

   "Nope.  Give me some more hints," she replied breathlessly.

   Even as he continued to nibble on her earlobe, he trailed a hand down
the side of her body.  He grinned as he realized that she was wearing her
favorite sleep wear: a satin nighty that predated their twenty year
marriage.  It was frayed around the edges and had become so threadbare that
it was more revealing than the most scandalous attire offered by Victoria's
Secret.

   His hand passed over the tattered edges of the garment and continued
down her thigh, delighting in the feel of her skin beneath his fingers.  He
wondered how women managed to keep theirs so soft and smooth: was it
natural or did it have something to do with all the jars that tumbled from
the medicine cabinet each time he dared to open it?  He knew better than to
ask.

   His hand reversed direction and ran caressingly under the nighty and up
her side to gently cup a breast.

   "I think I'm starting to get an idea," she murmured as she rolled onto
her back to give him easier access.

   After lingering for a few delightful minutes on her chest, his hand slid
back down to palm the slight paunch that she had developed in recent years.
He knew that she hated to be touched there, but he couldn't help himself.
There was something so feminine, even sexy, about the feel of the soft mass
of her belly that he just loved.

   "Ohh, don't touch my fat," she grumped as one of her hands reached down
to dislodge his.

   "That's not fat," he said with a chuckle as he patted his own ample
stomach.  "This is fat."

   "You're not fat, honey," she responded immediately.

   They stared at each other solemnly for a few seconds before breaking out
in giggles over her blatant white lie.

   "Well, it doesn't matter if you are," she amended lovingly, "because I
think you're sexy no matter what."

   Such a statement could only be answered with a kiss, and he leaned in to
do so.  His hand resumed its former position and then moved lower where he
encountered the thick cotton of her panties.

   "Mmm, granny panties," he commented with a smile.  "Sexy."

   "Shush you.  They're comfy.  Those thong things that are so popular make
me feel like I have a never ending wedgie."

   She gasped as he delved beneath the comfortable undergarment, combing
his fingers through her thick pubic hair before brushing over her clit and
the already moistening lips of her sex.  Her arms twined around his neck,
and she locked her mouth to his as his finger slipped inside her.

   A long, pleasurable time later, he was about to suggest that they
exchange kisses on parts a bit lower when she surprised him by saying
bashfully, "I was watching some 'Scrubs' reruns today, and they were
talking about something called reverse cowgirl.  I've been curious..."

   His eyebrows shot up with astonishment.  While he and Jenny had always
had a healthy sex life, her strict catholic upbringing meant that most of
their love making was done in the dark, under the covers and, other than
the occasional exchange of oral pleasure, almost always in the standard
missionary position.

   "Well.  Who am I to stand in the way of an educational experience?" he
commented brightly.

   He helped her slip her panties down and off, and then she returned the
favor.

   Holding his heavy flannel boxer shorts up for inspection, she commented
teasingly, "Hmpf.  And you had the gall to make fun of my granny panties."

   As he rolled over onto his back, she crawled on top of him, giggling at
the naughtiness of what they were about to do.

   "Could you turn out the lights?" she asked over her shoulder as she
positioned herself above his hips.

   "Let's leave them on.  I want to see you."

   With an exaggerated pout, she said, "But with the lights on, it's hard
for me to pretend that I'm fooling around with Brad Pitt."

   With a snicker, he replied, "In this position, all you can see are my
legs and feet, and they're covered up.  I bet they look just like Brad's."

   Running his hands gently over the round curves of the full cheeks of her
bottom, he added admiringly, "I have no need for fantasies myself. 
Angelina has nothing on you."

   "Liar," she shot back, but her tone was pleased, and he noticed with
amusement that she didn't repeat the request for the lights to be shut off.

   They both moaned as she lowered herself onto him, enfolding his length
in the wet, welcoming embrace of her sex.  She set a slow but steady pace.
Each time her buttocks impacted softly against his round belly, she circled
her hips to rub her clit against the wrinkled sack of his scrotum.

   Taking hold of the hem of her nighty, he started to lift it up and off
of her.  She slapped his hands away gently.

   "Don't even think about it.  It's too cold," she admonished.

   Although he initially tucked his hands behind his head to better enjoy
the view, when he saw that she was starting to tire he reached down to hold
her hips and assist her efforts.  Shortly thereafter, she ground her clit
hard against his balls as she quivered with pleasure.

   Abruptly, she spun around without dismounting.  The sensation of her
well lubricated flesh circling around his length nearly brought on his own
release.

   Again face to face, she whispered, "Did you like it?"

   "I sure did," he replied, and then added hopefully, "You?"

   She smiled.  "It was okay, I guess, but I kept thinking about all the
kissing I was missing out on."

   "We can't have that," he said softly as he pulled her down until their
lips touched, "but isn't it hard to pretend I'm Brad when you're facing
this way?"

   "Oh, yeah, I forgot about that," she said teasingly as she pretended
that she was about to twist back around.

   With a low, playful growl, he wrapped his arms around her to hold her in
place and resumed their kiss.  His hands ran gently down her back until he
could cup her buttocks.  Their kiss deepened as he started to thrust up
into her.

   He could feel the hard points of her nipples drawing circles through the
hair on his chest as he settled into a rapid rhythm.  Between little moans
of pleasure, she traced kisses up and down his neck and shoulder.  It was
only a matter of minutes before he felt her muscles go taut.  She sucked
hard on the side of his neck before letting out a muffled scream.  With a
final few thrusts, he announced his own climax with a roar.

   They stayed languorously entwined while they enjoyed the afterglow. 
With a final, gentle kiss, Jenny pushed herself up to her hands and knees
and peered at the side of his neck.

   "Oops, I think I gave you a hickey." Her tone was more amused than
apologetic.

   "Well, damn, woman.  Now my scamps are going to think I'm a slut," Mark
replied with a laugh.  He pulled her back down for another kiss and made a
halfhearted attempt to return the favor.

   Giggling, she rebuffed his attack and flopped over to her side of the
bed.  "Is the remote over there?  It's time for 'The Tonight Show.'"

   Letting out a woeful sigh, he said, "So much for cuddling."

   She responded only with a derisive snort.

   With a grunt of effort - his back wasn't what it used to be - he rolled
out of bed and headed for the bathroom.  After cleaning himself off and
emptying his bladder, he ran warm water over a washcloth and carried it
back to the bedroom for Jenny.

   He leaned over and gave her a kiss as he handed her the cloth.  "I'm
going to go make a sandwich.  Want anything?"

   "No, thanks.  And don't you forget what the doctor said: No bacon!"

   "Yeah.  Yeah."

   He ambled out to the kitchen and constructed a sandwich of Dagwoodian
proportions.  Scratching himself idly, he stood in front of the open
refrigerator door and contemplated the package of bacon.  Fuck it, he
decided as he took the package out and arranged some strips in the
microwave tray.  At his next appointment, he would just have the doctor up
his dosage of Lipitor.

   "What was that?" Jenny yelled suspiciously from the bedroom when the
microwave indicated that his bacon was ready with a beep.

   "Uh, the bread was a little stale, dear.  I was just warming it up a
little."

   "Uh huh."

   The skepticism in her voice brought a grin to his face.

   Deciding not to flaunt his disobedience by taking his sandwich back to
bed, he ate while leaning nude against the kitchen counter.  While munching
contentedly, he snagged his cell phone from the charger with the intention
of playing a game.  To his surprise, there were four missed calls and an
equal number of voice messages.

   His jaw dropped open as he listened to the first of the nearly identical
messages.  When he had returned from Tom's on the night of the abduction,
he had stopped by the station to run a search on the name 'Iltana.' To his
astonishment, she actually had been stupid enough to use her real name. 
Records from the Department of Motor Vehicles showed that there were only
two Iltana's in the county.  One was eighty-three years old and lived in a
nursing home.  The other was his girl.

   There had been no sign of her since that night, despite the APB that he
had put out on her.  She hadn't shown up for work, and her house remained
vacant.  Tonight, however, her car had been discovered in the depths of the
underground parking lot behind the William Penn Hotel.

   When he rushed into the bedroom, Jenny rolled over to fix him with an
evil eye and started to say something scathing about his choice of snack
food.  Her jaw snapped shut, and her expression became concerned when he
started to throw on clothing.

   "What's going on?" she asked.

   "A lead just opened up on a case I've been working on.  Sorry, hun, but
I gotta go for a while."

   "Be careful."

   He stopped with his pants still around his knees to give her a
reassuring hug and a kiss.  "I'm just going to look at a car.  Nothing
dangerous.  I'll be back soon."



   Chapter 31 December Twenty-second

   Shortly after dusk, Arthur drove his big Lincoln past the sprawling
estate of General Winston Rutherford, IV., the sixth of the nation's four
star military leaders that Arthur had investigated.  As with General
Miller, Arthur had been unable to find any handles he could use to coerce
the others to do his bidding.  Accordingly, all had suffered fatal mishaps.
One's driver had abruptly swerved into oncoming traffic.  Another had
slipped and fallen down several flights of stairs while visiting patients
at a VA hospital.  The other two had died from aneurysms after Arthur had
held his hand against their heads.

   Calls to his new agents in the Middle East and Europe had arranged
similar mishaps, albeit ones perpetrated with far less finesse, for the
four star Generals and Admirals on his list that were stationed in those
regions.

   The sudden demise of so many of the highest ranking officers had not
gone unnoticed, of course, but, as most were obviously accidents or the
result of natural causes, even the most paranoid intelligence officers did
not see a plot.  The only action taken had been that Homeland Security had
raised the national threat level to orange; an action that had essentially
no impact on Arthur's activities.

   Arthur was grateful that Rutherford, the Army's FORSCOM commander, had
returned from Georgia to his home in Virginia for the holidays.  After
Arthur had finished in Little Rock, he had driven west to Colorado and
then, after his brief stopover to see how Jean had dealt with his
assignment, he had gone to Florida.  He wouldn't have been able to make
another trip of such a long duration.  Time was running out

   Rutherford and his wife had both come from old money, and their
residence reflected that wealth.  The house, which bore a striking
resemblance to the old estates of the British aristocracy, was surrounded
by a stone wall topped with cameras.  The only entry point was a large,
ornate, cast iron gate that was remotely monitored and controlled from
somewhere within the house.

   For a brief moment, he considered how simple things would be if he could
just jump the wall, kill the household staff, and turn the General into a
slave, but such a thing was not possible.  The commander of the defense
effort would be unable to avoid day time press conferences and appearances
for long, not to mention that the General was so old that restored youth
could not go unnoticed.  Finally, he had to take into account the fact that
so few Gifts had been received as of late.

   Arthur parked his car outside the view of the cameras and settled back
to wait.  More than an hour later, the General drove past in his Cadillac
CTS-V with anonymous, black government sedans to his front and rear. 
Arthur brushed over the thoughts of the pairs of guards that manned the
sedans.  Other than the fact that they were outraged that the General had
insisted on driving himself, Arthur learned little.

   When he delved into the mind of the General, Arthur straightened in his
seat and leaned forward with interest.  Like many men, the General loved
his family, his country and his job.  Unlike the other Generals that Arthur
had investigated, however, Rutherford loved them in that exact order.  He
doted particularly upon his grandchildren, the unfortunately named
Zachariah Thomas and his sister, Ashley.

   Even now, the General was eagerly anticipating a rousing game of Chutes
and Ladders in front of the Christmas tree with young Ashley, who was
spending the holidays with Rutherford and his wife.  Zachariah was at some
sort of boy scout event just outside the city, but would be joining them
the next day.

   At long last, Arthur had found a man with a handle he could use.

   As Arthur watched with extended senses, the General stepped on the gas
and swerved around the lead vehicle, beating it to the gate.  Exiting his
car, Rutherford went back and gently, but firmly, told the guards to go
home to their families.  When they resisted, he made it an order.  After
the guards had reluctantly obeyed, Rutherford drove through the gate to his
home.

   Arthur turned the large car toward the city, and headed through the
heavily falling snow towards the vaguely identified location he had taken
from Rutherford's memory.  He almost missed the small, hand painted sign,
decorated with balloons that had withered from the dropping temperatures to
hang limply at the ends of their bright ribbons.

   Arthur followed the arrow on that sign and those on the subsequent ones.
At the entrance to a BSA owned campground, a streamer made of bed sheets
stretched high above the road.  It proclaimed that the park was the site of
"Boy Scout Troop 375's Third Annual Wilderness Survival and Snow Sports
Merit Badge Bivouac - December 21st through December 23rd."

   Pulling the car to a stop, Arthur turned to Susan, who was curled up in
a tight ball on the floor in front of the passenger seat.

   "Time to earn your keep, my dear," he said mildly as he slapped her
lightly on the rump.

   As always, she obeyed silently.  She rose awkwardly from the cramped
space, her movement causing a musical tinkling sound as the rings that
adorned her lips, nose, nipples, flanks, navel and labia collided with
their neighbors.  Except for the rings, she was, as always, nude.

   Scoutmaster Porter sat on one side of a large campfire with his back to
the woods.  The other side was occupied by a semi-circle of eleven teenage
boys who were listening to his story.  Some were enthralled, others simply
looked bored.  He supposed that they were getting a little old for ghost
stories.  Now that they were working on becoming Eagle Scouts, he should
really start treating them as the young men they were, but he couldn't help
but think of them as the cub scouts who had first joined his troop so many
years before.

   Porter concluded his story, "...and some say that the beast still walks
these woods on dark, moonless nights, waiting for the unwary to cross its
path."

   Laughing evilly, he turned on his flashlight to illuminate his face from
below.  His audience's response was gratifying: the boys, even the ones who
had seemed bored, stared behind him into the dark woods, their eyes wide.

   From behind him, a voice said, "Sometimes, the beast hunts without any
regard for the location or orientation of our celestial neighbor."

   Bewildered, Porter twisted his head around.  Before he could complete
the act, a tremendous blow landed on the side of his head.  Semi conscious,
he flew through the air to land painfully on his back a good ten yards from
the fire.  He was both gratified and terrified to see the boys rushing to
his defense.  He wanted to shout at them to run, but something seemed to be
broken inside him, and he could not form the words.

   There were two attackers, a man and a woman.  The man was conservatively
dressed in an expensive suit.  The woman was naked except for the glint of
jewelry.  His terror increased as he noticed that, despite the cold,
neither of them emitted puffs of white vapor as they breathed.  The pair
stood motionless as the scouts rushed toward them, but, in the light of the
fire, Porter could see the man's eyes flitting from boy to boy.  Rushing
forward, the man grabbed Zach, subdued him easily, and pushed him
forcefully toward the woman.



   "Hold him, Susan.  Do not allow him to come to harm or to escape," the
man commanded.

   He then attacked.  The ferocity of it took Porter's breath away.  The
snaps of breaking bones came in such rapid succession that it almost
sounded like someone had set off firecrackers.  When half of their number
were down, the rest of the scouts turned to flee.  Laughing joyfully, the
man ran them down one by one and, after incapacitating them, hurled them
back to the fire's edge.

   Once all of the scouts had been subdued, the man reached down and took
Anthony Watson by the hair.  Lifting the boy until his feet dangled inches
above the snow, the man smiled at him coldly.  The man's jaws then opened
wide, and fangs descended.  Tony squealed once as they tore into his
throat. He then began to shake and moan.  When Tony's body went limp, the
man tossed the corpse through the air to land in the snow near Porter. 
Porter stared into the boy's wide, sightless eyes and tried to scream, but
he could not.

   "Please, mister, I just want to go home," one of the scouts cried out.

   The man paused and seemed to consider the request.  "And so you shall.
You have my word," he then answered in a voice colder than death as he took
another of the scouts by the hair.

   When all of the boys were still, the heat of their bodies fading quickly
in the freezing night air, the man turned to Susan.

   "Pass me the boy," he said, "And you may feed on the old man."

   Susan walked Zach over to his side, but then stood stubbornly
motionless.

   With a sigh, Arthur said, "Let me rephrase that.  Feed on the old man.
Now."

   Porter watched Susan approach.  He tried to scramble backwards, but his
limbs wouldn't obey him.  He had the sickening realization that either the
blow to his head or his impact with the ground had broken his spine. 
Helpless, he could only look on as she grew near.  Her face was twisted
with loathing and disgust, but it was not directed at him.  She bent down
to look at him through eyelashes coated with snow and ice.  Her eyebrows
lifted, seemingly in sympathy, before her head snapped down.  He felt her
teeth ripping through his skin.

   After she had finished feeding, Arthur beckoned her to rejoin him at the
campfire.  For a time they sat in silence, while, between them, Zach
trembled with fear, cold and misery.

   As time went on, Arthur turned with growing frequency to look at Susan
quizzically.  Finally, his curiosity overcame him, and he said, "I truly
must know what has inspired such sudden and intense hatred, my dear.  You
may speak."

   Immediately, she turned to face him, her lips pulled back in a snarl. 
"I've known that you were a depraved son of a bitch since the moment you
woke up in the lab, but I didn't think that even you would stoop this low.
You're despicable ...  evil!"

   Her snarl faded in confusion as he threw back his head and laughed.  "Of
all the things that I thought might come out of your mouth, such blatant
hypocrisy was not one of them.  Do you have any idea how many children die
in third world sweatshops and mines every year so you can wear designer
knock offs and have pretty, but otherwise useless, baubles to wear on your
fingers?  Of course you don't.  Like most others in the so called developed
world, you don't really care how many lives your trinkets cost, so long as
they're cheap and plentiful.  If the slaying of children is the standard by
which you judge evil, the western culture of consumerism is far more evil
than I am.  I am merely more open about it.

   "I expected better of you, Susan, but you proved to be tiresome.  Return
to silence under the same conditions as before."

   In the end, only three of the scouts rose again.  Issuing commands using
images dredged from the tattered remnants of their memories, Arthur marched
them back and forth as he reacquainted himself with the art of controlling
ferals.

   Acting on sudden whim, he searched the ruins of their minds for very
specific types of memories.  He then began to laugh gleefully as, without
inflection, emotion or any sign of comprehension, they parroted back the
words and sentences that he pieced together.

   As there were too many bodies to fit into his car, he had the undead
scouts and Susan each carry a pair of corpses on their shoulders, while he
settled Zach and the scoutmaster across his own.  He then led them towards
the Potomac River a few miles away.  To amuse himself during the short run,
he taunted Zach through the mouths of the ferals.  He could feel the boy
shiver uncontrollably as the sepulchral voices of his former friends and
classmates rose behind them.

   "Join us, Zach.  It will only hurt forever."

   "We're dead because of you, Zach."

   "This is all your fault, Zachariah.  It's only fair that you die, too."

   "We'll be coming for you, Zach.  Be prepared."

   The young man's tears had nearly soaked through the back of Arthur's
suit by the time they reached the Potomac.  Arthur's lips twisted in
contempt at the sign of weakness.  Children were coddled for far too long
in this era.  When he was Zach's age, he had already served in His
Majesty's Navy for several years, killed his first man, and drank and
whored away his meager pay in more ports than he could count.

   As he set Zach on his feet, the young man visibly steeled himself,
wiping away his tears on the sleeve of his coat.  He then turned to meet
Arthur's stare, matching him hate for hate.  After a long minute, Arthur
let out an amused chuckle and gave the boy a nod.  Hatred and bravery in
the face of death were things that he could respect.  He then turned his
attention back to the business at hand.

   The unusual cold streak had left snow covered ice stretching out from
the banks twenty or more feet towards the river's center.  Arthur stood
along the edge as the ferals stomped out onto the thin covering.  They only
made it a few feet before they crashed through the thin ice into the black
water beneath.

   At Arthur's mental command, they ducked beneath the icy cold water,
dragging the bodies of their friends behind them.  After they had pushed
the bodies into the thick mud and muck on the bottom, Arthur had two of
them burrow themselves deep into the sediment.

   With a gesture, he directed Susan to throw the bodies she was carrying
into the hole in the ice.  Zach shuddered with revulsion when white,
bloodless hands emerged from the water to pull the dead down.  Once all the
ferals and corpses were secure in the embrace of the river bottom, Arthur
issued a final set of mental commands.  They would stay in their watery
grave until they had wakened from dormancy twice.  Then they would go home.
As an afterthought, Arthur decided that it would only be proper and polite
to have them deliver a seasonal message to their families.

   They followed their footprints back to the campground.  The snow swirled
in Arthur's wake as he erased all trace of their passage.

   Once at the car, he pushed Zach into the back seat, and turned to Susan.
"Get into the back with our young ward.  Hold him and comfort him; the poor
dear looks frightened."

   As he drove the Lincoln down the road that led to the Rutherford estate,
he glanced at the boy's reflection in the rearview mirror.  It didn't
appear that Susan's cold embrace was bringing him any solace.

   By this hour, the Rutherford household would almost certainly be asleep
in their beds.  It would be child's play to enter and take Zach's little
sister.  With both of Rutherford's grandchildren under his control, the
general would be as well.

   Chapter 32 December Twenty-second

   Tired of running, Alicia stumbled into the abandoned steel town with Lei
draped across her shoulders.  Feeding off the isolated residents of the
rural areas had worked perfectly until tonight.  She still wasn't quite
sure what had happened.  Maybe tonight's victim had gotten a call off to
the police before she had pinned him to his kitchen floor.  Maybe she had
tripped a well concealed alarm system.  Or, perhaps a passerby had
witnessed the feeding through the kitchen window.  She would never know.

   Local and state police had descended on the old farmhouse in great
numbers, all wanting to take part in catching the killer that had been
terrorizing the countryside.  Before they could get into position, she had
grabbed Lei and raced out the back door.  A policeman had already been
sneaking onto the small rear porch and had shot her through the chest.  She
was fairly certain that the right hook she had thrown in retaliation had
broken his neck.

   She had run through the forest as fast as she could manage, but, even
with the incredible speed conferred upon her by her condition, she couldn't
outrun a radio.  Time and again, police cruisers and helicopters had
appeared ahead of her as if by magic.  Only the fact that they had
difficultly adjusting their pursuit procedures to a culprit who could run
faster and farther than a thoroughbred racehorse had allowed her to evade
capture.

   Where possible, she had stuck to plowed and salted roads during her
flight, but no such routes led to this place.  Her tracks stretched over
the hills and valleys behind her, clearly visible in the pristine snow. 
She no longer cared.  She would die here, as her Master had before her.

   As she approached his empty, gaping grave, a sharp odor assailed her
senses, much like that which emanated from the blood that crusted her coat
around the long healed chest wound.  She temporarily put aside thoughts of
her pursuers and followed her nose to a large gut pile.  A pink stained
trail of impacted snow, similar to that left behind by the passage of a
toboggan, led toward one of the vacant houses.  In the center of the path
were small, deep indentations.

   Cautiously, she followed the trail until it ended at the rotted and
crumbling doorway of the dilapidated structure.  Inside, the way was marked
by the occasional smear of dried blood and, of course, the smell.  The
floor, bowed down toward its center, creaked alarmingly as she walked
gingerly across it to a doorway that led to nothing but a dark hole.

   Setting Lei down in the hallway, she dropped to her belly and peered
down into the basement.  On the filthy floor below, she could see the
remains of the collapsed stairway.  In the center of the ruins was a larger
blood smear.  Whoever she was following had fallen into the pit when the
stairs had collapsed beneath him.

   Standing, she stepped forward and dropped lightly into the cellar.  At
first she couldn't believe that her quarry could possibly be alive.  His
arms and legs were bent and folded around him, held together only by muscle
and skin.  Through a wide tear that ran from his sternum past his navel,
she could easily see into his abdominal cavity.  His heart was present, dry
and covered in filth, but the other organs were gone.

   She was suddenly distracted by the sound of a helicopter's rotors
beating overhead.  She listened tensely as it circled the area a few times
before moving off.  She had little doubt that her tracks had been seen and
more police would soon arrive.

   When she looked back down, she was startled to see that he was staring
at her.  His lips moved slowly but, without lungs, could produce no sound.
She watched in fascination as his face contorted in pain, and one of his
fingers twitched.  Ever so slowly, it scratched at the dirt on the floor.
Moving close, she could see that he had scribed a single, nearly illegible
word: Help.
She nearly laughed at the request: she wasn't even capable of helping

herself.  She started to turn away to leave him to his fate, but then she
noticed the tiny, desiccated bodies of mice, a rat and several rabbits
surrounding his head.  If he could force animals to come to him, perhaps he
had the kind of strength she needed in a protector.

   She leaned in close, not wanting to make too much sound in case there
were already police searching outside.  "I'll help you now if you'll keep
me with you until I'm strong enough to survive on my own.  Agreed?"

   He nodded almost imperceptibly, but that was enough.

   Returning to the ruins of the stairs, she jumped up to catch hold of the
lip of the floor and pulled herself up.  After brief consideration, she
picked up Lei and leaped back down to place the immobilized ancient next to
the crippled wreck of the man.

   When she returned outside, she could see headlights approaching in the
distance.  She ran quickly to the location where the vehicle would likely
enter the town, running backwards for the last hundred yards.  She then
hunkered down to wait in the narrow space between two of the ruined homes.

   A few minutes later, a four wheel drive SUV, its hood and sides marked
with the emblem and motto of the Pennsylvania State Police, rolled into the
town.  All four tires spun as they fought to find purchase on the icy, snow
covered road.

   As soon as the truck passed the first of the houses, a large spotlight
was activated and played over the fronts of the abandoned buildings and
their overgrown yards.  The misleading tracks she had left were quickly
discovered.  Leaving the light focused on her trail, two policemen exited
the vehicle and approached for a closer look.

   After they had crouched down and followed the tracks a few yards towards
the center of town, one of them pulled out a radio.

   "This is Unit Four to Dispatch."

   The radio crackled with static, but there was no response.

   The one who had made the call turned to his partner.  "We're probably
out of range of the hand helds, and being down in a valley doesn't help. 
Want to go back to the truck and make the call?  While you're at it, see if
they can send the chopper back."

   The other officer nodded and started to make his way back to the
vehicle. He never saw Alicia coming.  Without slowing her charge, she
clasped her hands together and drove them with all of her strength into the
center of his back.  She heard a loud crack as he was thrown forward to
land face down in the snow.  She only hesitated long enough to see him try
to drag himself toward the truck with his now useless legs trailing behind
him before she spun to rush at the other.

   He had heard the sound of his partner's back being broken and had turned
and drawn his weapon.  He got off one shot as she rapidly closed the
distance between them, but it went wide.  Hurling him to the ground, she
pummeled him viciously, driving her fists into his face until his body went
limp.

   She quickly returned to the first and reduced him to unconsciousness as
well.  Throwing the bodies over her shoulders, she sprinted back to where
she had left Lei and the badly wounded vampire.

   She held the first limp body over him while he fed.  She watched in
amazement as the blood flowed out of the torn end of his esophagus to spill
into his abdominal cavity.  The muscles that lined the cavity absorbed it
like a sponge.

   When the first was drained completely, she gazed on in wonder as the
gaping wound down the center of his stomach sealed shut, and, with a series
of pops, his limbs reassembled themselves into a semblance of their
intended shape.  He then lurched over on his side and fed on the second. 
When he finished, he let out a series of dry, hacking coughs as he tried to
use his half formed new lungs for the first time.

   When the coughing fit passed, he said, in a wispy voice she had to
strain to hear, "Thank you.  My name is Jean."

   "Alicia.  We'll get acquainted later.  For now, we need to get out of
here.  Fast.  More police will likely come when these two don't report in."


   She helped him to stand, and he hobbled slowly and unsteadily to the
stairwell, his legs making alarmingly loud pops and grating sounds as he
moved.  Taking hold of his hips, she boosted him up until he could catch
hold of the floor above.  He pulled and she pushed until he was sprawled
out on the first floor.  She quickly carried Lei over and passed her up to
him.

   She was about to jump up herself when he said, in his raspy, wheezing
voice, "Get the police, too.  Arthur would be most upset if we gave away
the game at this point."

   "Arthur?  He's alive?" Alicia asked with growing excitement.

   Jean peered down at her in confusion.  "He didn't send you?"

   "No.  I thought my Master was dead."

   "Master?  Merde!  We do have much to talk about, but, as you pointed
out, such things must wait."

   Alicia had to make two trips to get Lei and the bodies of the police
officers to their SUV; Jean could barely support his own weight, let alone
someone else's.

   They abandoned the police vehicle at the first occupied house that they
found, trading it for the owners' Subaru and adding two more bodies to
their cargo.  After Jean examined the older police vehicle and determined
that it was not outfitted with LoJack, they pulled it into the garage and
closed the door.  With any luck, it wouldn't be found for days.

   Chapter 33 December Twenty-third

   Dimitri Konstantinopoulos was a ship captain from a long line of ship
captains.  It had been his father who had purchased the freighter
Palinouros and passed it on to his son.  Dimitri's entire adult life, and
much of his youth, had been spent plying the ports of the Mediterranean,
the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf.  It was a rewarding life, if not
necessarily in a financial sense, and he had never had to call another man
his master.  At least that had been the case a mere three weeks ago.

   Now, after a number of trips back and forth between Basrah, Iraq,
Mumbai, India, and Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, the Palinouros was tied up to a
pier in Ashdod, Israel, and he was watching as a single cargo container was
carefully lowered into its hold.  Earlier that night, he had stood by
behind a warehouse as more than fifty men, most in the traditional garb of
Orthodox Jews, but a few in the uniforms of the Israeli Defense Force, had
shuffled into it, their faces filled with despair.  Like his did now, their
eyes had reflected oddly in the moonlight.

