Brian Lumley - Necroscope 2 - Wamphyri!

Wamphyri!

by

Brian Lumley

Book 2 of the Necroscope Series

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

Many and multiform are the dim horrors of Earth, infesting her ways from the prime.

They sleep beneath the unturned stone; they rise with the tree from its root; they move

beneath the sea and in subterranean places; they dwell in the inmost adyta; they emerge

betimes from the shutten sepulchre of haughty bronze and the low grave that is sealed with

clay. There be some that are long known to man, and others as yet unknown that abide the

terrible latter days of their revealing. Those which are the most dreadful and the loathliest of

all are haply still to be declared. But among those that have revealed themselves aforetime

and have made manifest their veritable presence, there is one which may not openly be

named for its exceeding foulness. It is that spawn which the hidden dweller in the vaults has

begotten upon mortality...

They say foul beings of Old Times still lurk In dark forgotten corners of the world, And Gates

still gape to loose, on certain nights, Shapes pent in Hell...

Chapter One

Afternoon of the fourth Monday in January 1977; the Château Bronnitsy off the Serpukhov

road not far out of Moscow; 2.40 p.m. middle-European time, and a telephone in the temporary

Investigation Control Room ringing... ringing... ringing.

The Château Bronnitsy stood central on open, peaty ground in the middle of a densely

wooded tract now white under drifted snow. A house or mansion of debased heritage and mixed

architectural antecedents, several recent wings were of modern brick on old stone foundations,

while others were cheap breeze blocks camouflaged in grey and green paint. A once-courtyard in

the 'U' of polyglot wings was now roofed over, its roof painted to match the surrounding terrain.

Bedded at their bases in massive, steeply gabled end walls, twin minarets raised broken bulbous

domes high over the landscape, their boarded windows glooming like hooded eyes. In keeping with

the generally run-down aspect of the rest of the place, the upper sections of these towers were

derelict, decayed as rotten fangs. From the air, the Château would seem a gaunt old ruin. But it was

hardly that, even though the towers were not the only things in a state of decay.

Outside the roofed courtyard stood a canopied ten-ton Army truck, the canvas flaps at its rear

thrown back and its exhaust puffing acrid blue smoke into the frosty air. A KGB man, conspicuous

in his 'uniform' of felt hat and dark grey overcoat, stared in across the truck's lowered tailgate at its

contents and shuddered. Hands thrust deep in his pockets, he turned to a second man dressed in

the white smock of a technician and grimaced. 'Comrade Krakovitch,' he grunted, 'what the hell are

they? And what are they doing here?'

Felix Krakovitch glanced at him, shook his head, said, 'You wouldn't understand if I told you.

And if you understood, you wouldn't believe.' Like his ex-boss, Gregor Borowitz, Krakovitch

considered all KGB low life-forms. He would keep information and assistance to the barest

minimum - within certain limits of prudence and personal safety, of course. The KGB weren't much

for forgiving and forgetting.

The blocky Special Policeman shrugged, lit a stubby brown cigarette and drew deeply on its

carboard tube. 'Try me anyway,' he said. 'It's cold here but I am warm enough. See, when I go to

report to Comrade Andropov - and I am sure I need not remind you of his Politburo status - he will

want some answers, which is why I want answers from you. So we will stand out here until - '

'Zombies!' said Krakovitch abruptly. 'Mummies! Men dead for four hundred years. You can

tell that from their weapons, and - ' For the first time he heard the insistent ringing of the telephone,

turned towards the door in the corrugated iron facade of the covered courtyard.

'Where are you going?' The KGB man came alive, took his hands out of his pockets. 'Do you

expect me to tell Yuri Andropov that the - the mayhem - here was done by dead men?' He almost

choked on the last two words, coughed long and loud, finally spat on the snow.

'Stand there long enough,' Krakovitch said over his shoulder, 'in those exhaust fumes, smoking

that shredded rope, and you might as well climb in the truck with them!' He stepped through the

door, let it slam shut behind him.

'Zombies?' The agent wrinkled his nose, looked again at the truckload of cadavers. He

couldn't know it but they were Crimean Tartars, butchered en masse in 1579 by Russian

reinforcements hastening to a ravaged Moscow. They had died and gone down in blood and mire

and bog, to lie part-preserved in the peat of a low-lying field - and to come up again two nights ago

to wage war on the Château! They had won that war, the Tartars and their young English leader,

Harry Keogh, for after the fighting only five of the Château's defenders still lived. Krakovitch was

one of them. Five out of thirty-three, and the only enemy casualty Harry Keogh himself. Amazing

odds, unless one counted the Tartars. But one could hardly count them, for they had been dead

before it started...

