Immortal (36 page)

“Like I said, it’s more complicated than that.”

“How much more?” I ask. I toss aside the first jug—now empty—and crack open the second.

“Okay,” she says, turning away from the computer, “here’s how it was. She disappeared. Nobody knew what had happened to her and nobody had any sure leads. Then a few of us stumbled upon the MUD. We already knew a lot about you based on what she’d told us, and when we saw that somebody was trying to use Internet users to track your movements, we figured out that whoever wanted you, probably also had her. The idea was that one of us would touch base with you before you were taken, learn what you knew, and use that information to find her.”

“There, that wasn’t so bad,” I say. “Was sleeping with me step three of the plan or step four?”

“See? That’s what I’m talking about! You’re not going to understand, so forget it.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, while polishing off the second jug. “Please continue. But can you type at the same time? We’re on the clock here.”

“You brought it up,” she says, returning to the computer.

“That I did.”

Looking around, I realize I’ve forgotten all about the stuff in the liquid nitrogen. I move to rectify that situation.

“Sleeping with you was never part of any plan,” Clara says. “I did that because I wanted to. You needed a place to hole up and I needed to get information, and everything else that happened in my apartment was just for fun.”

“Ah,” I say, pulling on the gigantic oven mitts I’d seen Viktor use a number of times. “But that was a problem, wasn’t it? I didn’t know much more than you did.”

“You knew a bit more. I don’t know who got you Grindel’s name, but whoever it was, he did a better job than any of us.”

“You probably weren’t breaking enough laws.”

“But I still needed to know where he was keeping her. And it was obvious convincing you to go after him wasn’t going to work. That’s when I hit on the idea to make myself a hostage.”

“Tricking me into trying to rescue you. Nice plan.”

“If I could have figured out a way to get taken in without involving you, I would have,” she claims. “Problem.”

“What?” I ask, elbow-deep in the thick run-off from the nitrogen.

“This terminal is part of a network,” she says. “And the servers aren’t in this building.”

“Where are they?” I ask. I’m not altogether certain what a server is, but wondering where it’s kept seems like a good question.

“Don’t know. Probably across the way.”

“In the admin building.”

“Yeah. Looks like there are four terminals with open access to this system. Three of them are in this room. The fourth is probably the computer in Bob’s office.”

I lift the test tubes out of the nitrogen like I’d seen Viktor do and walk them over to the bleach tub. Inside the tubes are synthetic versions of what’s in mine and Eve’s blood mixed with whatever they took from the vampire. They are the only vials of Viktor’s final product currently in existence.

“Probably?” I say.

“It’s a good guess. He’s got a computer over there. That I know. But it’s set up beyond the firewall.”

“You can tell that from here?”

“No, but I’ve tried and I can’t reach the Internet from here. Bob can. I’ve seen him use his computer to get stock info. Since he probably set this up, I’m sure he knows the passwords needed to get into this network from there.”

I dump the first batch of test tubes into the bleach and go back for more. I ask, “Is there any way to know if he’s transmitted the data anywhere? I need to know if it exists outside of this compound.”

“No, but I doubt it. He’d be risking a lot if he put any of this out there.”

“Okay.” Back in the nitrogen again. It’s hard to see through the gas, but it looks as if I’m almost finished. “So can you still delete it?”

“Not completely,” she admits. “I took care of what was here, but the data could still be reconstructed. I’d need to access the server tower. And I have no way of knowing if a copy of it exists anywhere else. Bob also has a zip drive on his desk.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about Bob’s desk.”

“I’ve been kicking around for a month,” she says. “And, like I told you, he’s spent most of that time trying to get into my pants. I paid attention.”

“When did you find out what was going to happen tonight?” I ask.

“About an hour before you did. Bob actually came right out and told me. I think he wanted me to be impressed that he was the kind of man who could execute somebody. I couldn’t find Iza in time to warn you.”