   Once the container was loaded, he and his crew would join its occupants.
In the morning, a crew hired by the things he now served would board the
ship and take it through the Suez canal, as there was not a southbound
convoy available until then.  After docking at the port of Duba, Saudi
Arabia, the temporary crew would offload some cargo and depart the ship. 
Then, at dusk, he and his men would cruise south to the port of Jeddah,
just to the west of Mecca, where a truck would be waiting for them.

   Chapter 34 December Twenty-fourth 8:45 a.m.

   His chin propped up on his hands, Mark sat at a table in the evidence
room and stared at the heavily engraved sword that they had recovered from
Iltana's car.  When he had been a kid, fighting imaginary dragons with a
twenty sided dice, he had dreamed of having a magic weapon, which, now that
he thought about it, was probably one of the main reasons that he hadn't
lost his virginity until he was nineteen.  Now that dream had come true,
and it was proving to be a major pain in the ass.

   The sword and the car were looking like yet another dead end.  No one
who worked in the area in which the car had been found had seen the pair or
the man who had taken them.  Prints lifted from the car were still being
run, but most belonged to the girl.  Unless 'Sam's' prints were in the
database - and most people's weren't - the prints would be yet another
piece of useless evidence added to the file.

   He ran his thumb along the blade that seemed to hold an edge far better
than bronze should.  Bright beads of blood rose from the laceration it left
behind.  With a muttered curse that would have earned him a stern look had
Jenny been present, he popped the injured digit into his mouth.  He should
have known better: he had seen what the weapon had done to Mia's leg.

   His eyes widened in sudden epiphany as he realized a possible reason for
the lack of disappearances in Pittsburgh compared to the huge number
everywhere else.  With his uninjured hand he fumbled through the loose
papers and folders that cluttered the table until he found his cell phone.
He dialed the number for forensics from memory.  He recognized the voice of
the man who answered.

   "Hi, Larry, this is Mark.  Do you remember those two rookies that
vanished just about a month ago?"

   "Hey, Mark.  Yeah, the names escape me at the moment, but I remember
them.  What about them?"

   "Were forensic investigations ever conducted on their homes?"

   "Nope.  One guy had a cluttered basement, but other than that, neither
place showed any sign of a struggle.  None of the neighbors saw or heard
anything odd.  They were simply gone.  Without any sign of foul play, there
was no reason to go through the expense of a full forensics investigation."

   "Could you get some people to do them now?"

   "If the places are still vacant, I suppose so.  We'll need a warrant,
though."

   "I'll take care of that."

   "Anything special we should be looking for?"

   "Cuts in the walls, floor or ceiling.  I'll send you a folder that has
all the dimensions and other particulars of the weapon I think might have
been used."

   "You're the lieutenant, Lieutenant.  As soon as we get the warrant, I'll
send a team out."

   After they hung up, Mark hurriedly put his papers back in order and
headed out to find the Chief.  He found the object of his search writing on
a post-it note at Mark's desk.  Chief Jacobs looked up as Mark approached.

   "Just the man I was looking for," they both said, nearly in unison.

   With a bob of his grizzled, crew cut head, Chief Dennis Jacobs said,
"You first.  Mine might take a while."

   As Mark explained his suspicions and the need for a warrant, Denny
leaned back against the desk, his face becoming increasingly grim.

   "I'll get the affidavit of probable cause over to the magistrate ASAP,"
he said when Mark was finished.

   He held up the few sheets of paper topped with a fax cover sheet that he
was carrying.  "As much as I hate to think that you're right, another piece
of the puzzle came in a few minutes ago.  The picture that's coming
together makes it look like you are."

   He pushed the papers into Mark's hands.  "We just got a request from the
Tulsa, Oklahoma P.D.  Yesterday, several bodies were discovered in one of
the flood control reservoirs along the Arkansas River.  They started
dragging the lake, and so far they have found more than a hundred.  Initial
examinations indicate that death was caused by massive blood loss. 
Although the bodies were deliberately mutilated to make identification
difficult, those injuries wouldn't have been fatal on their own and
certainly couldn't account for the loss of blood.  Given the similarity
between what they've found and what happened here last spring, they asked
if one of us could come take a look.  I'm sending you."

   "Denny, don't you think we should start letting everyone know what is
happening?"

   The Chief answered with a terse shake of his head.  "That executive hush
order is still in effect.  And, at this point, we can't really be sure that
our suspicions are warranted.  Go see what's happening in Tulsa.  I'll keep
an eye on the forensic investigations here.  When ...  if we get proof,
I'll bump a request through the chain of command for that order to be
lifted."

   "How long am I going to be gone?"

   "That depends on what you find.  A few days, at least.  Sorry about
sending you away over Christmas, but we can't afford to sit on this."

   Mark nodded his assent and headed home to pack.  Jenny was going to be
pissed.



   Chapter 35 December Twenty-fourth 1:00 p.m.  EST 9:00 p.m.  local time

   Abdul-Azid stretched and exited the plane into the King Abdulaziz
International Airport of Mecca.  His frustration over the long delay
resulting from some sort of engine problem faded immediately as his feet
touched the ground at the outskirts of the most holy of cities.  His
feeling of tranquility deepened as he bathed, trimmed his nails, and shaved
his head: the ritual cleansing that marked the start of his pilgrimage.

   Finally, in Ihram dress, the white, seamless, two-piece garment required
to be worn by all pilgrims to the city, whether they were there for Umrah,
the minor pilgrimage, like he was, or Hajj, the major pilgrimage, which he
had missed by less than a month, he began the long trek to his
accommodations near al-Masjid al-Haram, the Grand Mosque in which he would
continue his pilgrimage the following morning by circling the Kaaba.

   He could have taken one of the city's many private taxis, but walking
the very ground that Muhammad had trod upon roughly thirteen hundred years
before filled him with too much awe and reverence to choose any other means
of transportation.  As he walked, he found himself gawking like a child:
the city had grown so much since his youth and even since his last
pilgrimage several years before.

   The huge clock atop the recently completed Abraj Al-Bait Towers read
well after midnight when he drew close to his destination.  He had stopped
to chat and pray with several of his fellow pilgrims when the squeal of
tires drew their attention.

   A large tractor trailer, one of the endless streams of trucks that
brought food and goods to the residents and pilgrims in the city, had come
to a stop near the Grand Mosque.  The doors of the cargo container that it
pulled on a flatbed were flung open from the inside and men boiled out into
the street.  Seconds later, he saw the muzzle flashes and heard the chatter
of assault rifles.

   He and the other pilgrims stood stunned.  Who could possibly do violence
here among pilgrims who had forsworn fighting?  At first, it didn't occur
to any of them that outsiders could be involved: the city was closed to
non-Muslims by law.  The armed men quickly spread out, firing their weapons
and throwing Molotov cocktails.  Flames erupted from the sides of the
buildings leading to the Grand Mosque.

   Outraged, Abdul and the other pilgrims nevertheless held to the
strictures against violence and merely watched as other disturbances broke
out across the city.  The clocks atop the tallest of the Abraj Al-Bait
Towers exploded outward in a blossom of flame.  Less than a block away, one
of the men from the truck opened fire on a group of pilgrims.

   Without weapons they could do nothing to defend themselves.  Nearly as
one, they turned to run.  Even as they did so, a second group of men rushed
down the street to fall upon another cluster of recently arrived pilgrims,
beating them with fists and crude weapons.  Abdul was astonished to see
that the second group of attackers was composed almost entirely of Saudi's;
his own countrymen!

   Hearing gunfire behind him, he spun to see one of the men from the truck
rushing toward him.  The light from one of the street lamps fell on the
man's face, and, suddenly, all became clear.

   "The Israeli's are attacking!" he shouted.  "The Jews are desecrating
the city!"

   His words cut off as bright red flowers blossomed across the pristine
white of his Ihram clothing, but they were picked up by others who were
nearby and quickly spread across the Muslim world.

   Chapter 36 December Twenty-fourth 2:23 p.m EST 8:23 p.m local time

   His Holiness, Pope Pius XIII, chatted with several bishops and cardinals
as they followed three members of the Swiss Guard across St.  Peter's
Square to the Basilica.  The primary topic of conversation was the sermon
that he would be giving at midnight mass just a few hours hence.  He wanted
to make certain that he would be delivering a message of peace and
tolerance that would appeal to all ages and would be clearly understood by
all.  His hope was that, during the years to come, he would be able to
restore the church's reputation, a reputation that had been sullied over
the past few decades by scandals, the most recent being the indiscretions
of his predecessor's youth.

   As his secretary scribbled madly onto a notepad in an attempt to keep up
with the additions and subtractions being suggested by the group, Pope Pius
suddenly took note of his surroundings.  They were outside the room in
which he would undergo the lengthy and laborious process of donning the
ceremonial garb for the night's event.  He double checked his watch.  The
process wasn't that lengthy: there must have been an error in the schedule
his secretary had sent to the guards.

   Addressing the three young men, Pope Pius said, "I am sorry, my sons,
but there must have been a mistake.  We don't have to be here for more than
an hour."

   The guards exchanged nervous and guilty glances.  One replied, "There's
something in here that you need to see, Your Holiness."

   Nodding his assent, the Pope and his retinue followed the men into the
room.  He gasped in dismay at the sight of the contents.  The bodies of
Deacons, Bishops, Cardinals and more than a few members of the Swiss Guard
and Gendarmerie were stacked like cordwood against one of the walls.  Seven
other members of the Vatican police force and the Pope's personal bodyguard
stood silently in a semi-circle surrounding the entrance, fangs protruding
over their lower lips.

   From behind him, Pope Pius heard the door latch shut.  As one, the
initial occupants of the room moved forward to seize the bishops and
cardinals who had accompanied him.  He averted his eyes as his companions
sighed with bliss, their feet drumming against the floor.

   One of the Swiss Guards who had escorted them to this place advanced on
him.  Despite the look of regret and sorrow in his eyes, he moved with
purpose.

   Pope Pius met the man's gaze without fear.  Calmly, he crossed himself
and said quietly, "I shall pray for your soul, my son."

   As the guard grasped the Pope's shoulders and leaned forward to press
sharp, elongated teeth against the Pope's throat, he whispered soulfully in
reply, "Thank you, Holy Father."

   Once their joyless task was complete, the one who commanded their
obedience, although he had been among the most junior of them only weeks
before, said, in a voice thick with unshed tears, "Help me get them
dressed, they need to be in full ceremonial garb by midnight."

   Chapter 37 December Twenty-fourth 3:00 p.m.  EST 2:00 p.m.  local time

   After landing at the Tulsa International Airport, Mark shuffled out into
the terminal with the other passengers.  Due to the regulation prohibiting
those without tickets from going past airport security, the young,
uniformed police officer holding a sign that read 'Mark Kimmel' was the
only person waiting for them at the gate.  He was fresh from the academy
fit and bore a lopsided mustache in an obvious attempt to look older than
his, at most, twenty-two years.

   Mark walked over to stand in front of him, but, after giving Mark a
cursory glance, the young man returned to watching the flow of the other
passengers.

   Extending his hand, Mark said, "Hi, I'm Lieutenant Mark Kimmel,
Pittsburgh P.D."

   The young officer started in surprise; Mark obviously wasn't what he had
been expecting.  He recovered quickly, however, and reached out to shake
Mark's hand.  "Pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Kimmel.  My name's George
Claypoole."

   "Nice to meet you, too, George.  Please, call me Mark."

   With the pleasantries disposed of, they started to walk toward the
baggage claim area.

   Sounding slightly embarrassed, George said, "With the holidays and all,
we weren't expecting someone to come so soon, Lieu...  Mark.  We really
don't have a lot for you to see yet.  Full examinations still haven't been
completed on even the first bodies that were found, and none have been
identified."

   "That's okay.  We thought it would be best to find out if what happened
here is connected to what occurred in Pittsburgh last April as soon as
possible.  Tell me, has the Tulsa police department had problems with
officers going missing?"

   The seemingly irrelevant question confused George for a second, but he
replied, "Well, I don't know about 'missing,' but we've had some issues
with job abandonment."

   "You sound pretty certain that's all it is."

   "There was an investigation.  The detective who conducted it interviewed
a lot of them.  Just like in most other cities, they were suffering from
severe depression and anxiety from the New Jersey terrorist attack."

   "Was the officer who conducted the investigation on night shift, or did
he ask to be assigned to it afterwards?"

   "Uh, I'm not sure: he's not assigned to my station."

   "Did you know any of those who abandoned their jobs?"

   "Not really.  I just finished my probationary period, so I knew a few of
them to see them, but none very well."

   "Have you spoken to any of them since they left?"

   "No, but, as I said, I never did outside of work.  Why do you ask?"

   Mark hesitated for a long moment before answering, "No particular
reason. I've just taken a personal interest in the matter."

   "It's been a real problem.  I still can't believe how widespread it's
become.  I've heard that even the Canadians are having issues.  While I'm
gratified that our neighbors to the north are taking the incident so
personally, I still can't figure out why they would."

   Again Mark hesitated before settling for a simple, "Me either, George."

   When they exited the terminal, Mark wished that he had thought to pack
something lighter than the heavy winter coat he was wearing.  While not
exactly warm, the air was far more temperate than what he had become used
to in Pittsburgh over the past few months.  Beads of sweat had appeared on
his forehead by the time they reached the car.  George, who had insisted on
carrying Mark's single, small suitcase and garment bag, placed them
carefully in the back seat of the police car.

   As he started the engine, he turned toward the older policeman.  "We got
you a room at the Radisson.  Want me to take you there so you can get
settled in?"

   "You said the bodies were at the medical examiner's?"

   "Yes."

   "Let's go there first."

   Tulsa's morgue looked much like any other that Mark had been in, except
the normally sterilely clean tiles and stainless steel gurneys were covered
with clumps of mud and puddles of river water.  All of the gurneys were
occupied, and the anxious and tense looking ME was guiding several
paramedics as they added to a large stack of full plastic body bags that
ran the length of one of the walls.

   Mark walked over to introduce himself to the dusky skinned doctor, who,
in turn, identified himself as Dr.  Kumar Bhatt.  He quickly reiterated
what Mark already knew: preliminary toxicology reports had come back
negative; in all cases, death had apparently been caused by massive blood
loss; there were no injuries inflicted prior to death that would explain
the loss; and the bodies had been mutilated post-mortem.

   "Do any of the victims have broken necks?" Mark asked.

   Dr.  Bhatt pursed his lips in thought before consulting a list.  "Two. I
think they're still bagged."

   "Only two?" Mark was ashamed by the flash of elation that passed through
him at the news.  However odd and horrific the deaths might be, the absence
of such injuries weighed against the murders having been committed by a
vampire.  He then recalled that the victims of the Cain killer also lacked
that distinctive injury.

   Excusing himself, he walked out into the hall.  He stared at his cell
phone for a long time before finally pressing a button with a sigh.

   It was still daylight, even back east, so it was no surprise when Dana
answered.

   "Mark?  It's so good to hear from you!  We've been..."

   "How do Tom and Mia keep their victim's from rising without breaking
their necks?" Mark asked flatly, deciding that it wasn't the time to work
out their differences.

   After a disappointed sigh, Dana explained.  When she was done, she
continued, "Listen, Mark, I know..."

   He hung up on her and went back into the morgue.  At first, Dr.  Bhatt
was dubious, to say the least, about following his suggestion.  There were,
after all, no external injuries on the bases of any of the skulls that
would warrant such an examination.  After he cut away the skin on the third
body to be checked, however, he found a hole and a fragment of metal that
had been left behind when a knife had been thrust in to separate the spine
from the brain.

   His brow furrowed with confusion, the doctor conducted a hurried
examination of a sampling of the remaining bodies.  This revealed that such
injuries were only present on a fairly small percentage of them.

   Although Mark was as confused as the doctor by the presence of such
wounds on only a few of the bodies, if not for quite the same reasons, the
fact that any of the victims had it was all the proof he needed.

   Returning to the hallway, he quickly called Chief Jacobs.

   "Hey, Denny.  This is Mark."

   "Find anything?" Denny asked tensely.

   "Yeah.  We have our proof."

   After Mark briefly explained, Denny said grimly, "Okay.  I'll start
working on getting that executive order lifted."

   "Have you found out anything on your end?"



   "Nothing certain yet, but a number of slices were found in the carpet of
one of the residences which could have been caused by the, uh, sword."

   "You know what that means, don't you?  The reason that our department
isn't having the same kind of problems as most others in the country is
that Sam guy killed the first few vampires in Pittsburgh.  Jesus, Denny,
pretty much every city in the U.S.  and Canada must be crawling with the
bloodsuckers, and a bunch of them are most likely cops."

   "Yeah, that's what I figure, too."

   "Denny, I want to tell these people what's happening.  It'll be night
soon, and they deserve to know."

   The following pause was so long that Mark thought they had been
disconnected.

   Finally, though, Denny sighed sadly.  "We can't, Mark.  Even without the
executive order, it would be a bad idea.  If there are vampires among the
police, tipping off one would also be tipping off the other.  Once the
monsters know that they've been discovered...  Well, you know as well as I
do that the resulting loss of life could be catastrophic.

   "Add to that the fact that most people aren't going to take us at all
seriously.  Hell, unless we have support, they might try to get us
committed to a place with nice soft walls.  Plus, as you pointed out, there
are a lot of cities in which people have been vanishing.  We wouldn't be
able to coordinate anything on that kind of scale before nightfall, even if
we could get someone to believe us.

   "Here's what we'll do.  I'll get the order lifted tonight if I have to
drive down to D.C.  and haul the President out of bed personally.  First
thing tomorrow morning, while the vampires are sleeping, we'll work with
the federal government to warn the infected cities and come up with a
coordinated plan to eliminate the monsters before they wake.

   "I know people are going to die tonight, or be turned into undead.  I
know you don't like it.  I don't either.  But, that number would be a lot
higher if they knew that we were on to them and moved to defend
themselves."

   Mark tried to find a flaw in the Chief's logic, but failed.  "Okay,
Chief."

   After Mark hung up, he checked the time: it should be getting dark in
Western Pennsylvania.  He again stared at his phone for a long moment
before dialing.

   This time, Tom answered.  "Hello, Mark.  Dana said you called.  She's
really upset."

   Mark sighed as he rubbed his temples.  "Hi, Tom.  Yeah, I admit that I
was a little abrupt.  Please tell her I'm sorry.  I'm having a hard time
coming to terms with what you and Mia are doing, but now's not the time to
talk about that.  I need to ask you something else."

   Tom sighed with resignation.  "Okay, shoot."

   "Is there any reason why a vampire wouldn't disconnect the central
nervous system of his or her victim?"

   He waited while Tom relayed the question to Mia, and then some more as
she considered the question.

   "Mia says that the only reason she can think of is that the vampire was
attempting to make a fledgling, but the Gift didn't take."

   "Huh.  How often are such attempts successful?"

   Again he had to wait while the question was relayed.

   "For intelligent fledglings, the Gift takes roughly nine times out of
ten.  For ferals, it's somewhat lower."

   "Thanks.  I have to go, but I'll talk to you soon," Mark said mutely.

   He leaned heavily against a wall as he digested this new information. 
The ramifications were staggering.  Based on the number of bodies recovered
- and more were discovered with each passing minute - there could well be
thousands of vampires in the area.

   Chapter 38 December Twenty-fourth 4:52 p.m.  EST

   As the orange and crimson sunset faded into the deep purple of a bruise,
a patch of ice along the Potomac bulged upwards.  Three slight figures,
dripping wet and covered with muck, crawled out onto the frozen river bank.
Without acknowledging, or even looking at, one other, they began to run
faster than any olympian.  Hunched over, using their arms and hands as much
as their legs, they stayed in a tight group for a few miles before their
paths diverged.

   Chapter 39 December Twenty-fourth 5:00 p.m.  EST

   Arthur paced back and forth across the floor of the farmhouse as he made
phone calls to his original fledglings to give last minute orders for them
and their offspring.  The nature of the instructions precluded him from
maintaining the feeble pretense of building a better society.  He would no
longer have their voluntary cooperation.  At this stage of the game,
however, obedience should be more than enough.

   All of the pieces were in place.  Only the very smallest of cities had
stopped at the one hundred and eighty seven vampires called for in the
original outline he had given to the men at Fort Dix.  In most of the large
ones, his forces numbered in the thousands.  He was almost quivering with
anticipation as he set them into motion.  He had always thought Sun Tzu's
obsession with moral law to be an effete weakness, but the ancient general
had gotten one thing right: when the time came to move, fall like a
thunderbolt.

   When he put his phone away, he addressed Woodard and Huffhamner, "You
two will be coming with me to coordinate the attack.  You have heard the
orders I have given to the other cities, but here in the Capital, there are
some special concerns.

   "Until Congress has convened, we must maintain the illusion that
everything is normal.  Those fledglings we have in the telecommunications
offices will slow the flow of information to a trickle rather than cutting
it off completely.  This will make it seem that the system is still working
but is overloaded.  Events overseas should justify the apparent heavy use.

   "We will also be keeping the routes to Ronald Reagan International
Airport and Bollins Airforce Base clear until the flies are within our web.
Those we have in place in those areas will be making preparations to take
them down quickly once we are ready.

   "Once Congress has been assembled, we must move quickly to severe
communications and block the remaining access routes.  To ensure the routes
stay blocked, go through triple A's list of towing companies, kill the
drivers and disable the trucks.

   "Because the local phone service will still be functioning at some
level, we need to keep the 911 dispatch offices staffed.  Any time a call
is received from someone who has witnessed our activities, a car is to be
sent to the caller's location to eliminate all present.  Do so quietly.

   "It is vital that no word gets out, or the cities farther west, where
dusk comes later, will be forewarned.  As it is, they will certainly be
aware that something is happening, but, without knowing what that might be,
they will have little hope of stopping us.

   "Oh, and one final matter.  Sometime after midnight, a number of buses
from the North Branch Correctional Institution in Maryland should be
arriving.  As the streets will be impassible, escort them on foot to the
National Archive building and the WABS radio station.  Assign enough
fledglings to this task to make certain that the inmates are not killed by
ferals on the way.  Do not fail in this as they will be guarding you while
you sleep away the day in the vaults."

   Turning to Dorothy and Susan, he instructed, "You two stay here and keep
aneye on Zach and his sister.  I would be a poor host indeed if I allowed
the General's grandchildren to go unattended." Addressing Zach more than
the fledglings, he added, "Do not allow them to leave this place alive."

   Holding out a hand, he told Susan, "Come and kiss your Master goodbye
like a good girl."

   As she crawled across the floor to kiss his offered fingers, Arthur saw
Zach's eyes intently follow her swaying hindquarters.

   With a chuckle, he said, "Well, my dear, it looks like you have an
admirer.  How grand!  I told you that those rings looked fetching on you.
Such ardor should not go unrewarded.  While we're gone, take him upstairs
and make a man out of him."

   He laughed as the boy's eyes went wide, either from lust or terror. 
Directing a wink and a lewd grin to the teenager and patting Susan on the
head like a favorite pet, he spun on his heel and took his leave.

   Once Arthur and the two former officers were gone, Susan released a long
suffering sigh, and, after throwing Zach a beckoning glance, started to
crawl up the stairs that led to the bedrooms.  She could feel the sixteen
year old's eyes on her bottom as he followed closely behind her.  At least,
she thought to herself, the experience was unlikely to be painful or overly
humiliating.

   After leading him into a bedroom, she kicked the door shut and turned to
start undoing his belt and the buttons on his jeans.  She noticed that his
wrists were still swollen and abraded from having spent the day hogtied and
gagged with his sister in the closet beneath the stairs.

   "Wait a second," he protested as he made a futile attempt to stop her
hands.  "Can we just talk for a minute?"

   She looked up at him silently and continued to undo his clothing.

   "You have to do whatever that old guy tells you to, huh?" he asked.

   She nodded in reply.

   "I hate him.  He should have left my sister alone, she's only six, and
he had no reason to hurt Mr.  Porter, Tony and the others," he said flatly.



   Susan could only shrug helplessly.

   "You hate him, too.  Don't you?" he asked.

   After a fearful pause, she gave a short nod.

   He gasped with surprised pleasure as she managed to free his cock and
take it into her mouth.

   To her dismay, Susan found herself enjoying the experience as well.  She
loved the way his cock felt in her mouth: so soft and so hard at the same
time.  She smiled as his mouth dropped open and his eyes squeezed shut.

   His earlier train of thought effectively derailed, he forced his eyes
open to watch as his dick vanished and reappeared between her lips.  He
couldn't believe the waves of pleasure that such a simple action were
sending through his body.

   "You really are beautiful," he said softly as he brushed her hair from
her eyes with trembling fingers.

   She would have laughed if she had been able: at his age, he would no
doubt think Dorothy was beautiful if the homely woman had his cock in her
mouth.  Instead, she withdrew until she could thrum her tongue against the
underside of the spongy head.  Without warning, his hot seed burst into her
mouth and throat, and she had to grab his hips to support him as his knees
gave way.

   Lifting him without effort, she laid him on the bed, and then crawled up
to join him.  It only took a few minutes of sucking and licking to return
his cock to a full erection.  Raising her head, she gave his manhood a last
few strokes before deciding that it was time to 'make him a man.' She
turned her back to him and placed her chest on the bed, rolling her
upraised hips back and forth in silent invitation.

   The bed shifted as he took his place behind her, and then she felt his
curious fingers exploring the curves of her buttocks and the soft folds of
her labia.  To her surprise, the bed shifted again as he backed off.  She
started to turn to see what the problem was, when she felt him place a
tentative kiss on her pierced clit.  Seconds later, his tongue probed the
entrance of her womanhood.  He apparently liked the way she tasted as his
tongue remained inside her, vigorously wiggling and licking.

   It had been so long since anyone had made any attempt to give her
pleasure, that his efforts, unskilled as they were, quickly sent her over
the edge.  She clutched the blanket tightly in her fists as she panted out
her pleasure into a pillow.

   When he showed no signs of stopping, she rolled over onto her back. 
Taking his head gently between her hands, she guided his efforts, teaching
him without words the fine art of pleasing a woman.  He was surprisingly
gentle, carefully avoiding pulling or twisting the rings that adorned her
sex.  Better still, what he lacked in experience, he made up for with
enthusiasm, and her body shook nearly continuously in orgasm.

   As the tremors within her subsided, she pushed his head away and again
rolled over onto her stomach.  This time, he didn't hesitate to accept the
invitation of her proffered bottom.  He moaned as he slid inside her, and
continued to moan as his hips buffeted the cheeks of her ass.

   Susan closed her eyes in pleasure as his plunging penis tugged on the
ring through her clit..  Although not very large, the warmth that seemed to
flow from his cock was one of the most delicious sensations that she had
ever experienced.  This was especially true as, unlike Arthur's, his member
did not suddenly sprout barbed hooks, grow painfully huge, or form
rudimentary mouths full of sharp teeth that gnawed on her vaginal walls.

   Even though he had cum only a short time before, she did not expect him
to last long, and he didn't.  It was only a few minutes before he announced
his second climax with a loud groan.  Despite the lack of endurance, the
heat of his seed splashing into her chilly depths triggered an orgasm of
her own.

   Afterwards, she cradled him in her arms as she held him to her breast.
Feeling genuine affection for the boy, she nuzzled her cheek against the
top of his head as he alternated between whispering endearments and
meaningless affirmations of undying devotion with suckling at her breast.
Even in his drowsy afterglow, she noticed that he took great care to avoid
twisting or pulling too hard on the ring that impaled her nipple.

   After running his tongue around her areola a final time, he rolled to
his side and propped his head up on his hand.  Warmth washed through her at
the sight of the boyish infatuation in his eyes.

   "Can we talk now?" he asked hesitantly.

   At her wry expression, he quickly stammered, "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean
to...  I meant: Can I ask you something?"

   At her nod, he continued, "I was thinking, and ...  well ...  Arthur
said that you couldn't let me leave here alive.  If you made me like you, I
wouldn't really be alive anymore.  I could go and tell my grampa what
Arthur's planning and where Ashley is."

   After a long pause he added sadly, "My sister's too young to die, and we
both know that Arthur will never give us back to our family, no matter what
he says."

   Susan frantically shook her head.  The mere thought of betraying the
unspoken intent of Arthur's orders caused her stomach to clench in pain.

   "Please," he begged plaintively.  "I'm already as good as dead, and,
this way, I could at least save my little sister."

   Susan was nearly overwhelmed by frustration.  He had no idea of the risk
he was thinking of taking.  He knew nothing of the ever decreasing odds
that he would actually rise.  But there was nothing she could do to warn
him.

   Her doctoral thesis in biochemistry had been innovative and eloquent
enough to inspire Dr.  Nolan to invite her to join him in a one of a kind
study.  The speech she had given when she graduated valedictorian of her
class at John Hopkins had ended in a standing ovation.  Now, however, she
was reduced to communicating through head shakes and facial expressions. 
After he had caught her and Woodard exchanging notes, Arthur had even
forbidden her to write.

   Refusing to be deterred, Zach continued to beg.  His repeated appeals
gradually wore down her resistance.  She reluctantly had to admit that he
was right: as things now stood, he had nothing to lose, no hope for a
future.  While Arthur scrupulously kept his promises, she had heard some of
his conversations with the General.  Although he had often used the phrase,
"If you want to see your grandchildren alive," he had never explicitly
promised that this event would occur.  In short, while there was little
hope that the attempt would work, a little hope was better than none at
all.