These were Krakovitch's thoughts as he entered what long ago had been a cobbled courtyard

- now a large area of plastic-tiled floor, partitioned into airy conservatories, small apartments and

laboratories - where E-Branch operatives had studied and practised their esoteric talents in

comparative comfort, or whatever condition or environment best suited their work. Forty-eight

hours ago the place had been immaculate; now it was a shambles, where bullet-holes patterned the

partition walls and the effects of blast and fire could be seen on every hand. It was a wonder the

place hadn't been burned to the ground, completely gutted.

In a mainly cleared area - the so-called Investigation Control Room - a table had been erected

and supported the ringing telephone. Krakovitch made his way towards it, pausing to drag aside a

large piece of utility wall which partly blocked his path. Underneath, lying half-buried in crumbled

plaster, broken glass and the crushed remains of a wooden chair, a human arm and hand lay like a

huge grey salted slug. Its flesh was shrivelled, the colour of leather, and the bone where it projected

in a knob at the shoulder was shiny white. It was almost a fossil. There'd be many more fragments

such as this yet to be discovered, scattered throughout the Château, but apart from their repulsive

looks they'd be harmless - now. Not so on the night of the horror. Krakovitch had seen portions

like this one, without heads or brains to guide them, crawling, fighting, killing!

He shuddered, moved the arm aside with his foot, went to the telephone. 'Hello, Krakovitch?'

'Who?' the unknown caller snapped back. 'Krakovitch? Are you in charge there?' It was a

female voice, very efficient.

'I suppose I am, yes,' Krakovitch answered. 'What can I do for you?'

'For me, nothing. For the Party Leader, only he can say. He's been trying to contact you for

the last five minutes!'

Krakovitch was tired. He hadn't slept since the nightmare, doubted if he'd ever sleep again. He

and the other four survivors, one of them a raving madman, had only come out of the security vault

on Sunday morning, when the air was finished. Since then the others had made their statements,

been sent home. The Château Bronnitsy was a High Security Establishment, so their stories

wouldn't be for general consumption. In fact Krakovitch - being the only genuinely coherent

member of the survivors - had demanded that the case in toto be sent direct to Leonid Brezhnev.

That was Standing Orders anyway: Brezhnev was the top man, personally and directly responsible

for E-Branch, despite the fact that he'd left all of it to Gregor Borowitz. But the branch had been

important to the Party Leader, and he'd seen everything that came out of it (or at least anything of

any importance). Also, Borowitz must have told him quite a bit about the branch's paranormal work

- literally ESPionage - so that Brezhnev should be at least part-qualified to pass judgement on what

had happened here. Or so Krakovitch hoped. In any case, it had to be better than trying to explain

it to Yuri Andropov!

'Krakovitch?' the phone barked at him. (Was this really the Party Leader?)

'Er, yes, sir, Felix Krakovitch. I was on Comrade Borowitz's staff.'

'Felix? Why tell me your first name? You expect me to call you by your first name?' The voice

had a hard edge, but it also sounded like its owner was eating something mushy. Krakovitch had

heard several of Brezhnev's infrequent speeches; this could only be him.

'I... no, of course not, Comrade Party Leader.' (How the hell did one address him?) 'But I - '

'Listen, are you in charge there?' 'Yes, er, Comrade Party - '

'Forget all that stuff,' Brezhnev rasped. 'I don't need reminding who I am, just answers. Is

there no one left who is senior to you?'

'No.'

'Anyone who's your equal?'

'Four of them, but one's a madman.'

'Eh?'

'He went mad when... when it happened.' There was a pause; then, the voice went on, a little

less harshly: 'Do you know Borowitz is dead?'

'Yes. A neighbour found him in his dacha at Zhukovka. The neighbour was ex-KGB and got

in touch with Comrade Andropov, who sent a man here. He's here now.'

'I know another name,' Brezhnev's thick, gurgling voice continued. 'Boris Dragosani. What of

him?'

'Dead,' and before Krakovitch could check his tongue, 'thank God!'

'Eh? You're glad one of your comrades is dead?'

'I... yes, I'm glad.' Krakovitch was too tired to answer in any way but truthfully, straight from

the heart.