I’m done with the nitrogen. Provided my scientist friend had been telling the truth about the deleterious effects of bleach on human cells, there is now no direct sample of my blood in the compound other than what’s in my own body.

“What’s that?” Clara asks. She’s facing the door, specifically because of the sound of somebody working the lock.

“Get your gun ready,” I suggest, discarding the mitts and raising my own gun.

We both take an involuntarily deep breath and wait. Presumably the vampire isn’t going to use a key to get in, but there are other things on the base to worry about.

And then the door swings open and Viktor walks in. He won’t make it past the inner airlock doors, so I’m sort of happy to see him.

“Oh, it’s you,” I say, relaxing.

“My God, Adam!” he exclaims, stepping through the broken glass that used to look like a door.

“How’s it going outside, Doc?” I ask, sliding the gun back into my waist string.

“It’s madness! What has happened?”

“Hostile takeover,” I say. “Clara, you want to help me out here?”

“I saw you entering the lab . . .” Viktor begins.

“Oh, was that you?” I say. “Clara saw you coming. Thought you were someone else.”

“I . . . yes, I went back for the key.”

“What do we do about him?” Clara asks, her gun still raised.

“He can’t get in. Don’t worry about it.”

“Bob and his demon are still out there somewhere. What if he went and found them?”

“Good point,” I admit. I step up to the glass wall. “Viktor, you know that creature you boys have been keeping locked up in the second cell? It’s running loose right now. That’s what all those screams you’ve been hearing are about. So I guess if you want to run off to Bob, you’re welcome to do so. But I’m willing to bet you won’t make it.”

“You . . . you released the vampire?” he asks quietly.

“Sure did. And it sounds like it’s awfully hungry.”

Viktor crosses himself compulsively, which I find faintly amusing, as he never struck me as a particularly religious man.

Despite the name, Viktor was actually raised in eastern Pennsylvania by a couple of highly practical parents who nearly put themselves into the poor house paying for his education. In a lot of ways he still feels the weight of that debt, which I think is one of the subtle psychological factors in his life’s work. The need to make a permanent mark on the world to justify their sacrifice. It’s touching, really. If I didn’t think his life’s work would also bring about the indirect deaths of millions of people, I’d be rooting for him.

“Clara, I don’t think he’s going anywhere,” I say. Poor Viktor looks completely paralyzed.

“Good enough for me,” she says, putting her gun down. “What are we doing next?”

“Come help me.”

I lead her to the flammables cabinet. It contains exactly what something with that name should contain.

“Adam,” Viktor half-shouts, which he needs to do to be heard through the glass. “What has been going on in there?”

“Just cleaning up,” I say, pulling out a jug of methanol and handing it to Clara. “Start at the far end,” I tell her, “And cover everything.”

“Got it,” she says.

“No!” Viktor shouts. He reaches for the door and tries to get in, but of course, it’s not going to budge. The security system of the walkthrough thinks the outer door—with its busted lock—is still open.

“Sorry, Viktor,” I say. “You know how I feel about all of this.”

“You’re insane!”

“Not this century,” I say. Stepping past the flammables, I check out the oxygen tanks. The lab has two very large tanks of pure oxygen, which I was told was used for experiments under the hood. (The “hood” is a small chamber that looks like a delicatessen hot plate area.) “By the way, Doc, how old is that vampire?”

Viktor’s too busy staring at the waste bin and the empty bleach cans with a widening look of horror to respond.

“Viktor?” I ask.

“I don’t know . . .” he says absently. “It was . . . we needed the oldest vampire we could find. For the purest . . . the purest sample of the virus.”

Using the butt of the handgun I whack the screw valve off the first tank. It starts whistling as the oxygen is released into the air.

On the other side of the room, spreading methanol all over about one quarter of the lab, Clara says, “I don’t get it. Why did you need a vampire?”

I whack the other tank open. “That was the missing piece, wasn’t it Viktor?” I say. “You knew what gene to turn on, but you didn’t have a way to transform all the cells in the body. Am I right?”