   He squeaked with surprise when she pushed him over onto his back and
swung a leg over him to straddle his hips.  Although he looked scared to
death, he nodded in response to the unspoken question in her eyes.  She
swooped down.

   As her teeth cut into his neck, she felt his cock surge to life beneath
her and begin to spurt.  Reaching between their bodies, she took it in hand
and guided it back inside her.  The pleasure of feeding rose up in curious
counterpoint to the pain spawned by the betrayal of her Master's unstated
intent.  Trembling with agony and ecstacy, she pulled her mouth from his
throat when he was on the verge of losing consciousness.

   Her fangs cut deep furrows into her tongue.  Bending down, she thrust it
into his mouth.  He sucked on it eagerly, desperately.  She reopened her
wounds several times to make certain that he got enough.  She finally broke
the kiss that was hopefully giving him eternity, and returned her lips to
his throat.

   When it was over, she rolled off of him; her face contorted in a rictus
of pain.  She curled into a ball as she waited for it to fade.  It took
what seemed like ages.  When she was finally able to straighten her body,
she reached over to close his vacant eyes and then settled in to wait.





   Chapter 40 December Twenty-fourth 5:00 p.m.  EST

   With a forced smile, Adam pushed his way to the front of the Fourth
District's large and crowded classroom.  Taking position behind the podium,
he cleared his throat to get the attention of the seventy officers in the
room; nearly every one who remained from the day shifts of the surrounding
districts, and most of those on evening shift who had been deemed to be too
useless or old to recruit.  The room went quiet except for the scrape of
chair legs on the tiled floor as all eyes turned attentively forward.

   "Merry Christmas, all," Adam said with a sickly grin.  "For those who
don't know me, my name is Adam and I'm assigned to the City of Brotherly
Love's SWAT team.  Now, I know that those of you on day shift want to get
home to your families, and that those on the evening shift want to head out
to make sure that Santa makes it safely to the homes of all the good boys
and girls of Philadelphia, so I'll make this as short as possible.  The
powers that be asked me to give you all a short familiarization lecture on
the M-4 carbine.  Pay attention now, 'cause a little note from the CIA said
that we can probably expect some of these bad boys to be popping up in our
fair city."

   Opening the case that he had carried in with him, he pulled out one of
the weapons in question.

   Holding it up, he said, "You'll note that it looks a lot like a shorter,
lighter M16, and, in a lot of ways, it is.  Like the M16, it fires
5.56x45mm ammunition.  As those of you who are sitting close by can see,
there are three selective fire options, also much like the M16."

   Taking hold of the switch, he moved it through the options as he said
them aloud, "Safe, semi-automatic, which means it will fire once each time
you pull the trigger, and three round burst, which is self explanatory. 
Other variations of the weapon have full automatic instead of the three
round burst."

   His expression becoming grim, he turned the business end of the carbine
toward his audience.

   "However, I think you'll find that the three round burst option is
plenty deadly."

   Dropping to a tactical stance next to the podium, he opened fire,
switching from target to target with unparalleled speed and accuracy.  The
men and women in the front rows went down before the surprise had faded
from their faces.

   He slid a fresh clip home, and, only a few seconds later, had emptied
and replaced it as well.  Only a few of those in the middle rows survived
long enough to reach for their sidearms, and none managed to clear their
holsters.

   Another clip clicked into place.  A few in the back managed to draw and
return fire.  Most of the shots went wide, but several bullets bit into his
arms and thighs, and others slammed into the body armor that covered his
chest and groin.

   Adam found himself laughing madly as the injuries that would have put
him out of the fight a few weeks earlier closed and healed without causing
him even slight inconvenience.  Even as the insane cackle went on and on,
tears ran down his face and dropped to the floor to mingle with the growing
puddles of blood.  He had met the orders for his actions, issued within
moments of his waking by a long faced Wilson, with numb disbelief.  But he
had no choice other than to obey.

   When no one was left standing, he ceased fire, leaving the room silent
except for the groans and pleas for mercy from the wounded.  As he watched
a man crawl slowly towards the door on his hands, his useless legs dragging
behind him, Adam took a deep breath that ended with a sob.  Without his
volition, his body started to carry out the next part of his orders, and he
went around the room to finish off the wounded with the fangs that had
descended when the thick, coppery smell of blood had filled the air.  As he
had been instructed, he didn't break the necks of those he drained.

   Popping a fresh clip into his assault rifle, he walked across the hall
to Dispatch.  Maria stood blocking the exit as she carefully aimed and
fired her service pistol.  He stepped up beside her and joined in the
creation of more carnage.  When all were down, they clung to each other
desperately until compelled to move on.  Together, they walked among the
bodies, and those who had only been injured died on their fangs.  While
they were carrying out this task, a call for help from the first district
came over the radio.  It cut off to the muted sound of gunfire.  Other than
that, the radio remained silent.

   As they were finishing their task, four others came by and indicated
with nods that the rest of the station had been cleared.  The others then
exited the building to collect those who guarded the emergency exits before
heading out to join the groups who were roaming the city.

   With no one left in the station but Adam, Maria and the dead, they
shared a brief, comforting hug.  Maria then retrieved a packet of documents
and went back to dispatch to monitor those who were paying visits to the
homes of notable residents of the city.

   Adam settled in behind the front desk.  Until the ferals started to
rise, his job was to 'greet' any civilians or living police officers who
might try to seek refuge at the station,.  After that, he and Maria would
depart, leaving any further visitors to the tender mercies of their bestial
kin.  He had been at the desk for less than a minute when a couple burst in
through the door.

   "Officer, we heard gunshots ...," the man began as he approached the
desk.

   "That's too bad," Adam replied glumly as he reached for his carbine.

   Chapter 41 December Twenty-fourth 5:30 p.m.  EST

   Kelly Sullivan stood at the head of the table in one of the second floor
conference rooms of the CIA's Langley headquarters.  Seated at the table
were the who's who of the intelligence community: the directors from her
own agency's intelligence and NCS branches - the latter was new to the job
as his predecessor had failed to survive his meeting with Arthur - two of
the top members of Homeland Security's Office of Intelligence and Analysis,
three directors from various departments of the FBI, and, most notable of
all, the Director of the CIA and the Director of National Intelligence. 
Despite the holiday, they had all assembled at the last minute to hear
first hand the critical and urgent communication that she had intercepted
and interpreted less than thirty minutes ago.

   The intelligence had been fabricated.  Arthur had made several calls to
his servants in the Middle East and directed them to hold phone and
internet forum conversations hinting at a major terrorist operation
underway inside the continental United States and implying that the sudden
rash of disappearing agents had been the result of a leak within Langley
itself.  Kelly had then made certain that she was the one assigned to
translate and assess those exchanges.  After she had brought them to the
attention of her new supervisor, he had elected to have her present the
material, as she had known he would.  Should the information prove correct,
he would still be able to take credit, but if it was false, he would be
able to place all the blame on her.

   As the ranking official, the DNI took charge of the meeting.  Leaning
forward to fix her with a baleful stare, he said, "Well, Ms.  Sullivan, I
understand that you have something important for us to hear.  So important
that it couldn't wait." His stern gaze promised dire consequences if it
wasn't.

   Checking her watch, Kelly replied, "Just one more minute, sir.  I'm
sorry for the delay."

   The minute passed slowly as feet were shuffled under the table and the
looks directed at her became increasingly unfriendly.

   Setting a briefcase on the table, she addressed the group, "Gentlemen,
again I apologize for the delay.  I was supposed to tell you about some
communications from the Middle East that were intercepted.  However,
something far more important has come up."

   Opening the briefcase, she removed a small aluminum cylinder and placed
it on the table.  With the exception of the Homeland Security officials,
who just looked at it blankly, the rest of the men at the table jumped
backwards out of their seats.

   "What in tarnation do you think you're doing, Ms.  Sullivan?" the DNI
shouted angrily, "Do you know what in the hell that is?"

   "Yes, sir.  I do," Kelly replied calmly.  "It contains two precursor
chemicals for sarin gas and another chemical to increase the vapor pressure
at room temperature.  When I pull the pin and push down on this button -
like this - they mix together and release."

   She smiled at them pleasantly as snot ran from their noses and they
clutched at their chests.  She continued smiling as drool ran from the
corners of their mouths, and the vomiting, urination and defecation began.
Little more than a minute after she had pressed the button, they tumbled to
the floor, their limbs twitching and jerking as they went into comas. 
Seconds later, they died of suffocation in a series of convulsive spasms.

   As she exited the room, she stooped down to pat her former boss's face.

   "How about that, Charlie?" she asked.  "You were always wanting me to
fuck you, and now I would say that you're pretty much fucked.  I hope it
met expectations."

   The hallways outside the room reeked of vomit, piss and shit. 
Apparently, the second canister of nerve gas that she had placed in the
building's ventilation system, after disabling the chemical detectors and
filters, had worked as planned and released at the same time as the one in
the conference room.  She briefly wondered if the canisters that her
counterparts had placed in Quantico, the J.  Edgar Hoover building, and
various parts of the Pentagon had also worked.  If not, this could well be
the shortest coup attempt in all of history as those places needed to be
eliminated quickly and quietly.

   As she fretted, she found herself wishing that Jean was with her.  The
last week they had spent together had easily been the best of her life. 
She had reveled in the exhilaration of running for hours on end at
previously undreamed speed, the wonder of learning how to use her sense of
smell at the conservatory, and the joy of the hunt.  She was so worried
about him.  The bond between them had erupted with fear and agony a few
nights before, and the pain had remained ever since.  She had wanted to go
to him immediately, but Arthur had forbidden it.  Last night, the pain had
receded slightly, and tonight she could sense that he was coming closer. 
As she had frequently over the past days, she concentrated on channeling
warm feelings into the bond, hoping that he would feel them and take heart.

   Taking the elevator to the ground floor, she met up with the security
guard who had admitted her to the building without having her pass through
any of the scanners.  Silently he passed her a sealed plastic bag that
contained a change of clothes, a strong lye soap to neutralize any of the
nerve toxin that remained on her skin, and a handgun.  Removing the pistol
and chambering a round, she joined him at the security desk.  The nerve
agent was persistent enough that it should kill any who entered the
building, but someone needed to keep the lobby clear of bodies.

   Chapter 42 December Twenty-fourth 5:30 p.m.  EST

   John Duckworth entered the White House grounds through the Pennsylvania
Avenue entrance, flashing his identification and waving at the agent on
gate duty.  The gate guard returned the wave and kept his hand raised as he
exited the guard house.

   "Merry Christmas, John," the guard said with broad smile.  "I just
wanted to let you know that we all appreciate what you're doing.  It's damn
nice of you to take all of these night shifts in a row so some of the
married guys can have a little more time with their families.  You ever
need anything, just let me know."

   Forcing a smile onto his face, John replied, "Merry Christmas to you,
too.  I've always been a bit of a night owl, so trading for the evening
shifts hasn't been any problem at all.  Besides, it seemed like the right
thing to do."

   With a final nod and a smile, the guard let him in.  John entered the
building itself through the North Portico.  After following the tail end of
the last tour group of the evening across the entrance hall, he exchanged a
polite nod with the agents who kept an eye on the visitors, and descended
to the ground floor offices of the Secret Service.  Joe Gull, the Special
Agent in Charge, was in the room chatting with John's supervisor and the
supervisor's second in command, or whip.

   "Hey, Joe," John greeted the SAIC.

   "Hi John.  I'm putting you on Gaff tonight," Joe replied, using the
Service's nickname for the Vice President.  "He's in town for the holidays,
but he promises that he'll stay put in Number One Observatory Circle for
the night.  Oh.  Another thing.  Just to give you a heads up, you're
scheduled to go to Beltsville next week for refresher training.  Sorry for
the delay in getting you there, but the AWOLs have made a mess of the
schedule."

   "Sounds good.  Do I have time to hit the can before heading to the VP's
house?"

   "Sure.  You don't have to be there until six."

   John walked quickly to the west wing and the larger room that the
Service maintained there.  Inside, four men watched row upon row of
monitors, speaking occasionally into their headsets.  Sticking his head in
the room, John gave a little wave with his left hand while reaching into
his trench coat with the right.

   With the home made suppressor mounted at the end of the barrel and the
subsonic .22 caliber long rifle rounds in the clip, his semi-automatic
pistol barely made more noise than a man clapping his hands as it spoke
four times.  After a brief pause, it fired again when one of the first
shots proved to be non-fatal.

   "You guys okay?" a voice said from the direction of Homeland Security's
office a short distance down the hall.

   "Yeah, we're fine," John called back.

   Despite his assurances, he heard footsteps coming down the hall. 
Moments later his pistol barked again.  This shot was louder than those
before it: the poorly made suppressor was already starting to break down.
He concealed the five bodies the best that he could before speaking a code
word into the radio.  He watched on the monitors as the other two agents he
had recruited for Arthur approached the snipers on the opposite corners of
the roofs of the east and west wings.  As they had been instructed, they
used their knives before taking the snipers' places.

   After shutting down the communication system, he did a quick sweep of
the rest of the west wing's ground floor.  The situation room, photo and
video rooms, and navy mess were all empty.  The small Homeland Security
office was also vacant: the one agent he had already taken care of was
apparently the only one on duty at the White House during the holiday.

   He double timed back to the SAIC's office.  All three men were still
there.  They looked up curiously when he entered.

   "Forget some ...," Joe began before the hollow tipped bullet hit him in
the throat and silenced him forever.

   John fired twice more.

   "Sorry, Joe," he said sadly as he dragged the bodies behind the desk.

   Returning to the surveillance room, he waited for the agents who would
inevitably be sent to determine what the problem was with the
communications system.  By the time the fifth had arrived, the suppressor
had ceased functioning completely.  Unscrewing it, John threw it aside and
waited to see if anyone else would come, whether to investigate the gunfire
or the communications failure.  The odds of the former weren't very high:
even without the suppressor, the subsonic ammunition wasn't very loud and
the walls were thick.

   After ten minutes with no new arrivals, he made a quick call to Arthur
before hiding a knife in his sleeve and heading out to pay a visit to key
fixed sentry points.



   After nodding at the closest of the fledglings who surrounded to White
House to prevent anyone fleeing the building from making good on their
escape, Arthur entered using the same route that John had earlier.  The
gate guard didn't even glance up as he triggered the switch that released
the locks.  After Arthur had passed, the guard went back to his dutiful
surveillance of the street, not retaining any memory of the entry.

   Arthur and John met in the Cross Hall that ran the length of the first
floor before descending a flight of stairs to the Center Hall.  Because of
the holiday, the usual bustling crowds of administrative aides and minor
functionaries were almost absent.  That was one of the reasons that Arthur
had chosen this day to act.

   The few people who remained passed without so much as a curious glance;
the reassuring presence of an agent forestalled any suspicion.  They passed
quickly through the Palm Room and along the West Colonnade until they were
outside the President's secretary's office.

   Arthur checked his watch.  It was just past six: news of the disasters
on the other side of the pond should be starting to arrive.  With a
gesture, he indicated that John should precede him.  There were four Secret
Service agents in the room: two by the door to the Oval Office, and the
others by the door that Arthur and John came through.  They became tense
and alert as the pair entered, and only relaxed slightly when they
recognized John as one of their own.

   "Whatcha need, John?" one of them asked curiously.

   Claws springing from his fingers, Arthur rushed forward in a blur.  None
of the four had time to shout a warning.

   "You know what needs to be done next," Arthur said to John.

   A look of disgust crossing his face, John nodded and returned to the
colonnade.  His first stop was the helicopter pad on the north lawn.  The
Marine pilot looked up expectantly from his checklist as John approached.
John shot him three times: two to center mass, one to the head.

   He winced as the shots echoed loudly.  Too loudly.  Grabbing the
Marine's M9 sidearm, he raced back into the White House and sprinted up the
steps to the second floor of the residential section, the place where the
First Lady was getting ready for a charity event that the family was
scheduled to attend that evening.

   The agents assigned to the First Lady and the children were ready and
waiting for him.  He threw himself to the floor when shots rang out the
moment he exited the stairwell.  They had him caught in a crossfire from
positions inside the West Sitting Hall to his right and the doorway to the
Yellow Oval Room in front of him.  Bracing himself, he stood and charged
the agent by the Yellow Oval Room.  As he raced across the hallway, most of
the hail of bullets directed at him pulverized plaster and well polished
wood in his wake, but others tore into his chest and limbs.  Staggering and
in agony, he shot his fellow agent at point blank range, the M9 roaring far
more loudly than the .22 to which he had become accustomed.

   Crippled by his injuries, he practically fell into the Yellow Room.  On
his stomach, he scrambled back to the wall near the doorway.  He heard a
series of slight clicks as bullets that hadn't passed completely through
him were squeezed out from his healing flesh to fall to the floor.  Then he
heard the soft footfalls of the agents from the sitting room approaching
his location.  They were whispering into their radios, their voices picking
up a hint of panic when there was no reply.

   They had seen the injuries he had taken and believed him to be dead. 
Nevertheless, they stuck to procedure and entered the room cautiously with
weapons at ready.  Despite his surprise at seeing John alive, the first
agent to enter the room fired immediately.  Ignoring the pain caused by the
bullet tearing through his left shoulder, John returned fire.  He hit one
fatally in the chest and wounded the other in the stomach.  Crawling to the
one with the belly wound, he fed quickly.

   Healed and with his strength restored, he went into the dressing room
attached to the master bedroom.  He found the First Lady, her children and
several attendants crouched in the corner of the room, trying to present as
little area as possible to any stray bullet that might come their way. 
Their relief at seeing his familiar face turned to terror as he executed
the attendants.  The fact that his face twisted with self loathing as he
did so offered little comfort.

   Holding a hand out to the First Lady, he said, "Please come with me
now."

   ________________________

   As soon as John left him, Arthur extended his senses into the
President's office.  A single Secret Service agent was stationed by the
door, whispering into his headpiece with growing frustration.  The
President, his Chief of Staff, and the Secretary of State were seated
casually around the Resolute Desk.  Their expressions, however, were
anything but casual.  They stared with appalled shock at the paused scene
on the television showing some kind of attack occurring at the Vatican.  In
the never ending quest to keep things classy, the news program had
captioned the scene with the words, "Midnight Mass-acre?"

   When Arthur entered, the President was grumbling angrily to the Chief of
Staff, "Where in the hell is the DNI?  Why didn't he call a meeting the
second all of this started happening?"

   "I don't know, Mr.  President," the Chief of Staff answered with a false
calm.  "He's not answering his phone and, in fact, I can't get hold of
anyone over at Langley."

   The conversation ceased as they noticed his presence.  All of them
looked back and forth between Arthur and the Secret Service agent who was
standing stiffly and silently by the door.

   Finally deciding that the agent wasn't going to handle the matter, the
President stretched the smile that had won him the election across his face
and said, "I'm sorry sir, but this part of the White House isn't on the
tour.  If you make a left from the outer office and follow the hallway, I'm
sure you'll find your group."

   "Oh, I'm not here for a tour," Arthur replied.

   The President and the two Cabinet members again twisted their heads to
stare at the agent.

   "I'm afraid that he isn't going to be of any assistance," Arthur said.
"In fact, why don't we just eliminate that little distraction?"

   Without taking his eyes from those around the Resolute Desk, Arthur's
hand lashed out to the side, the edge of his hand picking up a razor sharp
ridge while in transit.  There was a soft thud as the agent's head fell to
the thick carpet, and then, a moment later, a louder one as his body
followed.  Arthur made a slight tsking noise as bright red arterial blood
sprayed across his well polished shoes.

   "There.  Now may I have your undivided attention?" Arthur asked.

   They had all jumped up and back at the unexpected and brutal violence.

   After a few stuttering attempts to speak, the President asked, "What is
it that you want?"

   "From you?  Nothing," Arthur replied.  Turning his attention to the
Chief of Staff, he continued, "I do have a job for you, however.  I want
you to take out your phone and make the arrangements for a special,
emergency meeting tonight of both houses of Congress, the Joint Chiefs, and
the other Cabinet members." Gesturing toward the television which still
showed the same scene, he added, "That and the events in Mecca and India
should provide sufficient justification."

   "What happened in Mecca and India?" the Secretary of State asked with
dread.

   "My apologies," Arthur replied.  "I had forgotten that the employees of
the local branch of your primary intelligence agency are mostly dead, and
the remaining agents in the affected areas belong to me.  It would seem
that the Israelis attacked Mecca and inflicted a substantial amount of
damage on the city and its pilgrims.  Similarly, several military aircraft
from India bombed a few major population centers in Pakistan and one of
their artillery units opened fire on a Pakistani defensive position."

   Her eyes widening with horror, she whispered, "Neither nation would ever
do such a thing."

   Before Arthur could respond, the muffled sound of gunfire filtered down
from above them.  The louder barks of sniper rifles joined in from outside.

   With a cold smile, Arthur said, "That is the sound of your remaining
protectors dying.  The President's wife and children should be joining us
shortly.  Please be so kind as to start making the calls that I asked for."

   "Most of my staff are gone for the night," the Chief of Staff protested,
"And even if we could get hold of all the members of Congress, they aren't
just going to drop what they're doing on Christmas Eve and rush back to the
capital."

   "Article II, Section Three of your Constitution gives the President the
power to call special sessions of Congress.  If you make the call, they
must obey.  Make certain that they're aware of that.  You will also need to
arrange fast military transport for those in distant areas.  I want them
assembled within three hours."

   "That's impossible," the Chief of Staff replied.

   "Make it possible or I will kill the Secretary of State in the most
gruesome way possible right in front of your eyes.  I will then move on to
the First Lady.  If you continue to ignore my instructions, the children
will be next.

   "Oh, and don't try to give any warning or call the police.  The latter
cannot help you, and either action will result in the most unfortunate of
consequences.  If you require a carrot, I give my word that, if you obey,
you and the entire First Family will survive the night."

   "We can't have all of the Cabinet members assemble in the same place at
the same time.  At least one has to stay far away from any gathering of the
others to ensure the line of Presidential succession."

   "Fine.  How is it determined which is absent?"

   "They rotate."

   "Which of them is currently on the rotation, and where is he or she?"

   "The Secretary of Education.  I don't know where he is."

   Moving in a blur, Arthur seized the Secretary of State and held a claw
to her throat.  "Where is he?"

   Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, the Chief of Staff replied,
"His ski lodge in Aspen, Colorado."

   Arthur released the Secretary of State and took out his phone.  Moments
later, he announced, "He will soon be taken care of.  Now, if you would be
so kind as to make the other arrangements I asked for."

   The Chief of Staff's eyes fixed on the headless body of the Secret
Service Agent.  After staring briefly, his shoulders slumped in defeat, and
he pulled out his phone.

   Chapter 43 December Twenty-fourth 6:00 p.m.  EST December Twenty-fifth
2:00 a.m.  local time

   Elijah Halper lifted off from the Hatzor Israeli Air Force Base in
central Israel.  He had always taken a fierce joy in piloting the F-16
Fighting Falcon in the defense of his country, but tonight he knew only
grief.  In little more than a minute, he had taken the F-16 to eighteen
thousand meters.  There, he deviated from his flight plan and kicked in the
afterburners.

   The messages coming in over the radio became increasingly frequent and
hostile as he approached the border to Jordan at better than twice the
speed of sound.  Warning lights came on as his own country's surface to air
missile batteries locked onto him and fired.  With his newly enhanced
reflexes and a body that was nearly impervious to g-forces, he evaded them
easily.

   More warnings came in over his radio as he passed into Jordanian
airspace.  Saudi and Jordanian fighters were doing their best to intercept.
As he entered Saudi airspace, another light came on indicating that the
external fuel pods under his wings were nearly depleted.  With a flick of a
switch, he dropped them.

   For the last few hundred kilometers of his flight, he engaged in a
nearly nonstop display of aerial acrobatics such as had never been
witnessed before.  He dodged and used countermeasures to avoid SAMs,
sidewinders and phoenixes.  More than a dozen planes followed him, trying
to bring him down, but he was able to keep his lead.

   When Mecca came into view, he ran his tongue over his teeth.  With his
fangs retracted, he could barely tell they were there.  Lights warning of
excessive heat from his high speed flight vied for his attention with low
fuel indicators as he aligned the nose of his plane with the dome of the
Grand Mosque.  Looking down, he could see large fires raging throughout the
city.

   He now flew straight and true, paying no heed to the missile warnings in
his heads up display.  Even if one of them found him, kinetic energy would
complete his mission.  In his last minute of existence, he said a brief
prayer and silently apologized to his parents for bringing such shame to
the family.  Then his life ended in thunder and flame.



   Chapter 44 December Twenty-fourth 6:00 p.m.  EST December Twenty-fifth
Midnight local time

   Mary Ellen Jones was almost vibrating with excitement as she steered her
Hoveround wheelchair to her assigned place within St.  Peter's Basilica in
preparation for midnight mass.  If she lost a hundred pounds or two, she
would probably have been able to walk under her own power, but she did so
love her sweet tea and deep fried chicken.

   When God had called her husband Jacob home last year, she had known
immediately what she had to do with the insurance money.  The week long
trip to Rome, culminating in tonight's event, had drained every last penny
of it, but it had been worth it.  Besides, she couldn't take it with her,
and she would be damned if her ingrate son was going to see even a single
red cent of inheritance after he had gone and run off with some
no-good-hussy from Mississippi.

   During her time in Rome and the Holy See, she had sighed and gasped with
awe as she stared up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, trembled with
reverence as she crossed St.  Peter's Square, squealed with delight when
she peeked through the keyhole of the Priory of the Knights of Malta, and
nearly fainted in ecstacy as she touched the toe of the statue of St. 
Peter.  She had also toured the rest of Rome, but she didn't understand
what the fuss was over all of those crumbling old buildings.  If they had
any sense, they would tear them down and put up a bright, clean Wal Mart.

   A sudden hush fell over the large crowd, and, over the heads of those in
front of her, she could see the Pope's white mitre bobbing as he made his
way to the High Altar.  It suddenly occurred to her that she might even
receive communion from the Holy Father himself!  The other women in her
church group back in Slapout, Alabama were going to be so jealous.



   She frowned slightly as she noticed that the Pope was making unseemly
haste.  It just didn't seem right for the Holy Father to walk at anything
other than a slow, dignified pace.  Her frown deepened as a worried murmur
rose from the front of the crowd.  When the Holy Father ascended the dias,
she saw what had everyone upset: the struggling Pope was being held between
two members of the Swiss Guard, fully dressed in their flamboyant uniforms.
Her cry of confusion and outrage blended into that of the rest of the
congregation.

   The guards suddenly released him, and he spun around to face the crowd,
his face twisted with fury.  It wasn't the Holy Father at all, Mary Ellen
thought to herself, but someone at least forty years younger.  Then again,
he did have that same large birthmark on the side of his face that the Pope
did.  She wondered what was going on.  The new Pope had promised to bring
all sorts of changes to the church, but turning midnight mass into some
kind of a floor show was going too far.

   Hearing a thud behind her, she turned to see that a number of Swiss
Guards, their faces grim and sorrowful, had closed the doors to the
Basilica and stood in front of them with guns held across their chests.  A
scream from the direction of the altar made her twist back around.  The
young man in the mitre had thrown himself into the front row and sunk his
teeth into the throat of a worshiper.

   The side doors burst open and a number of young men wearing the formal
garb of cardinals, bishops and deacons rushed into the room.  They
immediately fell upon the edges of the crowd, their teeth rending and
tearing.  Despite faces that were contorted with terror, a news crew ran
forward to catch it all on film.

   As one, the crowd jumped back and tried to run for the doors.  Automatic
weapon fire from the Swiss Guardsmen brought that rush to a stop.  The
crowd reeled back and forth in indecision, caught between bullets on one
side and gnashing teeth on the other.  As they hesitated, the death toll
rose.

   Finally, the teeth proved the more frightening, and the crowd stormed
the doors.  The wheels of Mary Ellen's chair slipped on the blood that rose
ever deeper on the Basilica's floor.  Before they could catch, the press of
the crowd behind her sent it over on its side.  She squealed as the
panicked mob trampled and tripped over her, but was protected from serious
harm by her thick layers of fat.

   When the last of the mass goers had passed her by, she raised a hand to
rub her jaw, which still bore the red imprint from the tread of a shoe.  A
shadow fell over her, and she looked up into the face of the young man in
the mitre.  The rich, white robes were torn and badly stained with blood.
Long, sharp teeth poked over his lower lip.  Briefly, she wondered how he
had managed to keep the mitre on his head, but then she noticed the heavy
staples along its edges, many hanging loosely as if they had been pushed
out from below.

   With a snarl, he fell upon her with unnatural fury, ripping, tearing and
rending.  Even as she cried out in terror and pain, her rolls of flesh
shook violently with the strength of her orgasm.  Moments later, she
rejoined her Jacob.

   Chapter 45 December Twenty-fourth 6:30 p.m.  EST 5:30 p.m.  local time

   As if the weather was responding to Mark's mood, a light rain had begun
to fall by the time they left the M.E.'s office.  They jogged quickly to
the car.

   George kept throwing him speculative glances as they got into the
vehicle.  Finally, he asked, "How did you know that some of them would have
that neck injury?"