'I think he was probably part of it; at least, I believe he brought it down on us. His body is still

here. Also the bodies of our other dead - and that of Harry Keogh, a British agent, we think. And

also - '

'The Tartars?' Brezhnev was quiet now.

Krakovitch sighed. The man wasn't a slave to convention after all. 'Yes, but no longer...

animate,' he answered.

Another pause. 'Krakovitch - er, Felix, did you say? - I've read the statements of the other

three. Are they true? No chance of an error, mass hypnotism or delusion or something? Was it

really as bad as that?'

They are true - no chance of an error - it was as bad as that.'

'Felix, listen. Take over there. I mean you, take over. I don't want E-Branch shut down. It has

been more than beneficial to our security. And Borowitz was more valuable to me personally than

many of my generals would ever believe. So I want the branch rebuilt. And it looks like you've got

the job.'

Krakovitch felt like a swatted fly: knocked off his feet, lost for words. 'I... Comrade... I mean

- '

'Can you do it?'

Krakovitch wasn't crazy. It was the chance of a lifetime. 'It will take years - but yes, I'll try to

do it.'

'Good! But if you take it on, you'll have to do more than just try, Felix. Let me know what you

need and I'll see you get it. The first thing I want is answers. But I'm the only one who gets those

answers, you understand? This one has to be screwed down. It mustn't leak. And that reminds me -

did you say there was someone from the KGB with you right now?'

'He's outside, in the grounds.'

'Get him,' Brezhnev's voice was harsh again. 'Bring him to the phone. Let me speak to him at

once!'

Krakovitch started back across the floor, but at that moment the door opened to admit the

man in question. He squared his shoulders, looked at Krakovitch in a surly, narrow-eyed manner,

said, 'We haven't finished, Comrade.'

'I'm afraid we have,' Krakovitch felt shored up, buoyant as a cork. It must be his fatigue

beginning to work on him. There's someone on the phone for you.'

'Eh? For me?' The other pushed by him. 'Who is it, someone from the office?'

'Not sure,' Krakovitch lied. 'Head office, I think.'

The KGB man frowned at him, scowled, snatched up the phone from the table. 'Yanov here.

What is it? I'm busy down here, and - '

His face immediately underwent rapid changes of expression and colour. He jerked visibly and

almost staggered. Only the phone seemed to be holding him up. 'Yessir! Oh, yes, sir. Yes, sir! Yes,

yessir! No, sir. I will, sir. Yes, sir. But I - no, sir. Yessir!' He looked sick, held out the phone for

Krakovitch, glad to be rid of it.

As Krakovitch took the instrument from him, the agent hissed viciously: 'Fool! That's the Party

Leader!'

Krakovitch let his eyes go big and round, made an 'O' with his mouth. Then he said casually

into the mouth-piece, 'Krakovitch here,' and at once held the phone towards the KGB man, let him

hear Brezhnev's voice:

'Felix? Has that prick gone yet?'

It was the Special Policeman's turn to make an 'O'.

'He's going now,' Krakovitch answered. He nodded sharply towards the door. 'Out! And do

try to remember what the Party Leader told you. For your own good.'

The KGB operative shook his head dazedly, licked his lips, headed for the door. He was still

white-faced. At the door he turned, thrust his chin out. 'I - ' he began.

'Goodbye, comrade,' Krakovitch dismissed him. 'Now he's gone,' he finally confirmed, after

the door had slammed shut.

'Good! I don't want them interfering. They didn't fool about with Gregor, and I don't want

them fooling with you. Any problems from them and you get straight back to me!'

'Yes, sir.'

'Now, here's what I want... But first, tell me - have the branch records survived?'

'Almost everything's intact, except for our agents. There's damage, a lot. But records,

installations, the Château itself - in decent order, I think. Manpower's a different story. I'll tell you

what we have left. There's myself and three other survivors, six more on holiday in various parts,

three fairly good telepaths on permanent duty in connection with the British, American and French

embassies, and another four or five field agents out in the world. With twenty-eight dead, we've lost

almost two-thirds of our staff. Most of the best men are gone.'

'Yes, yes,' Brezhnev was impatient. 'Manpower is important, that's why I asked about

records. Recruitment! That's your first task. It will take a long time, I know, but get on it. Old

Gregor once told me that you have special sorts who can spot others with the talent, right?'