“Adam, please, whatever you are about to do, don’t do it,” Viktor pleads. Viktor is a portly, frail octogenarian who usually carries himself with something akin to dignity. That dignity has completely deserted him, and he’s on the verge of blubbering. I ignore him as well as I can.

I continue, mostly for Clara’s benefit. “But then somebody had a great idea. What if you took a blood-borne virus and used it to do the job for you? Whose idea was that, Viktor? Was that yours?”

“Please,” he repeats. Seeing the culmination of his life’s work being destroyed before his eyes has to be kind of tough.

“Okay, I get it now,” Clara says. She’s returned to the cabinet and helped herself to another bottle, while I’m busy spreading ethanol all over the near side of the room. She adds, “Someone gets infected by a vampire, it affects their whole body.”

“And it’s permanent,” I add. “The virus is almost perfect already, except it also makes the body especially sensitive to solar radiation.”

“Hey,” Clara says, “look what I found.” She’d opened up a drawer at one of the desks and is now holding up a bottle of whiskey. “Should I add it to the floor?”

“God, no,” I say. “I’ll take that.”

She tosses me the bottle, adding, “She always said alcohol was a weakness for you.”

“Eve? I guess she would know.” I take a good long drink. My goodness but I needed that. “She’s been shadowing me for an eternity. And if we get out of this alive, you and I are going to have a very long talk about her.”

“Can’t wait,” she says. “Are we about done?”

I look around. The oxygen content in the room has gone up markedly, and just about every surface has been covered with some form of flammable liquid. The fumes are making my eyes tear up, which is a pretty good sign that we’re done.

“Adam,” Viktor pleads, “what you are doing . . . you’ve no right. This can help so many people.”

“What do you mean I have no right?” I snap. “You had your turn to play God. Now it’s mine. Besides, I’ve already doused the cells in bleach. This part is just to make sure nobody picks up the pieces later.”

Clara, blissfully unconcerned with the philosophical consequences of our actions asks, “So how do we get out?”

“The emergency exit.” The lab has two, one in each corner. One day I leaned on one of the door’s bars to make sure they actually opened. They do, and they’re also hooked up to an alarm. You can’t imagine what kind of trouble that caused.

I say, “Viktor, in a few minutes, it’s going to be more dangerous in here than outside. I trust you know how to let yourself out.” Viktor lets out a little whimper. I guess that means he heard me.

I meet Clara at the exit and trade guns with her.

“Get ready to hit that door,” I say. Then I switch her gun to fully automatic and start firing indiscriminately into the room.

Creating a spark isn’t quite as easy as it looks in the movies, where every bullet that hits something flares brightly as if the world were made of flint. That not being the case here, I just go to town on the whole room and hope something somewhere flares up. I had less trouble creating fire in the Stone Age. But after several seconds—and following possibly permanent hearing loss—I manage to hit a piece of electronic equipment that sparks long enough to create the desired effect.

“Okay, go,” I say. Clara pushes the fire door open, alarms sound off, and out she goes.

I take one last look at Viktor. It looks like he’s going to stay and watch the place melt away. There’s no point in warning him again to get out. So instead, I screw open the whiskey, take another deep drag, and toss the bottle into the middle of the room. My last glimpse of the lab is of flames rolling across the floor like someone had spilled a big jar of pure fire.

I step out, shut the door behind me, and lean up against the side of the building next to Clara. I’m about to discuss the next step when she grabs my arm and squeezes hard.

“Don’t move,” she whispers urgently. “It’s here.”

I remember a long conversation I once had with a vampire named Bordick, sometime in the late seventeenth century. He was one of the oldest I’d ever met, meaning we had a good deal in common with one another, because how often does one get to compare two-hundred-year-old war stories with someone else? We got onto the subject of the somewhat unfair public perception of vampires—a perception that was actually worse in the seventeenth century than it is now. It was Bordick’s theory that people, in overreacting to vampires, tend to create their own monsters. He meant this rather literally.