   "Brain stem.  Not really neck," Mark corrected with a helpless shrug of
his shoulders.  "Look, believe me when I say that I want to tell you.  With
any luck I will be able to soon.  You'll understand then."

   He leaned the top of his head against the side window and stared blankly
at the reflections of street lights in puddles as he tried to get a grip on
his horror.  He suddenly realized that George was talking again.

   "Huh?" he asked eloquently.

   "I was just saying that no one should spend Christmas Eve alone in a
hotel room.  Why don't you come over to my place and spend it with us?"

   "I don't want to impose."

   "You wouldn't be.  My wife has a huge ham in the oven.  We'll have a few
drinks, watch the game..." George paused and grinned widely before
finishing, "and listen to my two and three year olds sing a bunch of
carols. Really, I've already talked to the missus, and we would love to
have you.  If you like, you can even sack out on our couch."

   "Well then, I would be honored."

   "Great!"

   As they pulled into the Tulsa Police Station on Thirteenth Street,
George tossed Mark a set of keys.  "My car is the red Grand Am.  Want to
stick your luggage in the trunk while I punch out?  Sorry, but the back
seat is full of toys and child seats."

   "Sure."

   George was smiling broadly when he exited the station.

   "Looks like I owe you one," he said as he climbed in behind the wheel.

   "Why's that?"

   "Being a liaison for our visiting officer got me out of attending an
otherwise mandatory weapon familiarization seminar that's just getting
started."

   "On Christmas Eve?  That seems a little odd."

   "Yeah.  It was arranged at the last minute.  The dispatch sergeant said
that a memo came in last night from the CIA with some sort of urgent
warning.  He's pretty pissed off about it; he was supposed to go home a
half hour ago.  My guess is that some analyst got stuck working the holiday
and figured that everyone else should, too."

   "Yeah," Mark replied, but his eyes remained thoughtfully on the station
as they pulled out of the lot.



   Chapter 46 December Twenty-fourth 7:00 p.m.  EST

   "Please tell me that you've found my son," Patrica Watson said
pleadingly into the phone.

   She listened to the placating voice of a deputy for a few minutes before
hesitantly asking, "Do you think he's alright?  I saw the pictures in the
news: there was so much blood.  Please tell
me that it was animal blood or paint or ...  or something ...  anything

but what it looked like.  Please, for the love of God, tell me that my baby
is okay."

   Again she listened, taking heart from the calm assurances that came from
the other end of the line.

   She concluded the call by saying, "Thank you, deputy.  I know you're
doing all you can.  It's just that ever since my husband passed away, my
Tony is all I have left.  I know you're busy, but please let me know the
second you hear anything."

   After she hung up, she curled up on her bed in the fetal position, too
numb with grief and worry even to cry any more.  It took a long moment for
the loud pounding on her front door to register.

   As she rose slowly from the bed, she caught sight of herself in the
mirror.  She looked a fright: dried tears and runners from the mascara that
she had applied the day before ran down her face; her hair was a tangled,
greasy mess; and the skin around her eyes and mouth was puffy.  As she
stumbled toward the window to look outside, she grabbed a hair brush from
the dresser and tried to make herself presentable for whoever had come to
visit.

   Then she pulled back the curtain, and the brush dropped forgotten from
her hand.  With a loud cry of, "Toneee!" she raced down the stairs, her
heavy footfalls causing her grandmother's crystal to rattle in the kitchen
hutch.

   Throwing the door open wide, she crooned, "Oh my Tony, you're home."

   She went silent as she took a closer look at her son.  He was covered in
half frozen mud and muck.  A layer of ice and rime coated his face,
eyebrows and eyelashes.  His eyes were dull and looked at her without
recognition or emotion.

   "You poor dear!  You must be freezing!" she cried out.  "Get in here and
out of those wet clothes, and we'll get you into a nice, hot bath."

   He drew in a deep, bubbling breath and tried to speak.  Muddy water
gurgled out of his mouth and ran in streams down the front of his sodden
coat.  He took a second breath and tried again.

   "Merry ...  Christmas ...  Mama," he said slowly, his voice gravelly and
without inflection.  Throughout the brief recitation, his eyes rolled from
side to side as if he had to struggle to recall the brief phrase.

   "Oh, Merry Christmas, baby," Patricia replied soulfully, throwing her
arms wide.

   His eyes narrowing and becoming bestial, he lunged forward into his
mother's waiting embrace.

   Chapter 47 December Twenty-fourth 7:30 p.m.  EST 6:30 p.m.  local time

   Mark joined George and his wife, Theresa, a petite, plumply pretty
blonde, in loudly applauding the performance of Jill, two, and George, Jr.,
three, as they finished a very (very) long rendition of 'Silent Night.' He
was forced to admit that the toddlers looked adorable in flannel pajamas
covered in pictures of candy canes and tree ornaments.

   At the disturbance, Barney, the family's dog, a mutt that looked like a
miniature, fat, black beagle, looked up reproachfully from his seat on
Mark's lap.  Mark reached down to scratch the beast behind the ears until
it again lowered its head and resumed snoring and drooling on his leg.

   "That was great, guys!" George said, his voice mellow from a number of
Old Fashioned's.  "Now, who's ready for some football?"

   "Sounds good to me.  Who's playing tonight anyway?" Mark asked.

   "Uh, Tennessee and ...  someone else."

   Mark chuckled.  "A fan after my own heart.  If the Steelers aren't
playing, I don't pay much attention."

   "At least you have a local NFL team.  We mostly have to make do with
college ball.  Gotta love those Sooners! ...  Huh.  That's odd."

   Mark looked over and saw that the television screen was the uniform blue
that had largely replaced screens full of static when a channel was
unavailable.  With a frown, George pressed buttons on the remote, but the
next five or six channels he turned to were the same.

   "We did pay the satellite bill this month, didn't we, darlin'?" he asked
Theresa.

   "Sure did, hun."

   Barking ferociously, Barney leaped from Mark's lap and ran to the front
door in the corner of the small living room.  The tiny dog continued to
bark as it pawed at the door.

   "He probably needs out," George observed.  "I saw Junior slipping him a
bunch of ham during dinner.  I'll go grab the leash.  What the hell, as
long as I'm going to be outside anyway, I'm going to sneak a smoke, too. 
Want to come with us, Mark?"

   "Sure."

   As Mark was reaching for his coat, Barney's barks turned to whimpers. 
Tucking his tail between his legs, he scurried back across the living room
and into the depths of the one story house.  During his flight, he knocked
a number of ornaments from the bottom branches of the artificial Christmas
tree.  Several shattered with loud pops.

   "What's gotten into him?" George asked, bemused.

   At the same time, Theresa let out a cry of dismay.  Gesturing wildly
between the broken glass and the dog, she shouted, "Darn it!  That one was
my great grandmother's.  It was an antique!  Bad dog, Barney!  Bad dog!"

   She walked briskly out to the kitchen.  As she was returning with a
broom, a loud knock sounded on the door.

   "I'm coming," George called out.

   Mark crouched down to help Theresa gather up the larger pieces of broken
glass.  Junior also toddled over to assist, but Theresa scooped him away
with a gentle admonishment.

   From the front door, George said, "Hi guys.  Merry Christmas.  I know
you're on duty, but can I offer you a drink to help keep you warm?"

   Mark looked up in time to see a flash of teeth as one of the uniformed
officers leaped inside, locking his mouth on George's throat and forcing
him to the floor.  Junior and Jill squealed in fright and began to cry. 
Theresa merely stared, too shocked to move.

   Grabbing the broom from her hands, Mark brought his knee down hard on
the handle just above the straw head.  It broke with a snap.  Yelling with
fear as much as anything, he charged across the room with the broom stick
held before him.  More by luck than design, the jagged end struck the
attacker nearly in the center of the armpit with enough momentum to drive
past the ribs.  After a violent spasm, the vampire went limp on top of
George's quivering body.

   From the still open doorway, another police officer gaped at the scene
in disbelief.  He reached for his sidearm, but he winced in pain as his
hand hovered over his holster.  With a grunt of frustration, he rushed
forward, his mouth opening in a snarl to reveal descending fangs.

   "You son of a bitch!" he yelled as he rapidly closed the distance.  "I'm
going to drain you dry."

   "I bet you say that to all the boys," Mark quipped, trying to put more
bravery in his words than he felt.

   He struggled to pull the broom handle free, but he couldn't get it loose
in time.  He looked to George for help, but his new friend was lying
motionless with eyes closed.  Blood squirted in spurts from a gaping wound
in his neck in time with the beating of his heart.

   Mark scrambled backwards as the vampire stalked him.  Looking over his
shoulder, he could see that Theresa had her back to them, clutching the
children protectively to her chest with one hand while she frantically
dialed her phone with the other.  With a sigh, he interposed himself
between her and the creature.

   The vampire reached out and grabbed Mark by the front of his shirt,
lifting him off his feet.  Mark lashed out with a upper cut, but the
monster barely grunted and then sneered at him with contempt.  Switching
tactics, he tried to hold the jaws back from his throat, but, despite
straining with all of his might, the fangs moved ever closer.

   He could tell that the monster was playing with him, dragging out the
kill to give him time to fully appreciate his predicament and succumb to
despair.  The jaws drew near.  The radio on the officer's belt squawked,
and a name was announced.

   "Run, Theresa!" Mark yelled.  "Take the kids and get out of here!"

   Theresa stood, but, before she could move, the undead struck her with a
backhand that knocked her across the room.  She slammed into the wall and
collapsed to the floor.  The children continued to wail where they stood.

   Mark could smell the creature's sickly sweet breath and feel the sharp
tips of teeth against his skin.  As a last act of defiance, he brought his
knee up hard into its crotch.  Sucking wind, it released him as it doubled
over.

   "Ha!" Mark cried out exultantly.  "The big, tough vampire can't take a
shot to the danglies..."

   The creature flailed out to catch Mark with a vicious blow to the side
of the head, interrupting his taunt and sending him down to lie dazed on
the floor next to Theresa.

   Shaking his head in an attempt to gather his senses, Mark struggled to
rise.  The vampire was already straightening and turning its rage filled
eyes toward him.  He looked around desperately for a weapon, but there was
nothing.  The vampire stepped forward, its lip curling upwards in a
predatory smile.  Suddenly, its eyes went wide and it jerked violently
before sagging to the floor.

   George, pale and staggering, released the broom handle that now
protruded from the second vampire's back and clamped a hand back over the
jetting wound in his neck.  Blood immediately ran out between the cracks in
his fingers and down his arm.

   Reaching down, Mark pried open the vampire's jaws and stuck his hand in
its mouth.  After swishing his fingers around the cheeks and tongue, he
pulled his hand, now wet with spit, free and jumped over to where George
was sagging to his knees.  A look of disgust crossed George's face as he
feebly tried to stop Mark from touching him with it.

   "Trust me," Mark commanded, gently pulling away the hand that George was
using to cover his neck.

   As he worked the saliva into the wound, the flow of blood quickly came
to a stop.  He returned to the vampire to get enough for a second
treatment. When he was finished, there was no sign of the injury, but
George was still weak from blood loss.

   They next tended to Theresa.  While dazed, and possibly suffering from a
mild concussion, she was otherwise unharmed.

   As he stepped back to allow his wife to stand, George trod on the
remote. The familiar CNN format appeared on the screen.

   The confused and slightly panicked anchorwoman was saying, "...live from
Los Angeles.  For those of you just joining us, our offices in Atlanta,
Washington, D.C., and New York City abruptly stopped broadcasting
approximately a half hour ago.  In fact, it appears that all communications
to the major cities on the east coast are down.  We'll be giving you more
information on the cause as we receive it. ..."

   "Fuck.  We were too late," Mark whispered despondently as he stared at
the TV.

   "We need to call the station," George said as he stooped to pick
Theresa's cell phone up from the floor.

   "No!" Mark yelled, grabbing the phone from George's hands.  Pointing to
the radio which had continued to announce a few names every minute, he
explained, "The police are compromised.  If you call in, more will come
here to kill you.  Do you know the phone numbers of any other policemen who
were on day shift in the past few days?"

   "Uh, yeah.  We have a phone tree..."

   "Don't bother," Theresa interrupted.  "The phones are dead.  I tried
calling when George was attacked."

   "Do you have a land line?" Mark asked.

   George stumbled out into the kitchen.  A few seconds later, he
announced, "It's dead, too."

   "What about the internet?"

   Theresa walked into another room to open a web browser.  "Down."

   When George returned to the living room, he asked, "I still don't
understand why we can't just use the radio, or why we can't call the
station.  I mean, shouldn't we tell them that some ...  uh, rogue cops are
running around trying to kill people?"

   Mark sighed.  "It's a long story, and you're not going to believe it. 
While I explain, let's gather supplies.  You wouldn't happen to be a bow
hunter would you?  If not, do you have anything sharp and made of wood? 
And maybe a mallet?"

   "Uh, no, I'm not an archery hunter.  I do have a bundle of tomato stakes
out in the shed, and a five pound, short handled sledge.  Will that do?"

   "It'll have to."

   Mark quickly searched the downed police officers.  Taking one sidearm
for himself, he passed the other to Theresa.  George took the hint and went
to the bedroom to retrieve his own and a box of ammunition.  Mark then
tucked one of the radios in his coat and went through their pockets.

   The one that had attacked George had a two page list of names and
addresses.  Next to each name was a letter.  Scanning down the list, Mark
saw that the letters were limited to P, J, L, S, F, C or M.  Several of the
entries had handwritten corrections indicating that the person named would
be at different address for the night.

   Each of the names on the first page, nearly all of which had 'F's,'
'P's' or 'M's' next to them, had been crossed off.  On the second page,
George's name was the first that hadn't been lined through.  He was the
last 'P' on the list.  The majority of those below him had C's or L's with
a smattering of 'F's.' The single 'S' on the list appeared next to a name a
few entries down from George's.

   "What do you make of this?" Mark asked as he passed the list to George.

   George leafed back and forth through the pages for a moment, his
forehead creased with concentration.  Slowly, he said, "This list is fairly
well organized.  Everyone on it lives in Terrace Drive, Renaissance, Fair
Heights, Mid Tulsa ...  Hell, every neighborhood between Eleventh and
Fifteenth Streets.  They did one pass to get the 'P's' and 'M's' and then
they would have gone back through to get the others.

   "Based on the names, I think I know what most of the letters mean.  The
'P' definitely means police officer.  It looks like 'J' is judge.  'L' is
lawyer.  'C' might be city official.  I'm not completely sure about 'M,'
but one of the M's is a reporter who's a bit of a local celebrity, so its
probably media.  I don't know the 'S' or any of the 'F's.'

   As he considered the obvious implications, his expression became even
more fearful, something that Mark wouldn't have believed was possible. 
"The 'P' above me is my supervisor.  His name is crossed off.  Does that
mean ..."

   Mark interrupted before George could finish the statement.  "There's
only one way to be sure.  Let's get the stakes and hammer and we'll head
over there.  If you have any garlic powder, grab that, too."

   As they marched out to the shed through the still falling rain, Mark
gave them the short version of what had happened in Pittsburgh, what he
suspected was happening now, and why he hadn't been able to tell them
earlier.  He concluded with, "That's why CNN is still on the air.  They
broadcast directly to satellite from L.A., and it's not dark there yet."

   They gaped at him wordlessly, not wanting to believe, but they had seen
and, in George's case felt, the fangs of their attackers.

   "How in the hell are the three of us supposed to fight a city full of
vampires?" George asked numbly.

   "I honestly have no idea," Mark replied.  "However, there is one small
ray of sunshine.  The second one wanted to use his gun on me, but didn't. I
could see that the attempt caused him pain.  Apparently, they've been
ordered not to use their sidearms while, um, doing their lists.  That will
give us a small advantage.  While bullets won't kill them, they can knock
them down long enough to finish them off with stakes.  I'm going to be
brutally honest: it takes a lot of bullets to knock them down, and they
won't stay down for long.  When they get up ...  well, they're ungodly fast
and strong, and they'll probably be pretty pissed off."

   He hesitated and then let out a long sigh.  "There's something else you
should know.  You're going to hate it, but its important.  There are two
kinds of vampires, ones that can talk and ones that can't.  The ones that
can't are little more than animals; so you're doing them a favor when you
kill them.  The ones that can ...  well, inside they're still the same
people you knew; the same people they always were.  However, they're
absolute slaves to the one that made them; they have to follow every
command to the letter.  That's good and bad.  It's bad because some of the
people we will have to kill tonight to survive don't really want to hurt us
and are decent people inside.  On the other hand, if we can find the top
vamps in the city and kill them, we would free the ones under him, her or
them."

   "And that would stop all the killing?" George asked.

   Again Mark hesitated.  "It would lessen it.  They're still vampires who
have to kill to feed, and ...  well, they need to feed on people, at least
to some extent."

   George looked confused.  "If they have to kill people, why does it
matter if they're still decent folks inside?  We would still have to put
them down at some point.  Right?"

   Mark reached up to rub his forehead.  "I just don't know how to answer
that," he said quietly.  "In any event, we should get out here, both to
check on your friend and to be somewhere else when more vamps come to check
on the two on your floor."

   Before they left, Mark used his cell phone to take pictures of the dead
vampires, making certain that their fangs were showing.  They would
inevitably want to tell others what was happening and they would need at
least some proof for their warnings to be taken seriously, at least in time
for the warnings to do any good.  He also tucked a jar of garlic powder
that Theresa handed him into his pocket.

   As they exited the tidy brick house and piled into the Grand Am, George
and Mark up front and Theresa squeezed between the child seats in the rear
with Barney on her lap, a loud shout emerged from the place across the
street.  Looking in through the windows, Mark could see a number of happy
people holding up their glasses in toast, completely oblivious to what was
happening in the city around them.

   "We have to warn them," George said flatly.

   "What would we tell them?  We don't even know where we could send them
that would be safe," Mark replied sadly.

   In the end they compromised.  The party goers responded to their report
of a terrorist attack underway in the city as the media had trained them
to: with fearful and docile obedience to authority.  They quickly
extinguished the lights and shuffled down into the basement, locking the
doors behind them.  Several of the less inebriated set out to warn
neighbors who weren't in attendance to do the same.

   When they returned to the car, Mark insisted on driving: George was
still groggy and unsteady on his feet.

   "Where to?" he asked as he climbed behind the wheel.

   "Head up the street and make a left on Twelfth.  Make another left on
South Braden.  He lives in the third house on the right.  It has white
siding and a flag on the porch."

   There were only a few other cars on the road.  As they drove, Mark
stared sadly at the houses festooned with brightly colored lights.  At
nearly every place, a Christmas tree and roomfuls of cheerful celebrants
were visible through the front windows.  The ride was made in a silence
broken only by the slapping of the windshield wipers and the never ending
litany of names over the radio.

   "I know that one," George remarked after one such announcement.  "He's a
prosecutor I worked with on a DUI case." A minute later, he spoke up again.
"And that one's a judge." Pulling the list from his pocket, he went through
it before stating, "Neither of them are on the list we have."

   Mark found their destination without difficulty.  Leaving Theresa, the
children and the dog in the car, he and George approached the door with
guns drawn and ready.  It was unlocked.  Just inside, a man was sprawled
out on the floor.  A few feet away, a woman was lying on her side.  Above
her, a teenage girl was draped across the back of a couch.  The bloody
tears in their throats left no doubt as to what had occurred.

   Holstering his pistol, Mark checked inside their mouths and took several
more pictures.  He then pulled one of the tomato stakes from the bundle and
positioned it at the center of the man's chest.

   "What do you think you're doing?" George cried out in shock.

   "What has to be done.  If we don't stake everyone we find like this,
they could become vampires, too.  There's no sign of blood in their mouths,
so they weren't fed the blood of the ones that killed them.  If they rise,
it will be as little more than rabid animals."

   Mark drove the stake through the fallen man's ribs and into the heart
beneath.  Across the room, George stared dismally down at the teenager,
holding a stake loosely between the small mounds of her breasts on top of
her red and green sweater.

   "I can't do it," he muttered, his voice thick with emotion.  "Her name
was Sarah, and she was in the eighth grade.  She was a straight 'A' student
and the star of her junior varsity basketball team.  She was such a nice
girl.  How the fuck can you expect me to pound a piece of wood through her
heart?"

   "You'd be doing her a favor.  Believe me when I tell you that you
wouldn't wish her probable fate on your worst enemy.  But why don't you let
me do it?" Mark said gently as he reached out to try to take possession of
the stake.

   George refused to relinquish the piece of wood.  With a gesture toward
the dead man by the door, he said, "No.  Her dad has looked out for me
since I joined the force.  I can't do anything to help them, but, at the
very least, I owe him this."

   Taking the hammer from Mark, he brought it down hard on the butt of the
stake.  His eyes squeezed shut with horror after each strike, but he
continued until the job was done.

   Afterwards, Mark took the hammer back and tended to the mother.  They
then quickly searched the house for anything they could use as a weapon. 
There were no bows or crossbows, but they did turn up another relatively
small sledge hammer and some wooden trim strips for a planned home
improvement project.

   When they returned to the car, George slumped in his seat.  Theresa
reached around from behind him to wrap her arms around his chest, squeezing
him tight.

   "Are they..." she started.

   She squeezed him harder when he answered with a terse nod.

   Without looking up, George muttered, "I was the last 'P' on the list. 
Does that mean I'm the only cop left alive in the city?"

   Mark shook his head.  "Every different person we hear talking on the
radio probably has a list of their own.  Surely, there have to be more.  I
mean, there are ...  what? ...  a thousand of you?"

   "There were a little over eight hundred, but our, uh, AWOL's probably
cut us down to about six.  On the other hand, places like Bixby and Broken
Arrow, while part of the metropolitan area, have their own departments.  If
you add 'em all together, there's probably well over a thousand.  Is that
what we do next: drive around and see if we can find any living police?"

   Again Mark shook his head.  "Too random without knowing for sure who's
alive, who's dead, and who's a vampire.  We know that the people under you
on our list are alive, so I think we should start with them.  They've
already been targeted.  It won't take long for whoever's in charge to
figure out that the two cops who came for you are out of commission and
reassign their targets.  While we're at it, we should also look for a means
to send a warning outside the city.  It's just starting to get dark on the
west coast.  If they get word in time, maybe they can keep this from
happening to them."

   "How are we going to do that?"

   "If you know anyone with a satellite phone, we could go there.  Also,
although local land lines and cell towers are out of service, we might
still be able to get a connection from a mobile telephone switching office
or from a phone company exchange that has a satellite uplink."

   "I have no idea if anyone I know has a satellite phone, but AT&T,
T-Mobile and Cricket all have offices on South Yale by the state
fairground. I'm not sure where any of the phone company's exchanges are."

   "Okay, how about we start with the closest person on the list.  We'll
send him out to warn a few others.  Once that ball's rolling, we'll hit the
cellular companies."

   George nodded his assent and looked through the list to find the closest
person to their location.

   That turned out to be lawyer by the name of Francis Hollibrook, III.  He
looked at their badges, listened to their story, and peered at the pictures
on Mark's phone.  After they were done, he proclaimed the pictures to be
poor Photoshops and their story to be a tasteless and juvenile practical
joke.  He then promised to report them to the authorities when phone
service was restored before slamming the door shut in their faces .



   There was little Mark and George could do other than shout a warning not
to open the door for police.

   The next person on their list was an agent with the ATF named Brian
Green.  Unlike the attorney, he had been listening to the names being
recited over his radio with growing trepidation.  Although skeptical of
their claim of vampires, the pictures and what he had been hearing over the
radio was alarming enough that he did agree to pack up his family and leave
the city.  After looking over their list, he opined that the 'F'
designation probably meant federal agent and agreed to contact the five
remaining 'F's' on his way out.  Finally, he promised to send a message
over the radio when he was clear of the city, even though it was doubtful
that Mark and George would be in range.

   Goaded on by the stream of names that continued to come from the radio,
they then raced to the cellular offices, gaining entry by smashing the
glass store fronts with a tire iron.  With communications down, the alarms
that went off were unlikely to provoke a quick response.

   One was merely a sales office and not a MTSO.  In the other two, the
floors were littered with the remains of delicate electronic equipment and
lengths of wire that had been violently torn from the innards of various
machines.

   Mark somberly surveyed the scene in the last of the stores.  "Maybe we
could try local radio stations," he suggested.

   Returning to the car, they dialed in the stations that George knew were
in the city limits.  All produced only static.  Subsequently, a scan
revealed that several stations were still broadcasting, but, after they
listened for the station identification, each of them was outside the city.



   With a helpless shrug, Mark said simply, "We should get back to the
list."

   Making it through the fifteen remaining entries took more than two
hours. They were only able to convince about half to leave the city. 
During that time, the announcement of names over the radio became steadily
more infrequent before stopping altogether.  Mark wondered what it said
about people that it took longer to convince them that they were in danger
than it did to kill them.

   As they worked their way through the list, it became apparent that
others had also seen the CNN broadcast or otherwise knew that something was
wrong, although they didn't know what.  Despite the rain, they began to
congregate on front porches and street corners in the hope that someone
could tell them what was happening or, at least, had a working phone.  Even
when no one could or did, they stayed to speculate and wait for the
newcomers who would surely have the information they craved.

   When they encountered larger groups of this sort, Mark stopped the car,
and he and George, again resorting to the pretense of a terrorist attack,
convinced them to take shelter behind locked doors.

   Finally, there was only one name remaining on their list: the single 'S'
designation.  On the way to the Mingo Valley address, they passed the
police station on Thirteenth Street.  Its parking lot was filled to
overflowing with cars, but no people were evident.

   They were nearly past when the doors burst open and a man ran out; his
face twisted with fear.  He was nearly to the road when another figure,
this one wearing the uniform of a patrol officer, appeared in the door. 
With a leap that covered the entire fifteen yards that separated the two,
the second knocked the first to the pavement.  Blood shot into the air as
the first was torn limb from limb while his attacker screamed out in
wordless fury.

   Mark stepped on the gas hard when the feral noticed them and started to
give chase.  He was doing thirty before it started to fall behind.

   George twisted around to watch as it did its best to keep up.  "Jesus
Christ," he whispered.  "That was Tom Kline.  We went to the academy
together."

   Shortly after the feral vanished in the rearview mirror, the radio's
silence was broken by the announcement of the name Francis Hollibrook.  The
names of the others who had refused to heed their warning quickly followed.
They were still a block from their destination when their 'S' was
announced.

   Two uniformed police officers were preparing to cross the street in
front of the stone house that matched the address of the 'S,' but they
stopped to wait for Mark's car to pass.  At the last second, Mark swerved
to slam into them at forty miles per hour.  He got a vindictive thrill from
the look of surprise on one's face as it smashed against the windshield,
leaving behind a red smear and a spider web of cracks.  Then Mark's world
went white as the airbags deployed.  While he pawed at it, the only things
he could hear were the cries of the children and the frantic barking of the
dog from the back seat.

   After a momentary struggle, he freed himself from the deflated bag and
his seatbelt.  By the time he got the door open, the vampires were already
picking themselves off the pavement, rotating shoulders and necks as bones
popped back into place.

   With an incoherent shout, Mark shot the closest in the face at point
blank range.  The back of the vampire's head exploded in a chunky mist of
red and gray, and it fell back against the crumpled front end of the Grand
Am.

   "Get the stakes and hammers out here, George!" he yelled as he emptied
the rest of the clip into the torso of the second.

   Although the first stayed down, Mark could see tissue reforming in the
ruins of its skull.  Unfortunately, the second one was only staggered by
the bullets that tore into it, and the body armor it was wearing protected
it from much of the minor, temporary damage it would have otherwise taken.

   "Nice try, dickhead.  Now it's my turn," it hissed.  Its fangs extended
over its bottom lip in a humorless grin.

   Recalling the jar of garlic powder in his pocket, Mark pulled it out and
twisted off the lid.  He whipped his arm around in a half circle, causing
the contents of the jar to shoot out in a wide arc.  The vampire screeched
in rage and pain as it clutched its hands over its face.  Blisters began to
form immediately.

   Before it could recover, George stepped up behind it, placed the barrel
of his gun against the back of its head, and pulled the trigger.  He let
out a groan of disgust as spatter covered him from head to toe.

   The first was already starting to blink eyes that contained no sign of
intelligence when Mark drove a length of trim strip home.  It jerked once
before true death claimed it.  After doing the same for the second, Mark
and George quickly stripped the bodies of weapons and ammunition, and went
through pockets.  One had a list similar to the one they found earlier, but
all of the names had been crossed off, including two that had been added in
pen at the bottom.  This list had no 'S' entries, but did have several
'H's'.

   George, still scraping blood and gore from his face and clothes,
followed Mark to the door of the house.  The place had been the site of a
family gathering.  Three generations lay scattered throughout the first
floor, their blood soaking through pieces of torn, festively colored
wrapping paper and boxes that had recently contained gifts.  The merrily
twinkling lights on the Christmas tree reflected brightly in their
unblinking eyes to the accompaniment of Phil Spector and the Ronettes
crooning out 'I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.'

   Distantly, Mark noticed that it appeared that the vampires had selected
the children to drain and simply shot the others.  The prohibition against
using weapons had obviously been lifted.

   After making certain that the children wouldn't rise, they conducted a
quick search in an attempt to learn what the 'S' designation meant.  After
going through the pockets and ID's of the adults, they still didn't have
any idea.  Then George spotted a phone that had been deliberately and
methodically stomped into trash on the floor.

   He picked it up and examined it.  "I think I figured it out," he said as
he held it out for Mark's inspection.  "It's a Globalstar.  They make
satellite phones."

   "How in the hell would the vamps even know who had one of those?" Mark
asked in confusion.

   "There are relatively few companies who sell and service them.  Based on
what you've been telling me about the vamps, it probably wouldn't be hard
for them to convert a few employees in each and get regional customer
lists."

   Again they conducted a hasty search.  In one of the bedroom closets,
they found a compound bow, but all of the arrows in the accompanying quiver
were made of aluminum.  George grabbed the bow anyway.

   When they returned outside, they found that Theresa had taken the keys
from one of the dead officers and transferred the child seats, children and
the dog to the patrol car.

   "I think it's time we thought about getting out of the city," Mark said
quietly as they prepared to get in.

   With a squeal of tires, a caravan of three cars and a minivan came
around the corner.  The minivan in the front had already gone past them
when its driver suddenly slammed on the brakes.  The trailing cars quickly
followed suit, in several cases only narrowly avoiding collisions.

   Brian Green, the ATF officer that they had warned earlier, exited the
minivan and came running up to the patrol car.

   "I'm so glad I found you," he said with relief.  "I knew that one of the
names on your list was from Mingo Valley, but I couldn't remember the exact
address."

   "Aren't you supposed to be far away?" Mark asked.

   "That's just it.  All the roads are blocked.  From the traffic that's
piled up, I'm guessing that they have been for hours.  Any time I got close
to the city limits, there were overturned trucks, wrecked cars, downed
trees or fallen utility poles.  You name it.  I tried the expressways
first: Keystone, Crosstown, Cherokee, Broken Arrow ...  all of them.  Every
last one was blocked.  I then tried some of the smaller roads: Peoria,
Pine, Archer and the like, but they were closed off, too.  You might be
able to get out on an ATV or a motorcycle, but that's about it."

   "You mean..." Theresa started to ask from the back seat.

   "Yes.  We're trapped."

   Chapter 48 December Twenty-fourth 10:00 p.m.  EST

   Arthur stood silently at the front of the House Chamber, the austerely
elegant room in the Capitol Building normally reserved for the House of
Representatives.  During the flurry of phone calls, the Chief of Staff had
efficiently arranged for extra chairs to be wedged into every available
space to accommodate the additional presence of the Senate, the Joint
Chiefs of Staff and the other members of the President's Cabinet.

   The room was nearly full, the occupants whispering angrily amongst
themselves as they shot curious glances at Arthur and the large, canvas
tarp covered pile to his left.  Ignoring them, Arthur's eyes flicked from
face to face.  Occasionally, he would pause to write rapidly on the pad
that sat on the podium in front of him.

   As several more people filed in through the door, the Chief of Staff
gave him a forlorn nod to indicate that all were present.  Arthur responded
with a nod of his own, but continued his searching gazes and hurried
writing.  As time went on, the murmurs grew increasingly loud and angry.

   Finally, Arthur cleared his throat and held his hands up for silence.

   Before he could speak, one of the senators shouted out, "Who are you,
and where is the President or the DNI?  Do we know what caused the tragedy
at the Vatican yet?"

   Arthur gave the man a withering glance, but reached down to flip the
edge of the tarp back to reveal a pair of bound legs.  Grabbing hold of a
foot, he slid the unconscious President out into view.

   "Here is your President," he said dryly, "and, yes, I do know who caused
the events in Rome.  As a point of fact, it was me.  However, you shouldn't
concern yourself with the events in the eternal city; what is happening in
nearly every urban area in your own country at this very moment is far, far
worse."

   Hundreds of hands reached for cell phones.  Arthur stood silently as
they tried dialing again and again with growing desperation.

   Finally, he announced, "I'm afraid that none of the cell phone towers in
the city are in service.  There is no one for you to call in any case: the
city's remaining police are mine and the J.  Edgar Hoover building is
staffed only by the dead.  Even the guards here answer only to me."

   As Arthur spoke, a line of men pushed through the doors to take position
behind the crowd of law makers and advisors.  Some wore the suits of Secret
Service or FBI agents, others wore the uniforms of police officers.  All
confirmed Arthur's words with a nod and a readied weapon.

   Someone called out, "What do you want from us?"

   With a laugh, Arthur replied, "In the simplest terms possible, I want
you to die.  Actually, let me rephrase that: I need you to die, so die you
shall.  The reason I had you gather here, rather than have my servants kill
you in your homes, is that I want to offer you a choice."

   Before anyone could respond to this outrageous statement, Arthur pulled
the tarp fully to the side to reveal a pile of crude weapons: machetes
taken from the White House gardener's storeroom, baseball bats, broken
bottles, and knives stolen from the White House kitchens.

   "The choice is this: you can all either die slowly and in excruciating
agony, or you can take up arms against one another.  If you choose the
first option, your families will also die horribly.  If you choose the
latter, your families will be spared, and the last of you who stands will
leave here alive and might even see his or hers again.  So, what is it to
be: slow, painful

   deaths for everyone, or quick deaths for most and one survivor?"

   The Speaker of the House stood and said crisply, "Other than a localized
disruption in phone service, there is absolutely nothing to indicate that
your preposterous story is true.  I'm so sorry to disappoint you, but we
will not be engaging in your ludicrous gladiatorial fantasy based on
nothing but your word."

   "If it is proof you require, then proof you shall have," Arthur replied.


   He began to point to various members of his captive audience, reciting
the names and locations of all of their family members.  Faces twisted in
dismay as his information proved to be accurate within minutes.  He had, of
course, taken the information straight from their minds, and did not have
any fledglings in place to cause any of the far flung family members
immediate harm.  His audience, however, did not know this.

   Her voice now uncertain, the Speaker repeated her earlier assertion that
they did not negotiate with terrorists.

   "So be it," Arthur replied impassively.

   Before anyone could react, he leaped up to the balcony and selected a
Congressman at random.  His hand sprouted claws and darted forward,
entering just to the side of the navel.  When it came back out, several
loops of intestine came with it.  With a cry of pain, the man reached down
and tried to stuff them back inside.

   "This man will spend the next few hours in intense pain and then he will
die," Arthur stated as he held the screaming man up above his head for all
to see.  "This is the fate that awaits you and your families if you choose
the first option."

   Shaken by the unexpected violence, the Speaker nevertheless held her
ground.  "There are still over five hundred of us and only a few of you."
Turning to address the other members of Congress, she said fiercely, "On my
word, charge this filth and take them down."

   Arthur smiled pleasantly, revealing his fangs.  His claws grew long and
sharp, and spikes sprouted from his knees and elbows.

   Calmly, he said, "For those of you who are out of the loop and are too
dim to have figured it out, I am a vampire as are the men behind you.  You
may be surprised to learn that parts of your government, perhaps even some
in this room, have known about my existence since I caused the disaster in
Pittsburgh.  After one of my own kind incapacitated me, your government
tried to keep me in captivity like some kind of lab animal.  Once I escaped
and killed or enslaved the combat trained soldiers who were my guards, I
brought about the destruction of the Fort Dix reactor.  Even without the
assistance of my friends by the doors, I could disembowel all of you in a
matter of minutes." His voice grew low and dangerous as he concluded, "I
will give you one last chance to choose: face each other or face me."

   The Speaker, cowed more by his display than his words, sat down heavily.
A general, panicked movement began in the direction of the doors.  Arthur's
fledglings, specially handpicked based on their propensity for cruelty,
pushed in through the doors to block them, bringing assault rifles to the
ready.

   Arthur shouted, "Shoot anyone who gets close to the doors in the
stomach."

   The mass movement came to a halt.

   A voice from the balcony cried out, "What have we ever done to make you
hate us so much?"

   Arthur shook his head in annoyance.  "You completely misunderstand my
motives.  I don't hate you.  Under normal circumstances, in only a very few
years all of you would be nothing more than a sordid footnote in a history
book.  I, on the other hand, will remain much as I am now.  With your short
lives, you can do nothing that will have any lasting impact on, or
relevance to, mine.  Why would I waste any emotion on such trivial beings
as you?  Unfortunately for you, because of recent events, you are an
obstacle that stands in my way.  An obstacle that must be removed."

   "Then why are you making us fight each other?" another person called
out.

   "Because it amuses me to do so.  It's a win-win situation for all of us:
I am entertained, and you get to die relatively painlessly.  However, I am
growing impatient.  Choose soon, or I will choose for you.  If you let me
choose, perhaps some of you will even linger long enough, writhing in pain
and leaking your vital fluids out onto the floor, that you will have the
chance to listen to your loved ones' screams over my phone.  As you listen,
those cries, so full of anguish and suffering, will cut off, abruptly and
forever."

   An air of growing desperation filled the room, and all eyes fixed on the
pile of weapons before turning to cast considering looks upon their
neighbors.  A Senator from New York rushed toward the mound.  At first in
ones and twos, and then in a flood, most of the others charged behind him.
Several cries of pain split the room as a few of those jumping down from
the balcony landed badly and broke limbs.  Several of the less mobile
stayed back and smashed some of the chairs and benches to create heavy
wooden cudgels.

   As Arthur had expected, they originally gathered along the sides of the
room, divided along party lines.  The two groups eyed each other
uncertainly across the vacant center of the vast chamber.  The democrats
had the numbers on their side, but the republicans were seething with
resentment over the power they had lost to their adversaries in recent
years.

   Throwing the President over his shoulder, Arthur joined the Chief of
Staff and Agent Duckworth by the doors.  With a gesture he indicated that a
fledgling carrying a video camera should start filming.

   The impasse went on for several minutes, none willing to take the next
step.  Now that they were armed, Arthur was peeved to see their eyes and
minds turning again to him and his fledglings with thoughts of attack. 
With an exercise of will, Arthur took control of one of the distinguished
gentlemen from Kansas, making him charge the democrat's line with a wild
yell.  He actually managed to sink his machete into the neck of a
Representative from Connecticut before her compatriots drove their knives
home.  With the ice broken by the first two casualties, the battle was
joined.  Fueled by adrenalin, fear and desperation, it was a only a matter
of seconds before all were embroiled in the chaotic melee.

   Arthur chuckled as he heard one of the fledglings taking wagers on the
outcome.  Sidling over, he placed his own bet on a former football player
who was now a Senator for the great state of Wyoming.

   Initially, his choice did well.  Using a table leg, the man managed to
brain at least three democrats and one fellow republican.  Then, with a
warbling cry, the Secretary of State leaped onto his back and slit his
throat with a butcher knife.  With a disgusted grunt, Arthur paid up.

   He watched with interest as the Joint Chiefs of Staff formed a crude but
well disciplined phalanx, using chairs as both weapons and shields.  With
no regard for political affiliation, they cut a wide swathe through the
massed ranks.  They were brought down when both parties, cooperating fully
for the first time in decades, overwhelmed them with sheer numbers.  What
they left behind was barely recognizable as human.

   The battle raged on for a good ten minutes until only the Secretary of
State and a Senator from Maine remained.  Both were wounded, and they
circled each other slowly for a few moments.  The Senator suddenly sprang
forward, swinging his machete in an arc.  The Secretary of State ducked
beneath it and drove her knife forward, striking just below his rib cage.
Pulling the knife free, she stabbed him again and then a third time.  She
stood over the fallen body of her opponent for a second before collapsing
to the gore covered floor next to him.  Her rasping breaths indicated that
at least a few of her ribs were broken.  One of the fledglings whooped
loudly as he received his payout.

   Turning to Agent Duckworth, Arthur said, "Assist her out to the steps in
front of the building.  When you are done, take the President to the
National Archives and lock him in the vault with the rest of his family."

   "She needs medical attention," John replied.

   Arthur shrugged indifferently, "I only promised that she would leave
here alive.  Once outside, she's on her own.  Besides, by now the hospitals
will be overrun by ferals."

   "What about him?" John asked, nodding in the direction of the Chief of
Staff.  "Does he go to the National Archives, too?"

   "No.  I will be taking care of him myself."

   Taking out the pad he had been writing on, Arthur passed it to another
of the fledglings.

   "This is a list of all of the most influential lobbyists.  Take it to
General Huffhamner, and tell him to pay them a visit.  Torture them until
they identify the people in their office who actually drafted the bills
that they had the Congressmen they owned introduce, and then add those
names to the list.  By morning, I want everyone on it impaled on a stake in
the National Mall, although, if you run out of room, you may put the excess
in the White House lawn."

   All heads turned as gunfire broke out from nearby and was sustained for
several minutes.  A few minutes later, an ill looking FBI agent appeared
from around a corner and gave a single nod to Arthur.  Arthur smiled in
return, acknowledging that all of the staff, bodyguards and others who had
come with the members of Congress had been eliminated.

   Arthur then spoke quietly with the rest of the men, giving them a set of
final instructions.  They walked into the midst of the carnage to collect
the machetes and set about their assigned task.  Occasionally, Arthur would
have one or another pause as he muttered briefly over the fruits of their
labor in a language that none understood.  With his interruptions, it was
nearly an hour before the last of the bulging trash bags had been ferried
out to the waiting trucks.

   When their task was complete, Arthur had them gather around him.

   With a sardonic smile, he said, "During the War of 1812, Admiral
Cockburn, a countryman of mine, set a precedent that I believe we should
follow." Stepping back, he said solemnly, "I understand that this country
is a democracy, so let's take a vote.  I move that we burn this building to
the ground.  All in favor say, 'aye.'"

   The vote was nearly unanimous, although many weren't enthusiastic. 
Arthur sent half of the men to collect accelerants and ordered the other
half to prepare a warm welcome for any fire fighters that might arrive. 
Taking the Chief of Staff by the shoulder, Arthur led him outside.

   Chapter 49 December Twenty-fourth 10:30 p.m.  EST

   With a fond smile for Mia and Dana, who were cuddled together on the
couch, Tom plopped into the comfortable leather chair in front of the
computer.  He had been willing to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" with them
for the fourth time in two weeks, but afterwards, when they had then popped
"An Unexpected Love" into the DVD player, he had to flee.  He had seen the
movie once a few years before, and that had been more than enough for a
lifetime, even if he ended up living for a few thousand years.

   Once Windows had finished booting, he opened up Firefox.  A frown
crossed his face when his Google homepage failed to load.  After dipping
his head to look under the desk to make sure everything was lit up that
should be, he clicked on the bookmark for ESPN.  Another 404 error.  His
frown deepened as he tried Amazon, USA Today, and CNN with the same result.

   "Hey, Dana," he called across the room.  "Something's wrong with the
computer."

   "So fix it," she replied, her eyes not leaving the television screen.

   "Could you help me?  Pretty, pretty please with sugar on top," he said
sweetly.

   With a disgusted grunt, she laboriously pushed herself up, pausing on
the way to kiss Mia on the cheek.  "Keep my spot warm for me, I'll be right
back."

   Mia chuckled.  "I'll do my best, but you'd better hurry."

   Dana ambled across the room and shooed him out of the chair with a sharp
gesture.  Over the next few minutes, the confident, affectionately
condescending look on her face gradually faded.

   "Did you make sure everything was plugged in?" she asked.

   "All the lights are on."

   "Well, crawl under there and make sure none of the cables are loose. 
Wall to modem.  Modem to router.  Router to the back of the computer."

   "Gotcha," Tom replied as he dropped to his knees.  After a few minutes
of fiddling around in the shadowed and slightly dusty underbelly of the
desk, he said, "Everything looks good." He then grunted in pain when he hit
his head on the underside of the desk while extricating himself.

   "Poor baby," Dana said mockingly, but she reached out to soothingly rub
the top of his head.

   Her fingers returned to the keyboard and typed busily for several
minutes.  Her expression grew increasingly bewildered.

   Finally, she leaned back with a slow shake of her head.  "Huh.  I just
tried to ping Amazon, Google and Yahoo, all of which have their servers on
the West Coast.  All of them petered out in the midwest, and the route the
data took to get even that far is really weird.  Usually, the data packets
go from here to the D.C.  area, bounce around between a couple of core
routers there, and then connect to the target site.  Each of these pings
took thirty or more hops, and they were all over the place."

   When Tom and Mia responded with blank stares, she sighed and hunched
back over the keyboard.  More than fifteen minutes later, she again leaned
back .

   "Guys, I think you should look at this.  Lump, why don't you go grab Mia
a chair?"

   When they were gathered around, Dana brought up a map of U.S.  cities
and a visual trace route program.  She returned to typing, and lines flew
across the trace route program.

   "I know it's a pain in the butt to look back and forth between the two
maps, but I couldn't come up with a way to superimpose them." When her
fingers stopped moving, she exclaimed, "There!  Did you see?"

   "Uh.  No," Tom replied.

   Mia studied Dana carefully before straightening up and looking at the
computer with some concern.

   Dana let out an exasperated sigh.  "Okay.  Lump, pay attention.  Mia,
it's rude to just go poking around in someone's head - Don't try to look
innocent, I know that's what you did without asking first.  Anyway, had you
been paying attention, you would have noticed that the routes didn't pass
through any major urban area, and any attempt to do so, including the times
when the target website was in a city, didn't receive a response.  You also
would have noticed that anytime the DNS caching server didn't have a
particular domain name cached and tried to connect to a DNS root server,
the ping failed."

   "Um, I don't think I would have noticed any of that no matter how much
attention I paid," said Tom.  "Assuming that I had, though, what should
that have meant to me?"

   "Most of the core routers and the internet backbone, which is mostly
high bandwidth fiber optic cables, are in or run through major metropolitan
areas, but none of them seem to be there.  None of the website servers
located in cities are responding.  And, finally, the DNS root servers, at
least the ones east of the Rockies, seem to be down."

   "Maybe they were just shut down for maintenance?" Tom offered.

   Dana snorted.  "No.  They're vital for the operation of the internet,
and each root 'server' has multiple redundancies, sometimes physically
separate and distant from each other.  Most of the ones in the Eastern U.S.
are clustered around the D.C.  area, but there are others in Chicago,
Atlanta, Columbus ...  uh, and a few other places."

   "Okay.  Any chance you could bring it down another level for us?"

   "Every major city in the United States and Canada has been ripped from
the internet.  It might extend farther than that, but I can't connect to
anything outside the continent to be sure."

   "How is that even possible?"

   Dana shrugged helplessly.  "I have no idea.  Even a massive denial of
service campaign wouldn't result in something like this.  The only
conclusion I can reach is that the damage is physical."

   "Maybe there's something about it on TV," said Mia.

   Tom walked across the room and turned on the cable box.  After pressing
a number of buttons, he shot them a perplexed look.  "Cable's out."

   Dana asked, "Would either of you happen to know a news website that
doesn't operate out of a city?"

   "Fark is run out of some small towns in backwoods Kentucky," Mia
supplied.

   Dana twisted around to stare at her.  "I don't think I even want to know
how you know that."

   Mia shrugged.  "I get bored sometimes while Tom's taking care of the
bunnies.  Trolling the Fark forums is fun."

   Turning back to the computer, Dana typed briefly.  "Sweet!  It's
loading. Slow as all heck, but it's loading."

   A few seconds later, she announced, "None of the links seem to be
working, but the forums are up."

   They clustered together to read the entries in the forum on the topic,
"What in the hell is going on?" Interspersed between pictures of General
Ackbar and LOLcats were frantic entries concerning loss of telephone and
television services, and reports of gunfire.  As they scrolled down,
messages from those in cities on the East Coast dwindled and then vanished
entirely, only to be replaced by similar messages from those in cities
farther west.  After a few pages, all that was left were entries by rural
farkers asking after urban friends, reporting an inability to reach friends
and family in cities, and requesting information.

   "Scroll to the end and let's see if anyone drove to a city and reported
back," Tom directed.

   Dana gave him a dubious look.  "This is an internet forum, Lump. 
Everyone's full of advice on what others should be doing, but, generally,
when it comes to doing something themselves that involves more effort than
clicking a mouse a few times, it just doesn't happen."

   Nevertheless, she skipped ahead.

   "Told you so," she said after they read the last page.  "But look at
this: a few minutes ago

   someone posted a link to a BitTorrent video."

   After a few clicks of the mouse, she said, "The seed is gone, but
hopefully there are enough people still online who have the parts that we
can still get the whole thing."

   It took nearly a half hour to download the sixty megabyte video.  While
they waited, Tom repeatedly tried to reach Mark and Chief Jacobs on the
phone.

   When Dana indicated that the video was ready, Tom put his phone away
with a muttered curse.  "Our mobile service is apparently working, but it
says Mark is outside the service area and all lines to Pittsburgh are
busy."

   The video appeared to have been shot with a high end smart phone and
showed a news studio in chaos.  In the bottom corner, a clock showed the
time to be 5:45 p.m.

   From behind the camera, a loud voice announced, "This is Corbin Fakosh,
intern at Fox News at their New York headquarters.  A few minutes ago, we
unexpectedly went off the air.  I'm recording this to show all the critics
and libtards how a professional news team deals with adversity."

   The camera flashed around to show the anchor sitting bored behind the
desk while cameramen and technicians scrambled around searching for the
problem.  In the background, the producer could be heard shouting
instructions.

   The camera swivelled to show the producer talking to one of the
cameramen.  He finished by stating, "Well, if the cameras are working,
start filming.  When we find the problem, we'll air the tape." Turning to
face the anchor, he yelled across the room, "Pick it up from where we cut
off."

   A technician scrambled to reset the prompter while a cameraman counted
down on his fingers.  When the last finger vanished, the deep, rich voice
of the anchor began, "Turning to our top story, two weeks ago the President
further damaged relations with Britain, our staunchest ally, by failing to
extend his pinky while drinking tea during a state visit from the Queen. 
As our viewers will certainly recall, shortly after the President took
office, the First Lady offered grave insult to our greatest friend on that
side of the Atlantic by touching the Queen.  Such bumbling diplomacy cannot
be tolerated.  I urge our viewers to join with the Tea Party patriots by
contacting their Congressional representatives and demanding an immediate
impeachment proceeding."

   Dana muttered, "He and his Tea Party traitors should be locked up in
Gitmo for instigating treason."

   Tom replied, "That's the beauty of the First Amendment, love.  As the
saying goes: while I may not agree with what he's saying, I would give my
life for his right to say it.  Besides, Gitmo is being closed.  We'd have
to send them to Leavenworth or something."

   Mia shushed them both with an abrupt gesture as the camera swung back to
the producer.  A young woman in business attire had approached and was
speaking in hushed tones.  The intern stepped in close to pick up the
conversation.

   "...technicians in the control room pulled the plug," she was saying. 
"He has a baseball bat and is attacking anyone who tries to get close."

   "Well, call the damn cops," the producer shouted in exasperation.

   The young woman nodded and ran off.  For the next few minutes, the
camera panned back and forth between the droning anchor and the angrily
pacing producer.  Suddenly, a door behind the producer flew open and three
police officers came striding in.

   "Thank you for responding so quickly, officers..." the producer began to
say.

   The lead cop interrupted, "Are you still off the air?"

   "Yes..."

   The cop cut him off.  "Good."

   There was a bang and the producer reeled back, staring with shock at the
spreading bloodstain on his chest.  There was a brief, pregnant pause as
all eyes watched him tumble slowly to the floor, and then pandemonium
reigned.

   The camera followed the flight of one of the technicians.  He had almost
made it to the door before one of the police officers intercepted him with
a baton to the midriff.  The view then flashed to the anchorman, whose head
snapped backwards as a red and gray mass appeared on the wall behind him.
When his head came back forward, light could be seen through the hole above
his left eyebrow.  He slumped onto the desk before sliding out of sight
behind it.

   Dana broke the shocked silence with a snicker.

   "What could you possibly have found funny about that?" Mia asked
incredulously.

   "I'm sorry, I couldn't help it.  All I could think was how amazing it
was that an employee of the propaganda arm of the extreme right had so many
brains in his head."

   "What's up with that?" Tom asked, appalled.

   Dana grinned up at him.  "I'm eight months pregnant.  My ankles are
swollen, my back hurts like hell and my boobs ache.  I want to laugh, cry,
have someone hold me and beat the living shit out of someone all at the
same time.  I'm entitled to a little vindictiveness.  Besides, I know you
thought it, too."

   Tom turned his attention back to the screen with a shrug.  She was
right: he had.

   In the interim, the video had alternated between complete darkness and
close ups of the floor flashing by as the intern crawled somewhere in a
hurry.  In the background, screams, gunshots and pleas for mercy could be
heard.  Shortly, he came to a stop and the camera was raised.

   The intern spoke in a nervous whisper, "The guy who took us off the air
went to help the cops.  They were working together.  Now that he's gone, I
think I can upload this through the satellite uplink.  I don't know what's
going on, but we need help.  If anyone sees this, please help.  Please!"

   Dana shook her head sadly.  "With the way the internet's acting up, it
was a good thing he put this on a BitTorrent site, but he put it on
Isohunt. They get so much traffic that not many people noticed it until the
last hour or so, and then it was too late.  The dumbass also entitled it,
'Please watch this!' which would make a lot of people suspect a virus."

   "Could you rewind it to right after the police arrived?" Tom asked.

   "Ha!  I knew you'd want to see the head shot again."

   "No, not that.  Right before it, there was something odd that I want to
see again."

   They again watched the producer get shot and the technician try to
escape.

   "There!" Tom exclaimed.  "Did you see how fast that policeman moved?  I
thought it was a glitch in the video at first, but everyone else is moving
at normal speed.  Nobody could move that fast."

   They watched it a few more times.

   "It's true," Mia commented.  "He's moving too fast to be anything but a
vampire."

   "This is unbelievable," Dana said faintly.  "How many vampires would it
take to cause all the problems that we're seeing?  How could they have
built up those kind of numbers without anyone noticing?"

   "They took over law enforcement; the very people who would investigate
any of the early warning signs," Tom offered.

   "So, what are we going to do?" Mia asked.

   Tom replied slowly, "Well, I think you and Dana should lock yourselves
up in the panic room.  I'm going to head to Pittsburgh to see if there's
trouble there.  If so, I'll do what I can to help.  If not, maybe Mark or
Denny will have an idea about what we should do next."

   Mia shook her head.  "Unless they know you're coming, that would be
suicide.  Think about it.  If our guesses are right, there's going to be
panic on a grand scale, even in places that aren't directly affected.  The
Pittsburgh P.D.  knows how to fight our kind.  You would be spotted with IR
and killed before you could say a word."

   Tom grudgingly conceded that she was right with a nod.  "So, what should
we do?"

   "Keep trying to get Mark or Denny on the phone.  They'll have more
information than we do and will be able to tell us where we're needed
most."

   Tom pulled out his phone and started to pace and dial.  He had barely
gotten started when the lights went out.

   Chapter 50 December Twenty-fourth 11:00 p.m.  EST

   Paul crouched in the snow behind the thick trunk of a tree.  The only
sound was the hum from the high tension lines that marched in a seemingly
endless line over the forested hills of Southern New York.  That near
silence was broken when, with a deafening roar, the Semtex charges that he
and his team had put in place exploded simultaneously.

   As three of the massive towers of steel girders teetered on shattered
bases, the thick cables they supported stretched back and forth, producing
a sound like a giant, out of tune guitar.  Then one tower toppled with a
crash that made the ground vibrate beneath Paul's feet.  Accompanied by the
loud crack of snapping cables, the other two quickly followed.

   Whooping, hollering, and thrusting their fists into the air, Paul and
the other four members of his team celebrated their act of mayhem for a few
minutes before returning to cover.  He could feel joy and smug satisfaction
flowing through a number of the bubbles in his head and knew that the other
fourteen teams assigned to similar tasks had also been successful.

   Only minutes later, they heard a helicopter approach.  The aircraft
surveyed the scene for a few minutes before flying off.  After the passage
of less than twenty minutes, the first of the utility company vehicles
began to arrive, their chain covered tires throwing up plumes of snow
behind them as they raced over the frozen hills.  Shortly thereafter,
vehicles, both those belonging to the power company and others operated by
local law enforcement, flooded into the area.  When the rush slowed, Paul
signaled his team and stepped out into the open.

   The butt of his assault rifle shook against his shoulder as he, and
those following him, targeted the local cops and the vehicles at the front
and rear of the pack.  Return fire was sporadic and light.  When it ceased
altogether, he extended his fangs and drew a long knife as he advanced:
they only had a limited amount of ammunition and had to spare as much as
they could.  Besides, this way would be a lot more fun.

   Only a short time later, he was stalking one of the last of the utility
company employees.  The look on the man's face reminded him of his father's
expression when Paul had asked, after the second day of kindergarten, which
thing his father liked better: laughter or pain.

   As he finished draining the man, his cheap, digital watch announced the
coming of midnight with a beep.  He imagined that he could feel the earth
shake as the explosives he and the other teams had placed on other high
tension lines, natural gas compressor stations and rural electrical
substations over the past few weeks went off, although the nearest was much
too far away for this to be a reality.

   At a run, Paul led his team through the woods to the pickup truck they
had concealed along the side of the distant road.  They still had much to
do tonight, before heading west to join the five teams assigned to attack
the massive grain elevators, stockyards, farms and cattle ranches that fed
the country and much of the world.







   Chapter 51 December Twenty-fourth 11:30 p.m EST 10:30 p.m.  local time

   "What the fuck are we going to do now?" George asked.  From the looks on
the faces of Brian and the other federal agents who had followed him, Mark
guessed that they all wanted an answer to that question.

   "We could walk out," said one of the feds.

   Theresa shook her head.  "We have no idea how widespread this is.  We
might have to walk dozens of miles before we found safety." She made a
broad sweep with her hand that took in her own children and the one's
peeking out at them from the back seats of many of the other vehicles. 
"How far do you really think they could make it, or we could carry them,
especially in the dark and rain?"

   Mark had to admit that she had a point.

   "Well, then," he ventured, "I guess we have two options.  We can either
find a place to hole up until morning, or we can hunt down the
motherfuckers - excuse my french - who are in charge of the vamps and do
our best to put an end to this tonight."

   He was immediately reminded that he was speaking to people who had
devoted their lives to law enforcement when they unanimously chose the
second course of action.

   Still, he had to make certain that they understood the risks and
alternatives.  "Vamps are, for all practical purposes, dead during the day.
If we wait until morning to hunt them, we can do so without risk.  If we do
this at night, some of us, maybe even all of us, aren't going to make it.
With an entire city to search, there's also no guarantee that we'll even be
able to find the ones in charge."

   The rest of the group exchanged glances before Brian spoke for them all,
"I couldn't live with myself if I hid in someone's basement while others
died.  If there's even a chance that I can prevent that, I'm going to take
it.  As for the rest, we'll just have to kill every vampire we find. 
Eventually, we're bound to kill one in middle management.  When we do,
hopefully one of his subordinates can tell us what we need to know."

   "Okay," Mark said with a nod.  "If we're doing that, we'll need real
weapons."

   "I have an AK-47 in my trunk and a couple hundred rounds of ammunition,"
one of the feds offered.

   With a another gesture toward the dead vampires in the street, Theresa
added, "These guys were armed to the teeth, too.  I'm sure you've already
seen the shotgun locked up between the front seats.  There's also two army
guns and some bullets in the trunk."

   Mark gave a small shake of the head.  "Although not completely useless,
those won't help much.  We've been lucky so far and have had surprise on
our side.  That won't last.  Bullets will put a vamp down, but it won't
keep it down and we're not always going to have time to run up and pound a
stake through a heart.  What we need are bows and arrows.  Wooden arrows. I
don't suppose that any of you have any archery experience?"

   Most of them looked at him in surprise before starting to laugh.  At his
look of confusion, one of them deigned to explain, "This is Oklahoma.  For
a lot of folks, archery might as well be the state sport."

   With amusement, Mark noticed George's look of embarrassment at his own
lack of skill.  He also felt hope spring up at the statement.  This might
actually work.  "We can't go back to your homes to get your own gear. 
Because you were all on the lists, I would bet that there's a good chance
that there are vamps keeping an eye on the places in case you were just out
visiting friends.  Are there any archery stores in the area?"

   "There are a number of them up on Admiral Place, but I just drove by
there.  There were police cars in the parking lots.  There are a few others
in Broken Arrow to the south, but the roads there will probably be blocked
," Brian replied.

   "We could probably overwhelm them with the numbers we have now, but we'd
most likely lose a few.  I don't think that's really an option.  Do any of
the local universities or high schools have archery teams?"

   The group looked at one another questioningly for a few minutes before
another of the feds spoke up.  "A friend's son went to Oral Roberts
University and took an archery class.  The school supplied the equipment."

   "Sounds like the best idea we've got.  How do we get there?"

   "Make a left on Eleventh and follow it to Lewis.  Make another left and
it's a straight shot," Brian supplied.

   "Most of you have your families with you.  What about them?"

   Brian responded, "I think I speak for all of us when I say that we're
not planning on taking them on the actual attack, if that's what you're
asking.  There's a big hospital on the way.  They can probably take shelter
there.  If not, the University itself should be safe."

   "Sounds good.  Let's get moving."

   "Hold on a second," George interjected.  "Shouldn't we still be thinking
about warning the rest of the city and the country?"

   All eyes turned to Mark.  "Not much point in trying to send a warning
outside the city at this point," he said.  "It's well after dark on the
west coast, so whatever is going to happen there is already well underway.

   "It's up to all of you whether we warn the people here.  However, even
under the worst case scenario, the vamps make up less than half of one
percent of the population.  Even if they really hustle ass, there are only
so many houses they can hit in one night.  Most people will be safe at
home."

   After a quick discussion and vote, they decided to broadcast a warning
over the cruiser's radio that relied on the tried and true terrorist attack
story.  The message would be a simple one: they would ask anyone listening
on a scanner to pass the warning on to their neighbors and then shut off
their lights, lock their doors and hide in a basement or attic until
morning.  Mark just hoped that the vampires leading the assault lacked the
capability to triangulate their signal.

   They set off with Mark in the lead driving the police cruiser with the
lights flashing.  He hadn't even reached Eleventh Street when a squawk and
a burst of static came from the long silent radio.  A calm voice then came
on to read off an address.  As George began their own broadcast, more
addresses were announced, each by a different voice.

   Mark was gratified to see that most of the homes in the neighborhoods in
which they had already given their warning were dark except for the street
lights.  In others, however, people continued to celebrate the holiday with
family and friends, oblivious to what was happening.  It was getting late
enough that many such gatherings were coming to an end.  As a result of
this and people who had received the warning and responded with panic
instead of following instructions, traffic quickly picked up substantially.
They were still blocks away from Lewis Avenue when they came across a
deadlock that not even the flashing lights on top of the cruiser could
clear.

   Brian came forward and climbed up onto the roof of the police car for a
better look.  "Lewis is blocked solid in both directions as far as I can
see.  We're going to have to find another way."

   After George ran forward to pass their agreed upon story to the cars in
front of them, they pulled a u-turn and tried another route.  Mark quickly
got disoriented by the twists and turns that they took to avoid the ever
growing number of traffic snarls caused by numerous other people abandoning
the main routes from the city in favor of the much smaller streets.

   Theresa suddenly leaned forward between the seats to peer up at the
street signs.  "Uh, we're getting real close to the last address that came
over the radio."

   The only turn they could have taken to avoid it was blocked by an
accident involving at least four cars.  With growing trepidation, they
watched the numbers on the houses and businesses count down ever closer to
the one announced on the radio.

   The address turned out to be a mostly vacant field with a cement block
building surrounded by a chain link fence at one end.  Thick cables ran
into the building from nearby utility poles, and the whitewashed wall
facing the street was marked with the white on red logo of the American
Electric Power Company.

   "Shit!  Look out!" George yelled.

   A tractor trailer was racing down the street toward them, knocking the
cars in its path to the sides and leaving a trail of wreckage behind it. 
As it bounced over the curb on a collision course with the building, the
driver's side door flew open.  A man jumped out of the cab and hit the
pavement with a bone crushing thud before rolling down the street, his
flailing limbs sticking out at sickening angles.

   The semi barely slowed as it smashed through the fence and impacted with
the side of the building.  Mark was blinded by a flash like a thousand
bolts of lightning striking at once.  Despite the insulation provided by
the car's tires and the soles of his shoes, his feet tingled from the
massive discharge of electricity that had been made into the earth.  The
streetlights and nearby buildings went dark.

   "Holy shit!" he exclaimed as he rapidly blinked his eyes in an attempt
to clear away the blots of color that obscured his vision.  "They're taking
out substations!" He flailed out with an arm to grab a handful of George's
shirt.  "Get the stakes."

   Working more by feel than sight, Mark pulled the keys from the ignition
and, after several unsuccessful attempts, managed to unlock the shotgun, a
twelve gauge with a drum magazine, between the seats.  He jumped out of the
vehicle and raced down the street that was now only dimly lit by the
headlights of vehicles.

   The semi's driver had pulled himself up onto his knees, his limbs nearly
realigned.  The buckshot threw him back down onto the pavement; his chest a
bloody mess that closely resembled hamburger.  He tried to roll clear as
Mark worked the pump action of the shotgun, but his attempt to flee came to
an end when his head was turned into mush.

   As he held the stake in place for George to drive it home, Mark was
dimly aware of the pale, frightened, and horrified faces that peered at
them from behind the wreckage in the street and out through the darkened
windows of nearby homes.

   The federal agents and their families moved among them, telling them to
remain calm, deflecting questions concerning the manner in which the driver
had been dispatched, and commanding them to return to their homes and lock
themselves inside.

   Despite their efforts, Mark noticed that their little convoy had picked
up a few more vehicles when they finally got moving again.  By driving on
sidewalks and cutting through parking lots, parks and playgrounds, they
were able to slowly make their way south.  Then their progress was slowed
further by the panicked people that were spilling out of every building to
congregate in the streets.

   After George got on the car's loudspeaker and ordered the crowd to
disperse and lock themselves indoors, he set the microphone down with a
sigh.  "I couldn't figure out why they took out communications so early,
but waited until now to disrupt power.  Now I know.  On tonight of all
nights, many people probably didn't even notice that the phones and
television were out, and the few that did probably wrote it off as some
kind of computer error and went on celebrating.  When the power goes out
for no good reason, though, people panic and try to find out what's wrong.
The vamps didn't want anyone leaving home until they had paid visits to the
police, government and media."

   Mark nodded.  "Yeah, and the timing couldn't be worse.  You saw the guy
back at the police station.  There will be more like him waking up all over
the city.  With these crowds everywhere..."

   He cut off as the people in front of the car suddenly twisted to peer
into the gloom at the other end of the street.  When they turned back
around, their eyes were wide with terror.  As a mob, they stampeded away
from whatever it was that they had seen.  Most ran in the small spaces
between the cars that clogged the street, but others ran right over them.
One of the kids in the back seat squealed with alarm as the roof of the
cruiser buckled under the weight and dented deeply.

   For a moment, the press of bodies against the sides of the car was too
great to allow Mark to open the door.  When the panicked rush passed, the
headlights revealed at least four ferals, one a naked, grotesquely fat
woman who appeared to be covered in a layer of Crisco.  They were each
crouched over a squirming body.  At the very edge of the circle of light,
Mark could make out the corpses of their last kills.

   One raised its head as it finished draining the man on whom it fed; its
tongue stretching out to swipe over its blood smeared upper lip.  Its head
twitched and nostrils flared as it took in the scent of the retreating
crowd.  With a snarl, it renewed pursuit.

   An assault rifle opened up from one of the cars behind them.  Right in
front of Mark's car, the feral staggered backwards as ragged, bloody holes
appeared in its chest.  A head shot then dropped it to its knees.

   The gunfire cut off.  In the side mirror, Mark could see one of the feds
running forward with an AK-47 in her hands.  Grabbing the shotgun, he threw
open the door and jumped out.  In his peripheral vision, he could see
George doing the same, carrying one of the AR-15's that had been in the
cruiser's trunk.

   As they opened fire, the ferals charged.  Two of them tumbled to the
pavement under the onslaught, but, despite being riddled with bullets, the
fat woman had enough momentum to slam into the fed holding the AK-47 with
bone crushing force, smashing her into the car behind her hard enough to
crumple the hood.

   He stood helplessly - the shotgun would have a good chance of hitting
the fed as well as the vampire - as George put at least five rounds into
the greasy behemoth.  When the feral went limp, Mark rushed over to try to
heave it off of the still figure that it covered.  The gooey, whitish
coating made it difficult to get a grip, and it wasn't until George and the
fed's husband joined him that they were able to roll it to the side.

   "God damn, that's disgusting," he exclaimed as he wiped his hands off on
his pants.  He then went silent as he realized that the federal agent,
whose name he hadn't even known, had been crushed to death.

   As the fed's husband took her hands in his and sank to the pavement
beside her, Theresa ran up with the stakes and hammers.  Starting with the
first feral that had been dropped, they quickly made certain that the
beasts would no longer be a threat.

   As he held the stake in place on the obese feral's chest, George asked
disgustedly, "What is this stuff?  It stinks!"

   Mark leaned in for a closer look before pulling back with a cough. 
"It's coming from her pores.  My guess would be that, now that she's a
vampire, her body is getting rid of useless mass that no longer serves any
purpose.  She's literally sweating fat.  That's probably why she's naked:
she's already lost so much weight that her clothes fell right off of her.
Eat your heart out, Slimfast."

   George looked like he was about to lose his dinner, but managed to hold
the stake steady while Mark drove it home.  They then moved on to the
victims.

   "Are you going to have to ...  to stake Melinda, too?" asked the dead
fed's husband in a forlorn voice.

   "No, she wasn't bitten," Mark replied gently.  "If you like, I'll help
you carry her to your car, but we have to get moving."

   "Just leave us," the man said despondently, gathering his wife into his
arms.

   Mark leaned in close, his voice low and urgent.  "If you stay here in
the street, you'll die.  Do you think that's what she would want?  I
understand what you're going through, but you have kids in your car that I
assume are yours.  Shouldn't you be thinking of them?  Do you really want
them to lose both of their parents tonight?"

   Stricken, the man turned to peer through the drizzle at the anxious and
frightened faces of his children staring at him through the windshield of
his car.  "You're right," he said shakily.  "Thanks."

   "No problem.  Thank you for not making me thump you upside the head
before you saw reason.  Now, let me give you a hand carrying her back to
your car."

   They resumed their slow, meandering path south through the dark city,
winding their way around frightened mobs and wrecked and abandoned
vehicles. George alternated between the radio and the loudspeaker,
endlessly repeating his warnings to any who would listen.  Then they turned
a corner and ran into a new obstacle.

   Nearly everyone in the small convoy exited their vehicles to come and
stare with dismay at the downed utility poles that crisscrossed each other
across the intersection, the wires they had carried in a tangled mess.

   "Now what?" Theresa asked faintly.

   "With the substations down, they shouldn't be carrying any current,"
Mark replied.  "All adults come with me and let's see if we can move them."

   "Hang on a second," Brian said, as he started down the street at a fast
jog.

   While they waited, they faintly heard a chainsaw being started to the
north.  It was followed moments later by a crash, as, presumably, another
pole was toppled.  A few minutes later, Brian returned.  Mark noticed with
envy that he wasn't even breathing hard.

   "The next intersection and the one after it are like this, too," he said
when he came to a stop.  "At the second one, the poles were dropped right
on top of several vehicles.

   Mark looked across the street.  "That looks like a park," he observed.
"Why can't we just clear this intersection and drive across it?"

   George followed his gaze.  "That's Lafortune County Park.  Right down
the street, there's a highschool sports stadium, and a high school.  A
little farther inside, there's a golf course with sand traps, ponds and
thick stands of trees.  Just to the south, there's a public ball field and
a number of chain link fences and small stone walls.  We could do it on
foot, but we wouldn't make it very far in the cars."

   "How far is it to Oral Robert's University?"

   George scratched his chin as he considered the question.  "In a straight
line, two miles give or take.  Three tops."

   Mark turned around to contemplate the seven or eight pre-school children
and the few grade schoolers that were part of the group.  "Listen up,
people.  We're going to have to abandon the cars here.  We can either try
to make it the rest of the way on foot, or we can knock on doors until we
find someone to take us in.  As I said before, odds are decent that we
won't be attacked during what remains of the night."

   "But if we are, we'll be helpless, right?" George asked.

   "Not entirely.  As long as the ammunition holds out, we'll probably be
able to shoot and stake any vamps who show up."

   Brian shook his head sourly.  "Nothing has changed for me.  I still want
to get to those in charge and put a stop to this shit."

   In the end, a few of the civilians who had joined the group during the
journey left to seek shelter nearby, but the rest opted to push on to the
University and the hope of vengeance that it offered.  Mark was happily
surprised to see that most of the civilians who opted to travel with them
had weapons ranging from small handguns to deer rifles.

   Mark walked over to the side of the man who had lost his wife, and who
now stood with two frightened and tired looking children clinging to his
legs.  "Need a hand with the little ones?"

   The man nodded gratefully, and he and Mark bent down to make
introductions.  A few minutes later, Mark led the group across the street
with a pre-schooler seated in the crook of his arm.

   Too terrified of the attention that using flashlights for more than the
briefest of instants might bring, they traveled across the park in pitch
darkness.  Mark soon decided that the decision to do so was easily one of
the worst he had ever made.  In addition to being quickly soaked to the
skin by the cold rain, he quickly lost count of the times he tripped over
rocks, stumps, and low walls, stepped suddenly into knee deep water, or got
smacked across the face by a low hanging branch.  Carrying the child, he
couldn't even console himself with muttered curses.



   After what seemed like an eternity, but was likely less than twenty
minutes, car headlights came into view at what had to be the intersection
of South Yale and Sixty-First Street.  As they walked across the blessedly
smooth baseball field near the southwest corner of the park, he heard the
rapid fire of an assault rifle coming from the south.  A few seconds later,
that sound was joined by the distinctive thumping of a helicopter's rotors.

   Breaking into a jog, he gestured for the others to follow him to take
cover behind a low wall that edged a large parking lot.  He peeked over the
top until the helicopter came into view.  It cruised slowly above South
Yale like a lazy dragonfly, visible only by the light from the muzzle
flashes of the assault rifle being fired by a man hanging out the side
door.

   Mark's group watched its approach with dread.

   "What do you think?" he whispered to those near him.  "Friend or foe?"

   The man in the helicopter again opened fire.  In the intersection,
windshields exploded inward, tires burst, and headlights shattered from the
rain of lead from above.  Strangely, there were no screams of pain or
alarm.

   "Guess that answers that question," Mark muttered.  "They're making a
bigger mess of the roads.  Any of you guys who have hunting rifles any good
with them?"

   Three of the civilians nodded and raised their rifles to their
shoulders. A few seconds later, they lowered them and started to do their
best to remove their scopes in the near darkness.

   "What's wrong?" Mark asked in confusion.

   "Not enough light for the scopes even with the muzzle flashes," one of
the men explained.  "We're going to have to use open sights."

   The chopper had nearly passed them by the time the scopes had been
detached.  Again the rifles were raised to shoulders.

   "What should we aim for, the shooter, the pilot or the copter?" one of
the sharpshooters asked.

   George answered, "The pilots always refer to that one as a bunch of
metal fatigue circling an oil leak, so aim for the bird."

   The high powered rifles let out loud cracks.  A loud whine immediately
came from the helicopter's engine.  It jerked back and forth in the air as
the pilot struggled to keep it aloft or, at least, bring it down gently.

   The rifles fired again.  The helicopter veered to the side, and
plummeted down to crash into a shopping plaza on the other side of the
street.  Despite the distance, they could feel the concussion from the
explosion.

   Jumping to his feet, Mark yelled, "Someone throw me a couple stakes.  A
few of you stay here with the kids, the rest follow me."

   By the time he had jumped over the wall and ran to the site of the
crash, Mark was panting for breath.  He came to a halt and held a hand
across his face to shield himself from the heat.  The exertion hadn't been
worth the effort: there was no way that enough remained of either of the
vampires to stick with a stake.

   Brian, again having the indecency not to even fake breathing hard, came
to a stop beside him.  "Should we wait for the fire to burn down and make
sure they're dead?"

   "No.  I would be willing to bet that they got a distress call out over
the radio before they went down.  While the mess they made of the roads
will slow the vamps down nearly as much as it does us, they will likely be
here all too soon.  We need to get moving."

   He again studied the wreckage before asking George, "How many
helicopters does your department have?"

   "Two.  This one and a seven seat Bell.  There's other choppers in the
city, too, though: Local news, life flight, and a few that are owned by
companies or wealthy civilians."

   "Yeah, but most of those pilots need to fly by day.  They couldn't get
many of those pilots, civilian or police, without raising too much
suspicion for the enslaved investigators to quell.  Still, they might be
here a lot faster than we think."

   They returned to the rest of the group at a quick jog, noting along the
way that the cars sitting in the street had all been abandoned, many with
engines still running.  Mark was still wondering why when he nearly tripped
over a body.  He risked using his flashlight and immediately wished that he
had not.

   The corpse was covered with bloody tears and bite marks.  Divots of
flesh had been ripped out by gnashing teeth only to be spit out upon the
ground.  With the rain, it was impossible to tell how long ago the deaths
had occurred; the ferals who had done the killing might still be around.

   Squinting his eyes to better see through the darkness and rain, he
spotted at least a dozen more bodies, sprawled limply on the edges of
sidewalks, between cars, and in the rain gutter.  It would be best not to
bring the kids this way.  They had already been traumatized enough.

   Once reunited, the group continued the journey south, this time with one
of the civilians carrying the widower's second child while Mark walked
point with his shotgun.  The intersection of Sixty-First and Yale, like the
others they had seen recently, was blocked with fallen utility poles and
tangled wires.  The only bright spot Mark could think of was that, with the
substations destroyed, at least the wires weren't arcing and sparking.

   On the other side of Sixty-First was a large lawn covered with winter
brown grass.  In the dim light cast by the headlights of nearby abandoned
cars, Mark could make out the words "Saint Francis Hospital" in large white
letters on a low brick wall.  He wondered why there were no lights on in
the massive building.  Didn't all hospitals have backup generators these
days?

   Near the wall was a group of half a dozen children in soaking wet
hospital gowns, hunkered down in a circle and leaning in towards the center
with their heads together.  Several wore the remnants of the paper caps
reserved for those who had lost their hair to chemotherapy or radiation
treatments.

   Mark eyed them suspiciously and started to bring the shotgun to bear. 
Suddenly, the widower broke away from the group and ran toward them while
cradling his own youngest child in his arms.

   "Kids!  Oh, you poor dears!" he shouted as he ran forward.  "You
shouldn't be out here alone.  It's dangerous!  Come with us, and we'll get
you someplace safe."

   As one, the children lifted their heads and turned to face to him.  A
mix of blood and rain trickled down their chins and necks to darkly stain
the fronts of their thin attire.  As they jumped to their feet, they
revealed the motionless woman on whom they had been feeding.

   Mark cursed: the widower was standing directly in his line of fire.  In
the time it took him to run the few paces needed to get a clear shot, the
children's lips had pulled back in snarls as they began their charge.  They
rushed across the dead, wet grass with their arms stretched out in front of
them, their hands crooked into the semblance of claws.  Their speed was
such that their sodden gowns flapped immodestly behind them.

   In the time it took Mark to raise the shotgun, they closed the distance
to the widower.  The man who had already lost so much screamed in fright
and pain as multiple sets of teeth tore into the skin of his arms, stomach
and thighs, and his own child was ripped from his grasp.  With a mewl of
pleasure, he sank to the muddy earth.  In the face of their savage assault,
his struggles quickly became feeble.  As the last of his life was being
drained from him, he stretched out a hand toward the broken and lifeless
form of his young son.

   Recovering from their shock, the members of the group that were armed
opened fire nearly simultaneously.  The bodies of the feral children were
thrown backwards by multiple hits.  Even as he worked the pump action and
fired, Mark ran forward, doing his best to make certain that they stayed
down.  Others quickly ran up with improvised stakes and hammers.

   As the sounds of hammering and the shattering of ribs filled the air,
Mark glanced at the widower and his son.  Their limp figures and unblinking
eyes made it obvious that there was no hope that they still lived.

   He next walked over to the woman on whom the ferals had been feeding
when Mark's group had arrived.  Her body was still warm.  If they hadn't
gone to investigate the site of the helicopter crash, they might have saved
her.

   As he turned away from the grim scene, he caught sight of the widower's
remaining daughter.  Sucking on her thumb, she watched, wide eyed and
tearful, as stakes were pounded into the chests of her father and brother.
Tears of sympathy welled up in Mark's eyes.  How could anyone, even one so
young, ever recover from such a sight?  Why had no one thought to shield
her from it?  As he raced over to do so, he could only pray that Tulsa had
some truly skilled child psychologists.

   When the silence was again broken only by the sound of the falling rain,
Mark led the group southward, the young girl cradled against his side. 
Although they had planned on using the hospital as a refuge, no one
suggested entering the dark and foreboding structure.  As he plodded down
the sidewalk, he carefully avoided looking at the bodies scattered across
the hospital lawn with chunks of wood protruding from their chests.  Even
as things stood, he knew that their faces would haunt his nightmares for
the rest of his life.





   Chapter 52 December Twenty-fifth Midnight E.S.T.

   With hollow thumps, caustic smoke grenades were launched in an arc
through the windows of the brownstone apartment complex.  As the tear gas
took effect, the heavy weapons fire that the occupants were raining down
upon the street lessened dramatically.  Above the roof tops, Maria could
see shadows darting through the air as other members of her team, led by
Adam, jumped from adjacent buildings to the roof of the target.

   Similar scenes were being played out across the city as the vampires
eliminated every sign of organized opposition.  This one consisted of
several different gangs working together and with the residents of the
surrounding neighborhood.  Just a few hours before, any meeting between the
members of the disparate groups would have resulted in hostile words and
perhaps even violence.  In the face of adversity, however, they had pulled
together to turn the apartment complex into a fortress.  It made her sick
to the stomach to reward the cooperative effort with death, but she had her
orders.

   She could see muzzle flashes through the broken glass of the darkened
windows of the upper floors as those who had jumped to the roof started to
work their way down.  Her nose and sinuses burned from the tear gas until
she remembered that she didn't have to breathe.

   Waving toward a small group of vampires taking cover behind a car,
Harris shouted, "You follow me.  The rest of you lay down cover fire."

   Harris' apathy had vanished when the time had come for action.  He had
been at the forefront of every battle that the team had fought that night,
starting with the home executions and culminating here.  His clothes hung
in tatters, a testament to the number of bullets that had tried to take him
down and failed.  Maria had thought that she had known the depths of his
savagery and brutality.  She had been wrong.

   Not among those commanded to join the charge, Maria rose to her knees to
look over the edge of the car that was giving her shelter and placed the
stock of her assault rifle against her shoulder.  Immediately, she began to
squeeze off rounds into the windows of the lower floors.

   Leaping over and around parked and wrecked cars and downed utility poles
and racing through the geyser spouting high into the air from a smashed
hydrant, Harris, and the men following him, rapidly closed the distance to
the building's main entrance.

   As he threw open the bullet ridden door, Maria heard him shout in
disbelief, "A claymore!  What the fuck?!  Where did these riff-raff get..."

   His words were cut off by a deafening explosion.  Maria fell backwards
as a sickening hail of shrapnel and bloody gobbets of flesh, all that
remained of Harris, struck the parts of her that were exposed above the
hood of the car.

   Shuddering with revulsion, she did her best to wipe the gore away.  A
task made far more difficult by the fact that some pieces were still
recognizable: a detached but otherwise unmarked
finger here, the lobe of an ear there.  With a wince of pain, she pulled

a piece of shrapnel from her cheek, and then hastily threw it from her as
she realized that it was a shard of bone.

   She raised a hand to her forehead with sudden realization and dawning
hope.  One of the bubbles of emotion in her head, the one that had always
told her what Harris was feeling and where he was located, was gone.  She
didn't feel compelled to return to the side of the car and resume firing
into the building.  She was free.

   Gunfire continued to emanate from the building: most of the fledglings
involved in the assault had been recruited by her or Adam or, at least, by
those that they had recruited, and had been given orders to press the
attack until all inside were dead.  Those orders, apparently, were still in
effect.

   Shouting for those bonded to her to stop, she sprinted for the gaping,
splintered doorway of the building.  As she raced up the first flight of
stairs, she could hear Adam, somewhere above her, yelling out similar
commands.

   Slowly, the gunshots came to a stop, and the men and women under Maria
and Adam's command shuffled out of the building to mill around the wreckage
in the street.  As Maria joined the other vampires, she saw faces peering
cautiously and fearfully from behind curtains and through panes of broken
glass; the residents no doubt wondering why the attack had broken off so
abruptly when it had been so close to success.  None of the onlookers
risked firing a shot and provoking a renewed assault.

   After commanding her fledglings to release those beneath them of all
standing orders, Maria did the same for them.  The freed vampires wandered
off, alone or in small groups, some to tend to families that had been all
but abandoned in recent weeks, others to either join or oppose Wilson's
forces elsewhere in the city.  Soon, only Maria, Angela and Adam were left.

   As he embraced Maria tightly, Adam asked quietly, "What now?"

   Without hesitation, Maria replied, "The family that adopted Juan lives
in Germantown.  I want to go there.  I ...  I don't expect you to come with
me.  I know there must be people you want to check on."

   "You're planning to take him back?" Adam asked, his tone carefully
neutral.

   "No," Maria answered sadly.  "As I am now, what kind of life could I
possibly offer him?  I can see to it that he makes it through the rest of
the night alive, though."

   "I'll come with you.  The only family I had in the city were my parents,
and my father was a judge."

   Adam left the fate of his parents unspoken, but the tightness in his
voice made Maria squeeze him hard to offer what comfort she could.

   From beside them, Angela cleared her throat to get their attention.  "If
you two don't mind, I'd like to go to Manayunk to make sure my daughter's
safe." With deep pride, she added, "She's a student at Temple University."

   "Of course you can," Maria replied.  She often forgot that her
fledgling, who looked no older than Maria was even before the change, was
almost forty.

   She moved to give her friend a hug and a kiss on the cheek.  "If we
don't see each other again, I want to thank you for being my friend even
after all the pain I caused you.  If I feel that you're frightened or hurt,
I'll come as fast as I can."

   Returning the younger woman's embrace, Angela said, "I know that Harris
ordered you to recruit me, and that you couldn't disobey him any more than
I can you.  Despite the power you have over me, you've never misused me. 
So, I should be the one thanking you.  Good bye, Maria.  It's been a
pleasure knowing you."

   The streets were clogged with wrecked and abandoned vehicles; they would
have to reach their destinations on foot.  With final nods of farewell,
they began to run.



   Chapter 53 December Twenty-fifth 1:00 a.m EST

   Arthur gazed into the city from the top of the Washington Monument, his
face cast alternately in shadow and bright orange light from the fingers of
flame that still shot high into the air from the Capitol Building.  Other
fires raged through many of the city's districts.  The fire fighters who
might have stopped them were scattered, dead, or at least no longer living,
across the steps of the Capitol.  In the distance, a fireball rose
languidly into the sky as the flames reached a gas station or propane
storage tank.

   Except for the fires and the headlights of vehicles, the city was dark.
The headlights were motionless - the massive barricades that had been put
in place along every route out of the city saw to that - and twinkled like
stars as terrified people and the beasts that hunted them ran back and
forth through the streets in front of them.

   From the lawn of the National Mall below him, he could hear rhythmic
pounding as stakes were driven into the ground and the weak screams of
those who occupied the ones that were already in place.

   "Sic transit gloria mundi," he intoned softly to the Chief of Staff, who
sat gagged and bound to a chair, his eyes fixed with morbid fascination on
the explosives in his lap and the digital timer that counted down the
seconds until dawn.

   "Ceux qui rient le vendredi, pleureront le dimanche," a wheezing voice
answered from the top of the stairs.

   "Perhaps," Arthur replied sarcastically, "But while I would never dream
of questioning your back country Gallic wisdom, I plan to be laughing just
as loudly when that Sunday comes."

   Turning to face the speaker, Arthur was somewhat taken aback by Jean's
appearance.  The younger vampire's limbs were grotesquely bent and twisted,
and his chest and stomach were sunken and emaciated.

   "Hello, Jean," Arthur said mildly.  "I must admit that I'm surprised to
see you, or at least what's left of you.  Kelly told me that you had run
into some difficulty."

   "Some," Jean agreed.  "Marcus was in Pittsburgh, and he politely asked
me to deliver a message to you."

   Although Arthur waved a hand in a dismissive gesture once the message
had been delivered, Jean could see that he was shaken.

   That uncertainty was not apparent in his voice when he spoke.  "The
world is a very large place, and I plan to be far from here after tomorrow.
He will lose interest and return to the ruins of his beloved city long
before he finds me."

   Caustically, Jean replied, "So, you plan to just run off?  What of all
the fledglings that ultimately answer to you?  Do you mean to just abandon
them?"

   "Of course.  They have served their purpose.  Nearly every major city in
the United States and Canada, from the East Coast as far west as Denver is
in a state similar to this one."

   "What of those farther west?"

   "Unfortunately, the attack on San Antonio ran into difficulty when an
elderly bomb sniffing dog, being taken home for some holiday pampering by
his handler, triggered on the fledgling coming into the station to blow it
up.  The battle there still rages in the streets, but they were able to get
warnings out before communications could be severed.  Forewarned, some
cities farther to the west may manage to raise an effective defense.  It is
still too early for the reports I've been receiving to be clear whether or
not this is the case.

   "In the long run, it hardly matters.  While shock from the nature and
extent of the attack might paralyze the populace for a day or two,
eventually people everywhere will rise against the attackers, and there are
not enough fledglings to resist such overwhelming numbers for long.  That
is as it should be.  There are far too many of us now.  Unchecked, we would
exhaust our food supply in a matter of years.  Oh, a few fledglings will
survive: the strongest, the smartest,

   and the most ruthless.  That is also how it should be."

   "So, all of this was for nothing?" Jean replied, aghast.

   "Hardly.  The vast majority of the continent's police force, often
called the thin blue line between order and chaos, are gone.  Also no more
are the lawmakers, the leaders, the media and those involved in the
administration of justice.  The ones who eventually eliminate the
fledglings, and who will die in great numbers doing so, will be those who
might have had the strength of will and character to put things back
together.  All that will remain is the rotten core of society: the weak,
the apathetic, and the complacent.

   "They will be left sitting in their dark homes: cold, frightened and,
soon enough, starving.  The starvation will not only be of the flesh, but
of the spirit as well.  The loss of the churches and community centers
should see to that.  As a final nail in the coffin of civilization, one of
the fledglings is busy making copies of the recording he made of the
members of the nation's most powerful political body fighting each other to
the death.  Distribution will be slow with communications down, but it will
spread, as bad news always does.  It will drive home the fact that no one
is safe.  It will also go far to dispel the illusion that is the last
defense of the desperate: that someone, somewhere knows what is happening
and is taking action to stop it.

   "To borrow from the old adage, even in the best of times, all that
separates humanity from barbarism is two meals and twenty-four hours. 
While it might take longer than a single day, it won't be long before the
entire continent is consumed by anarchy.

   "I have also set in motion events that will undoubtedly lead to war
across the Middle East.  Wars that, without the calming influence of the
west, will devour the region and, possibly, spread elsewhere.

   "In Europe, paranoia, inspired by the events here, in Rome and the
Middle East and fed by the fledglings I have in place in the capitals, will
run rampant.  Borders will be closed, policies of isolation will be put in
place, and a fortress mentality will set in.  It will not be long before
those nations collapse under the weight of their own fear.

   "In the east, the burgeoning but fragile economy of China will shatter
with the loss of its trading partners, leaving millions of abruptly
unemployed and disgruntled workers.  The fact that two nuclear powers are
waging war on their border should provide an additional destabilizing
influence.  Japan, so dependent on food imports from China and the United
States, will starve.  Freed of outside constrictions, the insane and
egotistical dictator in North Korea will turn his eyes south.

   "In short, the world will devolve into chaos.  In the ensuing anarchy,
no one will so much as notice our predations or excesses.  It will be the
dawn, so to speak, of the age of the vampire."

   "You truly are insane," Jean said slowly, "A barjot.  There is one thing
I don't understand, though: if you've already accomplished everything you
set out to do, why are you waiting for tomorrow to leave?  Why not
tonight?"

   "There are still a few minor tasks that need tending.  I have made
arrangements with General Rutherford for a little object lesson, one that
should make people hesitant to make a frontal assault on the fledglings. 
It will only delay the inevitable, but it should buy the fledglings enough
time to spread the destruction into suburbs and rural communities.

   "After the populace has a day to recognize their plight, I also intend
to have the President and his family give a little speech at the city's
only remaining radio station, extolling those who continue to fight to lay
down their arms and giving assurances that those who do will be shown
mercy. I have had similar radio stations spared in the other cities.  The
message will be picked up and spread."

   Jean shook his head in bewilderment.  "Why bother with the speech? 
People would have to be fools to believe it."

   "True.  Fortunately, if there is one thing that is never in short
supply, it is fools."

   The conversation came to a halt as they watched a pack of ferals chase a
group of people down Pennsylvania Avenue.  In only a few seconds, the
pursuit came to an end with a few final, terrified screams.

   "Why ferals?" Jean asked.  "They are nearly as dangerous to us as they
are to mortals, and true fledglings are nearly as easy to create and more
likely to rise.  Not to mention the fact that, with true fledglings, you
likely could have ruled this nation instead of destroying it."

   Arthur laughed contemptuously.  "Do farmers declare themselves kings
over their swine?  Of course not.  Like them, I have no interest in ruling
my pigs, only eating them.  My intent is to destroy the very fabric of
society, and, at this stage of the game, ferals are far more useful for
that purpose than true fledglings.



   "Without orders - and there wasn't nearly enough time for those doing
the killing to wait around for each new fledgling to rise and be given
instructions - true fledglings would likely only kill once before giving
into remorse, grief or something equally pathetic.  Ferals, on the other
hand, will kill again and again until they, themselves, are destroyed. 
Their voracious appetites will more than compensate for the lower
probability that any particular victim will rise again.  This is especially
true as I am given to understand that less than two in ten are rising, even
for normal fledglings.

   "Finally, there is the fact that the unbridled savagery of the ferals
inspires far more fear and despair than a true fledgling could ever manage.
So, to answer your question, while it is certainly true that the ferals
will inflict casualties among our number, that is a small price to pay for
the benefits they provide."

   Jean shook his head slowly in disbelief before asking, "When I was
passing through the city, I overheard complaints concerning your order to
focus on children when creating ferals.  Please tell me that I
misunderstood."

   "You did not.  As you are no doubt aware, the main weakness of the
ferals is their inability to reason.  They will charge straight at a line
of well armed men without giving any thought to self preservation. 
However, most people have the same abhorrence to killing children that you
just demonstrated.  Because of it, they will allow a child to approach far
closer than they would an adult before they open fire.

   "As an added bonus, there is the psychological impact to consider.  The
memories of watching the former innocents tear the throats from their
comrades and of then being forced to slaughter the once precious snowflakes
to save themselves will stay with the survivors for the rest of their
lives. It will gnaw at their conscience and haunt their dreams.  Although
they will have physically survived the conflict, a part of them, that which
gives birth to hope and joy, will be dead."

   As Jean tried to keep from becoming violently ill, the first time he had
experienced that sensation since Amunet had taken him, another voice, this
one tremulous and uncertain, came from the top of the stairs.  "Master?"

   Arthur spun to face the speaker, his jaw dropping open in astonishment.
"Alicia?  How can this be?  You're dead...  the bond ..."

   Sensing that the others in the room were no longer aware of his
presence, or at least no longer cared, Jean slipped quietly down the
stairs. At the landing, he contemplated the Asian woman with the stake
through her heart.  He considered pulling it free, but he knew nothing
about her: Alicia had ignored his questions on the subject, and had proven
to be remarkably resistant to his attempts to read her memories.  For all
he knew, freeing the Asian might only make things worse.

   With a sigh, he hobbled down the stairs as quickly as he could manage,
and then headed in the direction that he knew would lead him to Kelly.

   Back in the observation room, Alicia stepped forward into the light cast
by the nearby fires.  "It wasn't me who staked you, Master, it was Lei."

   Arthur's eyes grew even wider, and when he spoke his voice trembled with
fear.  "It was Lei who stopped me!?  That ...  is certainly troublesome. 
Do you know where she is?"

   "Of course, Master.  She's on the landing one floor down." Her eyes went
flat and hard.  "I took revenge for what she did to you and planted a stake
in the bitch's heart."

   Arthur's jaw again dropped open in surprise, and he motioned her to come
closer.  Once she stood in front of him, he raised a trembling hand and ran
it through her hair.  Dirt and debris fell away at his touch, leaving her
raven tresses clean and lustrous.

   "I've missed you, Alicia," he said quietly.

   Nuzzling the side of her face into his palm, she smiled up at him and
raised a hand to touch her own brow.  "Why can't I feel you in my head
anymore, Master?"

   "Perhaps my close brush with true death broke the bond, or maybe Lei did
it.  I simply don't know, my dear."

   For a time they stood in silence, staring into each other's eyes.  In a
way she could not describe in words, Alicia felt the feather soft touch of
his mind against hers.  With a slight nod of her head, she lowered the
defenses that Lei had taught her and gave him full access.  She closed her
eyes as he skimmed through her memories of the past eight months.

   When he was through, he gently lifted her chin until her eyes met his.
"Had I known you lived ...," he began, his voice filled with sympathy and
apology.

   She raised a finger to his lips to silence him.  "I know."

   She took another step forward, pressing her body to his.  Holding his
eyes with her own, her hand curled around the back of his head and drew him
down.  As the kiss went on, a curved claw emerged from her fingertip.

   Arthur reeled back in surprise as that claw drew down the center of his
back, splitting open his suit coat and the shirt beneath.

   Alicia pressed forward, bringing their bodies back together.  Grabbing
the front of his shirt, she tore it from him and hurled it to the floor.

   "I've needed you for so long, Master," she murmured.  "Don't make me
wait for even any longer."

   Acquiescing, he formed claws of his own.  With lust that was nearly
indistinguishable from fury, they each tore and shredded the clothing of
the other until both stood naked in the cold wind that blew in through the
broken observation windows.  They didn't feel the chill.

   Alicia moaned in need when her Master came for her, his hungry lips
seeking hers.  Her arms twined around him, pulling him against her with all
of her strength.  She gasped in surprise when he tore free and spun her
around.  She then squeaked in fright as he pushed her head and shoulders
out through the broken window.  The dizzying height made her shiver in fear
as she looked through the hair that whipped back and forth across her face
down the smooth stone side of the monument.  Below, she could see
fledglings pause in their grim labors to point up at the spectacle she was
making.

   She then moaned in pleasure as her Master entered her from behind,
driving forcefully forward until his loins slapped hard against her ass. 
Her head came up, and she gazed upon the ruin that he had wrought in this
city.  Immediately, her entire being began to tremble in orgasm.

   He drove into her hard as he drew his claws down her flanks.  The
lacerations that they caused healed immediately, but the hint of lingering
pain mixed with her pleasure and kept her quivering at the peak of ecstacy.


   Even as he thrust into her, Arthur considered the troubling quandary
that Alicia's return presented.  He knew that she was a weakness, one that
could be exploited just as he used Zach and Ashley against the General.  In
fact, it already had been, and the result had been a stake through his
heart.

   With his preternatural vision, he could see one of the stakes far below,
its point still glistening wetly with the vital fluids of its squirming
occupant.  A well aimed throw, and he could tear this weakness from him,
removing it from his psyche as he would cut a splinter from his finger. 
The very fact that he wavered in carrying out this task was ample evidence
of its necessity.

   He absorbed the claws of one hand and caressed the soft, smooth skin of
her back and buttocks.  Despite the icy coldness of her flesh, the feel of
her spawned a warmth within him.  Now that he had her with him again, how
could he give her up?

   She squealed again as he pulled out of her clasping sex and pulled her
in from the window.  He spun her around to face him and pulled her close,
crushing his lips to hers.  His hands moved down to the cheeks of her ass
and squeezed hard.  She moaned into his mouth as he lifted her easily and
impaled her once more upon his rampant member.

   Now it was her turn to bring claws to bear.  His breath hissed out as he
reveled in the delicious agony that radiated from the searing lines that
she scored across his back and chest.

   He lifted and dropped her over and over again, sliding her roughly up
and down the length of his cock.  Her legs locked tightly around his hips,
her pelvis rolling in time with his motion.

   Drawing back from their kiss, Alicia met his eyes with a lustful gaze.
Her mouth fell open to reveal her extending fangs.  At his small nod of
consent, she lunged forward to bury them in his shoulder.  He gasped in
pleasure and bent his head down to return the favor.

   Their hips jerked erratically as he erupted deep inside her.  As the
bite fueled climax went on, Arthur's knees sagged with weakness.  Taking
advantage of his loss of balance, Alicia threw her weight forward, tumbling
him backwards to the floor.  Continuing to gnaw and suck on his shoulder,
she traced the claws on her forefingers down his sides, their paths marked
by long red lines.  She moaned as his own did the same on her back.

   Inside her, she could feel his cock continue to spasm in climax, even
though the well that fed the spout had gone dry minutes before.  Pulling
her fangs free, she screamed out her pleasure until her orgasm finally
started to fade.

   One of his hands trailed up her spine to take a grip on the back of her
head, pulling her back down.  Tongues dueled briefly before lapping the
traces of blood from the other's lips.

   Cooing contentedly, Alicia nestled her head against Arthur's chest. 
"I've missed you, Master," she said softly.

   His fingers traced affectionately over the contours of her face.  "And I
you, Alicia.  Unfortunately, there is still much to do tonight.  We will
have to continue this later."

   With a small pout, Alicia rose and sauntered over to where the Chief of
Staff still sat, his face pale and his eyes showing far more white than
usual.  He began to scream into the tape that covered his mouth as her claw
traced over his carotids and jugular veins.

   Leaning in close to take in the scent of his fear, Alicia said, "I could
use a snack.  Are you done with this one, Master?"

   Arthur chuckled from behind her as he poked the remains of their
clothing with the toe of his shoe.  "Unfortunately, I promised that one
that he would survive the night, but there is an entire city for us to
feast upon.  You may glut yourself to your heart's content.  Before we
hunt, however, we should acquire some new clothes; I'm afraid these are
well beyond my ability to repair.

   "After we feed, I'll take you to meet Dr.  VanHauss, a recent
acquaintance of mine, who should be arriving at the Smithsonian at any
moment.  Although he does not know it yet, he will be searching some of
their collections for us.  After that we only need to check on the progress
at the National Archives and a single radio station before going home.  I
have a toy there that you can play with.  Her name's Susan."

   Clapping her hands together in childlike glee, Alicia skipped over to
link an arm through one of Arthur's.  Wearing only their shoes, they
departed, pausing only long enough for Arthur to lift Lei reverently to his
shoulders.



   Chapter 54 December Twenty-fifth 2:00 a.m E.S.T.  1:00 a.m.  local time

   A fiberglass recurve bow in his hands, Mark crouched near one of the
broken windows of the Prayer Tower, a building in the center of Oral
Roberts University that looked like a UFO impaled halfway down a
two-hundred foot high spike.  Two windows to his left, George was similarly
hunkered down with his own recurve.

   Two windows to his right was Diane, a statuesque and curvaceous blond
who had been one of the many people they had encountered on the journey
from the hospital to the university.  In addition to being one of the
nicest bits of eye candy that Mark had seen in a long time, she was by far
the most skilled archer in the group.  As such, she had been entrusted with
the compound bow that George had lugged around for most of the night.

   With fully half the windows broken to provide firing ports, the wind
howled through the disk shaped structure, making Mark's eyes water like mad
and rendering it nearly impossible to hear anything that might be happening
below.  Nevertheless, he, and all the others poised at the windows,
strained their eyes and ears in the hope of getting some warning before the
next group of ferals attacked.

   The tower was one of the last places that Mark wanted to be.  Although
it provided an excellent vantage point, with the elevators inoperable the
only exit was down a single, long, winding staircase that led to the chapel
on the ground floor.  Under the current circumstances, it was little more
than a death trap.

   They'd had little choice, however.  They had made it from the hospital
to the campus without incident; their numbers swelling to well over a
hundred adults and half as many children as they picked up survivors along
the way.  Some had fled their homes while the ferals that had intruded fed
on family, friends or neighbors.  Others had been caught in the traffic
snarls and had run when bullets had rained down from above, or death had
come for the occupants of nearby vehicles in the form of a pack of ferals.
All were frightened, exhausted and confused.  One look in their dazed and
glassy eyes had precluded any suggestion that they be sent away on their
own.

   Once on the campus, which was nearly deserted for the holiday break,
they had found the caretaker and convinced him to let them inside Cooper
Center, the university's general athletics building.  With the caretaker's
assistance, they had quickly found a storage room that contained a number
of the traditional recurve bows and an abundant supply of wooden arrows
with training tips.

   While they had been busily chopping off those tips and sharpening the
wood beneath, the first wave of ferals had struck.  Dressed in the garb of
doctors and nurses or wearing gowns stamped with the words "Orthopedic
Hospital of Oklahoma," they had overwhelmed those left guarding the
entrance and swarmed inside.

   The ensuing battle had been chaotic, fought in the flickering light cast
by flashlights being swung wildly from side to side.  When the group had
managed to fight their way free and rally outside, there had only been
eighty-three adults left.

   While they had been taking stock of the weapons and people that
remained, another group of ferals had struck from the darkness.  After that
second group had been dispatched, there had been a third, and then a
fourth. Although each pack consisted of no more than ten ferals and
sometimes as few as four, their ferocity, strength and speed took their
toll on the much larger group of humans.  Each pack had pushed Mark and the
others farther back towards the center of the campus while whittling away
at their numbers.

   They had tried to seek shelter in the massive Learning Center, but the
doors had been locked and the caretaker had fallen in the fighting by a
small bridge not far from the athletics building.  No one had thought to
grab his keys, and none were willing to go back.  They could have forced
their way through the glass front, but that would have allowed the ferals
easy access as well.

   Exhausted from the non-stop fighting and running, they had stopped to
rest in the chapel at the base of the Prayer Tower.  There they had found
nearly every student who had elected to stay at the university over the
break, praying by candlelight.  The students had gaped in horror as the
group fought off the next wave of ferals, but had refused to join them when
the group had voted, over the protests of a minority led by Mark, to move
to their current location.  Instead, the earnest young men and women had
insisted that the strength of their faith and the presence of Christ in the
chapel would protect them from any undead.

   After reason had failed, Mark reluctantly let them have their way.  His
group didn't really have the means to hold them prisoner, and that was what
it would have taken.  Besides, no matter what Mia had told him so long ago,
for all he knew they could be right.

   In short, while the plan to hunt down the vampire leaders had been a
noble one, no one, not even Mark, had been prepared for the reality of the
situation.  There were too many ferals, too many civilians who couldn't
defend themselves, and no place that guaranteed safety.  By mutual consent,
the plan had been abandoned.

   Mark glanced around the room.  There were little more than fifty of them
left now, most huddled together against the central wall in various stages
of shock and shivering with cold.  Some kept trying to dial their cell
phones, holding out some feeble hope that the night had been nothing but a
bad dream and that service would soon be suddenly and miraculously
restored. Others simply clutched their arms around their knees and rocked
back and forth, their sanity shaken by the things they had seen that night.
One young couple was discretely making love, sharing comfort and body heat
in the best way they knew how.

   The only source of illumination was the battery powered emergency lights
in the stairwell shining through the partially open door.  Even that was
mostly blocked by the trio who stood along the top railing with arrows
nocked and ready.  Other than Diane, the three were their elite: two men
and a woman who had years of experience as bow hunters or tournament
archers.

   Valerie, the daughter of the widower who had fallen at the hospital,
wandered over with Barney the dog clutched one handed to her chest.  She
again had a thumb in her mouth and her eyes and face had a distant, vacant
look.  Mark pulled her in for a hug, but, while she didn't resist, she
didn't respond either.  Theresa, with Jill held in one arm and Junior
tightly gripping her pant leg, came over to gently guide the poor child
back to where they had been huddled together for warmth.

   "I think I heard something," George whispered.

   Mark strained his ears, but could hear nothing.  He took one of the
three road flares from his pocket, one the precious eleven total possessed
by the group, and held it up for George to see.  The flares were the only
means they had to light up the ground as the beams of flashlights were
unable to pierce the hard falling rain.

   George shook his head.  He wasn't certain enough to risk using up one of
the few flares or drawing more attention to themselves.

   While Mark was tucking the flare back into his pocket, screams sounded
from below, answering two questions.  George had heard something after all,
and the college students' faith hadn't been enough to protect them.

   Diane raced over to join the archers at the top of the stairs.  Mark
stayed where he was.  Four people were already stretching the capacity of
the landing; another would just get in the way.  Even from his position, he
could hear rapid and heavy footfalls coming up the stairs.  Instead of the
expected twang of bowstrings, however, calls of encouragement sounded from
the stairs.  One of the college students must have survived!

   Stepping closer, Mark added his own voice to the mix, although he still
couldn't see anything.  The archers abruptly fell silent and began to
rapidly pull and release, sending wooden shafts speeding down the stairs.
Grunts of pain and howls of rage echoed up from below.  Many of the
children, and more than a few of the adults, began to weep at the sound.

   One of the archers stepped to the side, and a young man that Mark
recognized from the chapel crawled, panting and shaking, past.  Mark and
George went forward to pull him out into the main room.  They then eased
him down to sit up against the inner wall, giving him a chance to catch his
breath and let the adrenalin induced shakes to subside.

   The thrum of bowstrings continued well after the pounding of feet and
enraged growls came to a stop as the archers made sure that their targets
were down.  The second they stopped, a pair who had been waiting by the
door rushed forward and down, carrying a bundle of improvised stakes and a
hammer.

   Mark turned his attention to look back out the broken window, straining
to hear anything over the sounds of falling rain, howling wind and hammers
on wood .  As the cold wind blew around him, he had a sudden realization.

   "Every attack has come from the south; from downwind," he whispered.

   George considered this a moment.  "Yeah, I think you're right.  Uh, so?"

   "They can smell us.  That's why we're being attacked so often.  Bringing
this many frightened people up this high and then breaking the windows ...
fuck, we might as well have rung a dinner bell."

   George twisted around to look over the other people in the room.  "We're
going to have a hard time getting them moving again."

   Mark had to agree.  "So far, we're managing to recover most of our
arrows.  Maybe even with the all the attacks we'll be able to hold out
until dawn.  To be honest, I'm almost as worried about everyone getting
hypothermia as I am about getting eaten.  Besides, now that it's raining a
lot harder, bows won't work very well or very long outside.  We'd be meat
out there.  Literally."

   Bleakly, they turned to again keep watch.  Mark was so intent on
listening for the soft sounds of footfalls far below that the loud and
sudden squawk of the radio made him jump with surprise.  George reached out
a steadying hand.  Without it, Mark might well have tumbled out the broken
window to his death.

   This broadcast was much louder and clearer than the earlier ones.  It
had to be coming from a base station rather than from a car or hand held
radio.  "This is the Tulsa Police Department requesting assistance from the
State Police and the police departments of Avant, Okmulgee, Inola ... 
anyone that can hear this and can help.  We have a Code 13 involving
multiple 10-108's, 11-8's, 187's, 243's and 245's."

   The voice became desperate, almost pleading, "Roads into the city are
blocked.  We'll send what few officers we have left to rendevous with
reinforcements at Sand Springs Shopping Center to the west, Skyline Park to
the south, Indian Hills Country Club to the east, and Crown Hill Cemetery
to the north.  Units will have to proceed on foot from those locations. 
Please send assistance.  The city is in chaos, and there appears to be a
massive terrorist attack underway.  Most of us are down.  Hurry, or the
city will be lost."

   Mark gaped at the radio in disbelief.  Calling a major disaster
activation with multiple homicides of police and civilians would pull the
police from neighboring areas without fail.

   Much more faintly, the first reply came almost immediately.  "Tulsa,
P.D., this is Okmulgee dispatch.  Units are 10-39."

   "Holy crap!" George exclaimed excitedly.  "Did you hear that?  There are
some police left in the city.  We have to help!  Skyline Park is about six
miles south.  At least a few of us have to go there.  I think we can make
it."

   Mark shook his head sadly.  "It's a trap.  It has to be.  If there were
any real police left in the city, they would have used the radio long
before this.  If I had to guess, I would say that the vamps have only been
in major cities up until this point, but now, with the cities taken,
they're calling in the rural police, either to make them into more vamps or
to simply kill off potential opposition."

   Mark hated himself for making the hope fade from all the nearby faces,
but he knew he was speaking the truth.

   His face again a mask of despair, George muttered, "We can't just sit
here and do nothing.  We have to stop them."

   "Damn straight we do," Mark replied as he walked over to the remaining
student of the university.

   The kid had his hands over his face and was still blubbering about what
he had seen below.  Mark shook his shoulder.

   "Son, we need a radio.  A big one.  Is there one on campus?"

   "They killed Pam and Barb and Greg ...  just tore them apart ...  so
much blood ...  how could there be so much blood in a person?"

   Those nearby jumped in surprise at the loud slap of skin on skin.  The
college boy rubbed his hand over the side of his face in shock as Mark
lowered his own back to his side.

   "I'm sorry about that, kid, but you need to pull yourself together, or a
lot more people are going to die.  Is there a radio on campus?  One that
has its own generator or is powered by batteries?"

   "I think there's one in the administration offices.  Pretty sure,
anyway. I think that's what they used to call for a medevac last spring
when a tornado knocked out the phones and power."

   "You're doing good, son.  Now, where are the administrative offices?"

   "In the Learning Center.  Big building.  That way." The boys arm rose to
point vaguely to the south.

   "Thanks."

   Mark again peered around the room.  Getting everyone to move would be
difficult and would take far more time than what they had.  He also
couldn't strip the group of its protectors.  The only choice was to go
alone.  That's what it meant to be a cop; putting your own life on the line
so others could stay safe.  It was his ...

   "Why can't we just use the hand held?" Diane asked, breaking his train
of thought and interrupting his attempt to build up enough bravery to face
the dark, rainy night by himself.

   "Not enough range," Mark answered absently.

   She considered that for a moment and then nodded her head.  "Okay.  I'm
coming with you."

   He looked back at her in surprise.  "You don't have to do that.  This
could be a suicide mission.  Besides, you're the best archer we have..."

   "All the better reason for me to come with you.  There are lots of
archers here, so my absence won't make a whole lot of difference, but I
might be big help out there.  You're going to need someone to watch your
back."

   "Hold on a second," George interjected.  "Why should you be the one to
go, Mark?  I can run faster..."

   "What he said," Brian added.

   Mark held up a hand to forestall further protest.  "Neither of you can
run faster than a vampire any more than I can.  Your families are here and
need you.  Stay." Talk of their families reminded him of his own.  He
wondered if he had been wrong, and this was happening in Pittsburgh, too.
Was Jenny okay?  Not knowing was painful.

   Before anyone else could try to talk him out of it, and possibly
succeed, Mark tucked one of the small sledge hammers and one of the radios
into his belt and walked briskly to the stairs.  Diane followed a step
behind.  They descended as quickly as the bodies clogging the stairs
allowed to the chapel that looked like a scene from a horror movie.

   Steeling himself, trying not to see the grisly aftermath of the feral
feeding frenzy, he strode to the door and stepped outside.  The cold rain
running down his face and the back of his neck and the fresh, stiff breeze
ruffling his hair came as a relief after the thick, unclean smell of blood
and death within.  With a nod to Diane, he started to run.  To his
surprise, nothing jumped out of the darkness to drink his blood, and, only
minutes later, they stood outside the glass doors that led into the dark
interior of the Learning Center.

   As Diane stood watch, he used the sledge to smash out the glass front of
one of the doors.  Stepping inside, he shined his flashlight from side to
side, illuminating the fronts of the small cafes and eating establishments
that kept the student population fed.  On one wall, a small sign read,
"Admissions and Administration." Next to it, an arrow pointed the way.

   While Diane stood guard in the hallway, he forced his way into the suite
of offices, kicking in doors as necessary.  Mark was beginning to think
that this foray had been a wild goose chase when he noticed an amber
standby light beckoning warmly from the corner of one of the rooms.

   The radio was a modern one with a built in rechargeable power supply.  A
thick antenna cable ran down the wall and vanished into the floor.  If he
was lucky, it was connected to an antenna at the top of the Prayer Tower,
giving him all the range he needed and more.

   He studied the controls briefly before reaching in to turn a dial to a
frequency monitored by the police.  "This is Lieutenant Mark Kimmel of the
Pittsburgh Police Department.  Disregard the previous message from the
Tulsa P.D.  Repeat, disregard the message from the Tulsa, P.D.  There is an
attack underway in the city, but the terrorists conducting it infiltrated
the police.  The previous broadcast was an attempt to lead rural police
departments into a trap and leave the entire region vulnerable.  The city
is in trouble and in dire need of assistance, but, with power and
communications out, the situation is too chaotic to reliably tell friend
from foe.  Send help, but, please, wait until dawn.  If you can hear this,
please relay this message to other departments."

   He had barely released the transmit button when the Tulsa P.D. 
responded.  "Don't listen to him.  He must be with the terrorists.  The
city can still be saved, but we need help now."

   Mark responded, "If you have phone service or can relay a radio message
back and forth to Pittsburgh, contact Dennis Jacobs, Chief of the
Pittsburgh City Police.  He can vouch for me and explain more about what is
going on.  Again, send help, but wait until dawn."

   When the radio squawked again, the signal was much weaker, unintended to
be heard outside the city.  "ORU, Officer Kimmel?  And just what are you
doing there, pray tell?  Did you think that all the crosses and religious
paraphernalia would protect you from us?  If so, you're in for a big
disappointment."

   He dropped the mic in horror.  He had worried about triangulation
earlier, but that concern had completely slipped his exhausted mind.  Had
George and the others heard the message?

   He pressed the transmit button on the hand held; if the vamps knew where
they were, there was no reason to maintain radio silence.  "George?  Brian?
Anyone?  Did you get that?"

   George replied immediately, "Yeah, and we're working on getting everyone
on their feet."

   "Great.  We're on our way back."

   He ran out of the suite as fast as he could.  The hallway was lit with
the lurid red glow of an emergency flare.  Diane was leaning against the
wall, her bow held casually in one hand while she took a drag from a
cigarette with the other.  A few feet from her, a feral was lying on its
back with jaws gaping wide.  One arrow protruded from an eye, another from
the center of its chest.

   Mark stopped short.  "Damn, girl.  Why didn't you yell for help?"

   "There was only one," she replied with a shrug.  Flicking away her
smoke, she readied the bow.  "Are we happy?"

   "Thrilled, but we're bugging out.  I'll explain on the way." As they
started to run, he pointed at the still smoldering butt.  "You seem like a
smart one.  Don't you know those will kill you?"

   She chuckled.  "The way things are going, if I live long enough to get
cancer, I'll consider myself ahead of the game."

   As they ran, the exchanges over the radio became increasingly angry. 
The gambit had worked.

   Smoker or not, when they reached the Prayer Tower, Diane was able to
sprint up the stairs that left him gasping for breath.  When she slowed to
wait for him, he waved her on.

   "See what you can do to hurry things up.  We need to get out now."

   With a nod, she resumed running up the stairs.  When he arrived a few
minutes later, most people were standing, but they were milling around in
confusion.  He shouted for them to get to the stairs, but the words had
barely left his lips when they heard the thump of helicopter rotors.

   "Shit!  Everyone get down next to the center walls.  Close the door to
the steps so there's no light.  No talking!" Mark yelled out.  At the same
time, he grabbed the men with the hunting rifles and pointed them toward
the windows.

   Two helicopters, including Tulsa P.D.'s big Bell, circled the campus a
few times before settling onto a field a hundred yards or so to the east.
All went silent when the engines cut off.  The hunters lowered their
weapons with no shots having been fired.  Without their navigation lights
on, the helicopters were simply too difficult to make out through the dark
and rain.

   Mark and a few of the others crawled over next to the windows to peer
fearfully out into the night.

   "Over there!" Brian hissed.

   Out in the darkness, Mark could make out pinpoints of light.  The lights
suddenly moved fast, a few of them expanding to light up the sides of
buildings.

   "Molotov cocktails," George whispered fearfully.  "They're trying to
burn us out."

   Over the next few minutes, flames appeared in the windows of every
building in sight, casting a dim glow over the Prayer Garden beneath their
aerie.  Squinting, Mark leaned forward, trying to make out what the group
of vampires gathering at the southern edge of the Garden were doing.

   Suddenly a voice, amplified by a bullhorn, boomed out in a harsh,
rhythmic singsong, "Little pigs!  Little pigs!  Let us in!  Or we'll huff!
And we'll puff!  And we'll blow your house in!" There was a maniacal edge
to the voice, as if the speaker was hanging onto his sanity only by the
barest of threads.

   Mark felt a tug on his pant leg, and turned to find Valerie, sucking her
thumb and holding the dog.  Theresa, still carrying Jill, ran over and
started to shoo the little girl back to the wall.  Diane knelt beside him,
an arrow drawn back to her cheek.  The tip moved back and forth as she
tried to compensate for the weather.

   A cackle of insane laughter came over the bullhorn followed by amplified
hyperventilation.  In the faint light, Mark saw the speaker raise his arm
and then drop it.

   A tripod mounted M60 machine gun roared to life.  Mark threw himself
backward, his flailing hand catching hold of Diane and pulling her to the
floor with him.  Her fingers slipped from the bowstring, sending her arrow
to splinter harmlessly against the ceiling.  Together, they reached down
and grabbed Valerie, dragging the girl between them, instinctively trying
to shield her with their bodies.

   The remaining windows burst inward, showering those inside with slivers
of glass.  Tracer rounds coursed back and forth across the room, the bright
red lines they left behind them looking like a laser light show out of one
of George Lucas' wet dreams.  Mark's hand sought out Diane's.  She squeezed
his hard in return as they stared with terror into each other's eyes. 
Between them, Valerie and the dog whimpered.  Bits of concrete, glass, wood
and metal rained down upon them as the machine gun rounds pulverized
everything they hit.

   The machine gun abruptly cut off.  Mark risked raising his head to peek
outside.  Another belt of ammunition was being fed into the weapon as the
man with the bull horn paced back and forth to the side.

   "Stay down, everyone.  It isn't over yet!" Mark yelled.

   Another gleeful cackle sounded over the bullhorn.  "We got you by the
hairs of your chinny-chin-chins!" Abruptly the tone shifted into a bad
impression of Scarlet O'Hara or, maybe, Jessica Rabbit.  "Really.  Really
we do.  Why don't you give yourselves up?  That would make things so much
easier for everyone.  Truly it would.  C'mon down.  It will only hurt a
little bit."

   There was a long pause.  When the man spoke again his voice was crisp
and businesslike.  "No?  That's too bad.  I guess we're just gonna have to
come in and getcha!"

   Mark again risked a look just in time to see several of the vamps
running toward the chapel entrance.  He ducked back down as the M60 resumed
fire.

   "Archers to the stairs!" he shouted, struggling to be heard over the din
of the machine gun.  "At least three of them are on their way up.  Some of
you with guns get over there to help them."

   Terrified as they were, some people still listened and crawled
frantically toward the stairwell door.  The clamor of a firefight broke out
shortly.

   Suddenly, although the machine gun continued to fire, the deadly hail of
lead was no longer slamming into the walls, ceiling and occupants of their
haven.  Confused shouts and small arms fire arose from outside.  Mark
pushed himself up to his knees.  The fires in the nearby buildings had
grown larger and brighter, tongues of flame licking up the sides and over
the roofs of the structures in defiance of the rain.

   A pack of ferals, the largest Mark had seen that night, had fallen upon
the vamps from behind.  Most of the besiegers were embroiled in a melee
with the brutes.  The machine gunners switched rapidly from target to
target.  At point blank range, the bullets were, quite literally, tearing
the ferals to pieces.  The vamp with the megaphone stood behind the heavy
weapon, occasionally firing into the embattled masses with a handgun.

   "Diane!" Mark shouted.

   "On it, boss," she replied as she rolled gracefully to her feet.

   The first arrow left her bow a second later.  That shot went wide, but
the second was already in the air.  The apparent leader staggered and fell
to his knees as an arrow sprouted from between his shoulder blades.  A
moment later, a second appeared next to it.  He fell face down into the mud
next to the machine gunners and didn't move again.

   The gunners' eyes went from the arrows in their leader's back up to the
broken window in which Diane stood.  They started to bring the gun around.
The brief respite from the hail of bullets was all the ferals needed.  At
least four leapt upon the gunners, knocking them from their feet.  Mark
could hear the gunners' screams of pain as chunks were torn from their
flesh with tooth and nail.

   "Everyone with a bow or a gun follow me," Mark yelled as he rose to his
feet.  Whoever won, it didn't look like the battle outside would last long.
They had to move fast.

   He turned toward the stairs and then stopped short, his shoulders
slumping in grief.

   "Oh, no," he said sadly as he reached down to close young Jill's eyes.
There wasn't enough left of George or Theresa to do them the same service.
Junior came toddling over to pull at his mother's blood drenched coat
sleeve.

   "Mommy?  Mommy get up," he said, not having the ability to comprehend
what he was seeing.  Pulling his reddened hand back, he peered at it in
confusion before wiping it on his pants.

   "C'mere little fella," Mark said gently as he picked the boy up.

   He carried the youngster over to one of the noncombatant women and
pressed him into her arms.  "Take care of him.  The damage is probably
already done, but try to keep him away from ..." He concluded with a small
wave toward the bodies.

   The woman followed his gesture and then hugged the boy close with a
sympathetic murmur.  She gave Mark a nod.

   Mark forced his attention back to the matter at hand.  He would have to
wait to grieve.  He led the men and women who had rallied to his call to
the stairwell.  The battle there had ended, at the cost of five more lives
and several wounded.

   They charged down the stairs, weaving through the bodies that littered
the passage.  On the way, Mark discarded his bow in favor of the shotgun.
It would probably be less effective, but it would be much more satisfying.

   They formed a loose firing line twenty yards from the still raging
battle of vampire against vampire.  What the rain cost the archers in
accuracy, they made up for by putting as many arrows into the air as they
could.  Diane continued to let loose from above, nearly every one of her
shots sending an undead to the ground.

   Mark screamed in fury as he pumped and fired, pumped and fired.  He
continued until the firing pin clicked on an empty chamber, even though, by
that point, all the vamps had been down for nearly a minute.  He then
joined the rush of those carrying stakes and hammers to finish off their
downed foes.

   Only one of the intelligent vampires was still moving, and that movement
was limited to writhing in pain while lying flat on its back.  There were
arrows stuck in its thighs, stomach and arms.  A bite had been taken out of
its cheek, and one of its eyes had been popped from the socket to dangle
loosely from the optic nerve.

   As Mark approached him, a stake and hammer in hand, the good eye focused
on him.  "Wait.  Stop.  I need to talk to you," the vamp said weakly.

   "Oh, yeah?" Mark said dubiously.  "Well, you better spit it out quick,
'cause you have an appointment in hell."

   The vamp's arm moved feebly toward the one that had used the bull horn.
"He was the one that turned me.  When he died, I was freed." Its eye took
on a distant, unfocused look.  "He was a good man once, but we have to
follow orders.  Some of the things we were told to do..." It cut off with a
shudder of revulsion.

   After a short pause, it continued in a whisper, "The kids were the
worst. The younger ones didn't even try to fight or escape, they just
looked up at us, their eyes so full of trust ..." The statement ended in a
sob.

   It shook its head to clear it, wincing in pain as its dangling eyeball
slapped against its cheek.  "The important thing is that there are two of
them in charge here.  They answer to two others in Oklahoma City, who
answer to one in D.C.  I don't know where the ones here are now, but just
before dawn they intend to have all of us gather in the BOK Tower downtown.
There's a bunch of us there now covering up windows and putting the
prisoners we freed from the city and county jails into defensive positions.
More ex-prisoners are being taken to KFAQ radio station.  I'm not sure why,
but I know we didn't destroy it like we did the others."

   "How many of you are there in the city?"

   "I'm not sure.  A thousand?  Maybe more."

   "What kind of defensive positions do you have in the BOK Tower?"

   "I'm not part of that plan, so I don't know."

   "How widespread is this attack?" Mark asked.

   "All I know is based on a few phone conversations I overheard being made
by the ones in charge.  From those, I think this is happening all over the
U.S.  and Canada."

   "What about Pittsburgh?"

   "I don't know.  The only ones I know for certain are D.C., Oklahoma
City, Dallas and Los Angeles, but the implication was that every big city
would be hit."

   "How big is 'big'?"

   "I don't know, but Tulsa isn't exactly New York City."

   "Good point," Mark replied before switching subjects.  "Did you take
part in killing people on lists earlier?"

   When the vamp nodded, Mark continued, "What does the "H" mean?"

   "Ham radio operator.  We've been triangulating their locations for the
past few weeks."

   "Why kill them?  There have to be hundreds if not thousands of CB radios
in a city this size.  You couldn't possibly get them all."

   "They're not the same thing.  CB radios have a very short range and,
even if someone outside picked up a broadcast from the city, it would
probably be ignored as just more of the usual bullshit.  Ham radios have a
lot longer range, and those who use them have more credibility. 
Unfortunately, there weren't that many of them."

   Mark sighed morosely.  "I'm sorry, but we need to be moving on before
more of your friends, or former friends, get here.  You should have set the
price beforehand, but what do you want for your information?  Were you
looking for a pardon?" Mark assumed that's what the man was after.  Looking
at the fury on the faces of those who were staking the others, Mark wasn't
sure if it was in his power to give.  He was even less certain that he
would give it if he could.

   The vamp's eye widened in horror.  "No!  After what I've seen ...what
I've done, I don't want to go on living, even free." The eye locked on
Mark's face.  "Are you a God fearing man?"

   "At times."

   "Would you ...  would you be willing to pray with me?"

   Mark bowed his head in sympathy.  "Yes, I can do that."

   The vampire's voice took on a wistful quality.  "Do you think God can
forgive me for what I've done?  Do you think he knows that I didn't want to
do any of it?"

   "He knows, and I don't think anyone who truly wants it is beyond
redemption," Mark replied quietly.

   He bowed his head as the vampire led the prayer.  When the amens had
been said, Mark nodded to Brian, who was waiting nearby with a stake.  Mark
took the vampire's hand between his, gripping hard as the deed was done.

   "What now?" Brian asked as he tucked the hammer back in his belt.

   "We need to get these people someplace safe, dry and warm.  It'll have
to be someplace fairly close, there are too many wounded to move far.  Vamp
saliva will take care of the worst, but it won't help blood loss and I'm
not sure what, if anything, it will do for broken bones."

   "There are a lot of dead.  What about them?"

   Mark sighed deeply.  "I hate to sound heartless, but we're going to have
to leave them.  These people are exhausted.  Just moving themselves and the
wounded is going to take everything they have left."

   Together they walked back to where the rest of the group was slowly
congregating at the base of the tower.  Mark took a quick headcount and
then squeezed his eyes shut in remorse.  Thirty-six adults and roughly the
same number of children.  That was all that were left.  Seven of them had
been badly wounded, and, although application of vampire spit had healed
external injuries, several had twisted limbs bound in crude splints, and
all were weak from blood loss.

   He searched briefly through the small crowd before picking Valerie up in
one arm and George, Jr.  in the other.  There were enough uninjured people
left to take care of any fighting that needed to be done on the way without
his help.  Taking care of the children was more important, both for their
sake and for that of his soul.

   The passage of an hour saw them to the tenth floor of the central
Cityplex building.  It was a little too close to ORU for Mark's comfort,
but it was dry, intact and had even retained a little warmth.

   Most of those remaining had collapsed in exhaustion and were sleeping in
cubicles, under desks ...  any place where they could find room to stretch
out.  Others had forced their way into a snack bar on one of the lower
floors and were wolfing down sandwiches and heating cans of soup over cans
of Sterno they had found in a box of emergency supplies.

   Mark sat next to the windows, watching sadly as most of the buildings on
the ORU campus burned.  Little Valerie was curled up next to him with her
head in his lap.  Even in sleep she was sucking her thumb and clinging to
the poor dog.  To his other side, Junior sat on the floor with the fires
reflecting in his eyes.

   "I want my mommy," he said.

   The words broke Mark's heart.  How could you explain to one so young
that he would never see his parents again?  The answer was simple: He
couldn't.

   "What does your mommy do when you can't sleep?"

   "She sings me songs."

   Mark ran through his limited repertoire in his head, trying to find
something suitable for innocent ears.

   With a small sigh, he lifted the boy onto his lap and began to sing,
"Just remember that you're standing on a planet that's evolving and
revolving at nine hundred miles an hour ..."



   Chapter 55 December Twenty-fifth 3:00 a.m.  E.S.T.

   "Jean, you're back!" Kelly cried out happily as she ran out to meet him
in front of Langley.

   After a passionate embrace and kiss, she looked him up and down.  "What
on earth happened to you?  I've been so worried..."

   "I'm fine, mon amour.  There's nothing wrong that time and a few
feedings won't fix.  I'll tell you all about it later.  For now, is there
anything you desperately need from your apartment?  We need to get away
from here."

   "Arthur ordered me to stay here until it was nearly dawn."

   "I release you from any and all orders that Arthur has given you.  From
now on, you don't need to obey any instructions he gives." After a moment's
consideration, he added, "Unless you want to, of course." He refused to
rule over his fledgling with an iron fist as Amunet had.

   Kelly's expression grew concerned.  "What's happening?"

   "The barjot is hanging us all out to dry.  His plans call for the
mortals rising up and slaughtering the vast majority of the new fledglings.
I ...  I refuse to allow him to use you in such a manner.  We'll go south
and work our way to Central America or even farther.  There, we'll vanish
into the shadows and live as vampires were intended to."

   Kelly nodded slowly.  "There's nothing at my apartment that I can't
leave behind.  Let's go."

   Hand in hand, they ran southward until they had to take shelter from the
dawn.





   Chapter 56 December Twenty-fifth 6:50 a.m.

   The sky was growing bright with the coming dawn when Maria tracked one
of her bonds, the one connecting her to the fledgling she considered most
likely to remain loyal to Wilson, to the Penn Warehouse.  Originally, the
plan had been for the vampires to congregate at the old Eastern State
Penitentiary to spend their dormancy, but, obviously, Wilson had changed
that plan when nearly half of his forces had rebelled upon Harris's death.

   Maria and Adam wore only tatters and, despite their impressive
regenerative abilities, were covered in half healed injuries.  The battle
to keep her son safe had not been an easy one.

   In fact, it hadn't been easy to even reach him through the packs of
ferals that roamed the city at will.  Although Maria could smell them while
they were still blocks away and they didn't seem to actively hunt their
more self aware kin, they did attack any target of opportunity that
presented itself other than their own kind.  Such were their numbers that
some battles had been unavoidable.  Maria and Adam's limited supply of
ammunition had been exhausted long before they reached their destination.

   The thought of the ferals forced her to consider the raw knots of
emotion in her head that linked her to the ones that she had created.  She
had drained the life from more than forty people before Harris' demise,
but, fortunately, only six had risen.  They throbbed in her mind like
infected wounds, making her feel feverish and rendering rational thought
difficult.  She had to wonder, with so few rising, how many people must
have died to form the huge packs?

   Upon their arrival in Germantown, they had been forced to use their
depleted firearms as bludgeons to drive a small pack of ferals from a house
several doors down from Juan's new parents.  The abuse had quickly reduced
the modern weapons to garbage.  Thereafter, with nothing but their hands,
teeth and the occasional fence post, they had repelled what had seemed like
endless waves of vampires of both types.  The intelligent ones had trickled
into the rich residential district all night, trying to add the wealthy
residents to the packs.

   Only an hour ago, the attacks had suddenly dwindled off to nothing.  All
they could figure was that the ferals could sense the coming dawn and had
dug in for the day.  They had conferred quickly and decided to pursue their
current path.  On the way, they had stopped by several of weapons caches
that had been established over the prior weeks, but Paul from D.C.  had
taken all of the explosives a few days before, and the remaining weapons
and ammunition had been cleaned out before their arrival.  While there were
certainly weapons to be had in the city, they didn't have time to search
them out.  This had to end today.

   Unarmed except for the weapons provided by their nature, they held hands
as they looked at the building where Maria's month long nightmare had
started.

   The other vampires were apparently already inside, and the perimeter was
surrounded by men who had, until tonight, been inmates at the maximum
security Philadelphia Industrial Correctional Center.  The inmates were
taking their guard duty seriously and were busily preparing defensive
fortifications.

   Several of them jumped up and brought their weapons to bear as Maria and
Adam approached.  After the pair flashed their fangs, the weapons were
lowered, and the men eyed them uncertainly.

   One of them offered, "The others are already inside.  Don't you worry:
we'll keep you safe as long as you hold up your end of the bargain."

   "Good," Adam answered crisply as he and Maria pushed their way through.
"We're going to take a quick look at the river, and then join the others."

   Satisfied, both by Adam's words and by the fact that the pair carried no
weapons, the inmates returned to constructing their defenses.

   Maria and Adam marched resolutely to the side of building that faced
east towards the river.  As there were limited avenues of potential attack
from this direction, there were only a few ex-inmates present.

   "Look over there," Maria said with a gesture toward a cage made of chain
link fence.  The enclosure was filled with acetylene and hydrogen tanks
that were used by welders to perform minor repairs on the ships that docked
there.

   "Huh," Adam replied.  "How about that?  I guess fate always provides for
those seeking to atone."

   Feeling a sense of growing nearness, Maria spun to see Angela leading a
group of eight others, all descended from Harris.  Each was every bit as
ragged as Maria and Adam.

   "When I felt you moving, I thought you might be planning something like
this," Angela said by way of greeting.  "So, what's the plan?  Are we going
to rush inside and kick some ass?"

   Maria shook her head.  "There are still nearly two thousand of them.  We
wouldn't stand a chance." Turning her eyes to the east, she continued, "We
have something a little different in mind."

   Angela followed Maria's gaze with her own.  The coming sunrise had
already blotted out the stars near the horizon.  "I don't understand," she
muttered.

   "Remember Sergeant Bishop?"

   "The guy that Harris killed for trying to contact his wife?  What about
him?"

   "Harris made him wait outside for the sun to rise as an object lesson.
When I woke the next night, the snow within five feet of the blackened
remains was melted away and the grass was burnt to ash."

   "Oh, I see," Angela said with dawning realization.  "Is there no other
way?"

   "I'm open to suggestions, but we couldn't think of any.  The roads are
blocked with wrecked cars, the weapons caches are empty, and the only way
we can make sure we kill them all is to get them while they're sleeping."

   Angela nodded slowly.  "Okay.  How can we help?"

   "You don't have to do this, Angela," Maria said sadly.  "You're free. 
You can still be with your daughter."

   "I said my goodbyes when I left her," Angela replied.  "Unwilling or
not, I was still a part of what happened tonight.  I owe it to her to help
put things straight.  When I tracked you down, I suspected that there would
be no going back.  The others I found on the way here feel the same."

   The ones who had followed her confirmed her statement with tight nods.
After a hasty discussion, they separated and approached the few inmates
guarding this side of the building.  With sudden surges of speed and quick
twists, the inmates were put down.

   They then went to the cage full of welding gases.  Working together,
they were able to wrench the gate from its hinges.  They rapidly ferried
the tanks to the side of the building, and heaped them in a pile with a
number of wooden pallets.  When their task was complete, they gathered
together to offer each other what final comfort they could.

   "Are you sure this will work?" Adam asked.  "While the tanks will
certainly breach this section of wall, I'm sure that there are lots of
separate rooms inside and many of our former friends will be covered with
tarps or whatever else is handy."

   "The Penn Warehouse specializes in forest industry products," Maria
replied.

   "Oh!  Why on earth would Wilson bring everyone here, then?"

   "You saw his expression when he gave us our orders at dusk.  While the
bond doesn't leave him a lot of room to maneuver, perhaps this is his small
way of bringing this tragedy to an end."

   The sky had grown noticeably brighter during the short exchange.

   "I'm scared," Maria said tremulously, expressing in words the emotion
they were all feeling.

   Adam leaned in to kiss her brow.  "Whatever awaits us, it has to be
better than a half life spent killing our friends and hurting our loved
ones," he whispered.

   A cry of alarm sounded from the corner of the building as the inmates
discovered the bodies of their fellows, but the rush of men that responded
to the cry came too late.

   Dawn broke red through the billowing clouds of smoke from the fires that
raged throughout the city.  Its first rays reached out to touch the group
who were still slumped together in a tight circle, their arms wrapped
around their neighbors in a loose embrace.  Already in dormancy, their true
deaths came without pain.

   The resulting conflagration burned hot around the acetylene and hydrogen
tanks.  It never occurred to any of the confused and dumbfounded inmates to
fire their weapons at the tanks in an attempt to relieve the pressure that
was building inside them.

   Over the next few minutes, that pressure grew rapidly until the heat
reactions started.  The explosions knocked a gaping hole through the brick
side of the building and let the sun shine in.  As Adam had surmised, many
of those taking shelter inside had covered themselves with tarps or hidden
in crates, but others had not.  Bursts of flame from those who had failed
to take the added precautions incinerated the canvas and wood protecting
their fellows and ignited the piles of lumber and paper that filled the
massive warehouse.

   The fire spread quickly.  Only trickles of water spilled from the
overhead sprinklers; the pressure in the city's water supply had been
reduced to nearly nothing by hundreds of collisions with hydrants during
the night.

   At first, the confused and frantic former inmates tried to save those
who had delivered their freedom and promised them vengeance and power, but,
whether by mistake or grim intent, their instructions, given by a mournful
Wilson in the last hours before dawn, did not cover this contingency.

   A few rushed out of the building with their charges cradled in their
arms, only to be ignited by those they carried.  After watching several of
their number running down the street in flames, the remaining inmates
grabbed what weapons they could and vanished into the surrounding area.

   By noon, the fire could be seen for miles.

   Chapter 57 December Twenty-fifth

   Dawn over Washington was also red.  It's first gentle touch on the tip
of the Washington Monument seemed to trigger an explosion that rained
debris onto the forest of stakes and their gruesome fruit below.  The
mounds of bodies heaped around the reflecting pool in front of the Lincoln
Memorial cast long shadows over water the color of blood.  As the vivid
colors of sunrise faded, it became apparent that the water's color was not
the result of reflection.

   On the beltway that surrounded the city, a lone highway patrolmen stared
at the wrecks that clogged the huge highway with astonished horror. 
Exiting his vehicle, he started to check the twisted and, in some cases,
charred wrecks for survivors.  After a dozen or so vehicles, it was only
through extreme effort that he kept his stomach from losing its contents.
He gave his task up as a lost cause.

   On his way back to his patrol car, he noticed that something
semi-spherical and roughly the size of a soccer ball had been stuck on top
of one of the mile marker signs.  As he walked closer, his stomach again
threatened to rebel as he recognized it for what it was.

   Tentatively, he reached out to brush the frost from the twisted features
of the face.  He stared into the glazed eyes of one of the distinguished
gentleman from Florida for a second before falling to his hands and knees,
his breakfast spewing out onto the pavement.  When his stomach had finished
expelling its contents, he gazed blearily up and down the highway, trying
to look anywhere but at the head.  He couldn't help but notice that every
mile marker in sight bore a similar burden.

   Far to the east, the Islamic nations refused to be placated by diplomats
or by the heartfelt apologies and protestations of innocence made by
Israel. The troops and police forces that had flooded into the holy city to
repel the attack had reported fatally shooting thousands of defilers.  An
attack of such magnitude could not have been made without the knowledge and
blessing of the Jewish State.  Unfortunately, there had been no prisoners,
as those who had participated in the desecration had chosen self immolation
at dawn rather than face capture.  The fires had added to the already
massive destruction.  In any event, the participation of one of Israel's
fighter planes in the attack could not be denied.  Such an affront could
only be answered in one way.

   Similarly, slightly farther to the east, old hatreds flared brightly to
life as the result of India's cowardly surprise attack along its border
with Pakistan.  Although Indian leaders pointed out that such a light
attack, involving only a few, isolated units, was obviously the work of
some extremist group and was not the act of the nation, its people, or its
leaders, the Pakistani people cried out for vengeance.  Blood could only be
answered with blood.

   The earth trembled as the dogs of war were unleashed.



   Many thanks to Fog for all of his assistance and for keeping me from
getting too out of control.  Love it?  Hate it?  See a persistent
grammatical error that annoys the hell out of you?  Let me know:
dptom@live.com
   

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