'I've still got one good spotter, yes,' Krakovitch answered, giving an unconscious nod. 'I'll start

using him at once. And I'll commence studying Comrade Borowitz's records, of course.'

'Good! Now then, see how quickly you can get that place cleaned up. Those Tartar corpses:

burn 'em! And don't let anyone see them. I don't care how that's done, but do it. Then put in a

comprehensive works chit for repairs on the Château. I'll have it actioned at once. In fact, I'll have a

man here, on this number or another number he'll give you, who you can contact at any time for

anything. That's from right now. You'll keep him informed and he'll keep me informed. He'll be your

only boss, except he'll deny you nothing. See how highly I prize you, Felix? Right, that should get

things started. As for the rest: Felix Krakovitch, I want to know how this happened! Are they that

far ahead, the British, the Americans, the Chinese? I mean, how could one man, this Harry Keogh,

do so much damage?'

'Comrade,' Krakovitch answered, 'you mentioned Boris Dragosani. I once watched him work.

He was a necromancer. He sniffed out the secrets of dead men. I've seem him do things to corpses

that gave me nightmares for months! You ask how Harry Keogh could do so much damage? From

what little I've so far been able to discover, it seems he was capable of almost anything. Telepathy,

teleportation, even Dragosani's own necromancy. He was their best. But I think Keogh was many

steps ahead of Dragosani. It's one thing to torture dead men and drain their secrets from their blood

and brains and guts, but it's quite another to call them up out of their graves and make them fight for

you!'

Teleportation?' For a moment the Party Leader was thoughtful, then came on impatient: 'You

know, the more I hear the less I'm inclined to believe. I wouldn't believe, except I saw Borowitz's

results. And how else am I to explain a couple of hundred Tartar corpses, eh? But right now... I've

spent enough time with you on this. I have other things to do. In five more minutes I'll have your

go-between on this line. Think about it and tell him what you want done, anything you need. If he

can come up with something he will. He's had this kind of assignment before. Well, not exactly this

kind! One last thing

'Yes?' Krakovitch's head was whirling.

'Let me make it quite clear: I want the answers. As soon as possible. But there has to be a

limit, and that limit's a year. By then the branch will be working at 100 percent efficiency, and you

and I will know everything. And we'll understand everything. You see, when we have all the

answers, Felix, then we'll be as smart as the people who did this. Right?'

That seems logical, Party Leader.'

'It is, so get to it. Good luck...' The phone emitted a continuous buzzing tone.

Krakovitch replaced it carefully in its cradle, stared at it for a moment, then started for the

door. In his head he made lists - in loose order of precedence - of things to be done. In the western

world such a massive tragedy could never be covered up, but here in the USSR it wouldn't be

nearly so difficult. Krakovitch wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not.

1. The dead men had families. They would now have to be told some sort of story - maybe

there had been a 'castastrophic accident'. That must be his go-between's responsibility.

2. All E-Branch personnel must be recalled at once, including the three who knew what had

happened here. They were in their homes right now, but they knew enough to say nothing.

3. The bodies of twenty-eight E-Branch colleagues would have to be gathered up, coffined,

prepared as best as possible for burial. And that would have to be done here, by the survivors and

those returning from leave of absence.

4. Recruitment must be started at once.

5. A Second in Command must be appointed, so that Krakovitch could begin a proper,

complete investigation from scratch. That was something he must do himself, just as Brezhnev had

ordered it.

And, 6... he would think of 6 when the first 5 were working! But before any of that -

Outside he found the driver of the Army truck, a young Sergeant in uniform. 'What's your

name?' he asked, listlessly. He must get some sleep soon.

'Sergeant Gulharov, sir? he slammed to attention.

'First name?'

'Sergei, sir.r

'Sergei, call me Felix. Tell me, did you ever hear of Felix the Cat?'

The other shook his head.

'I have a friend who collects old films, cartoons,' Krakovitch told him, shrugging. 'He has

connections. Anyway, there's a funny American cartoon character called Felix the Cat. He's a very

wary fellow, this Felix. Cats usually are, you know? In the British Army, they call bomb disposal

officers Felix, too - they have to tread so very warily. Ah! Maybe my mother should have called me

Sergei, eh?'

The Sergeant scratched his head. 'Sir?'

s>'Never mind,' said Krakovitch. Tell me: do you carry spare fuel?'

'Only what's in the tank, sir. About fifty litres.'

Krakovitch nodded. 'Right, let's get in the cab and I'll tell you where to drive.' He directed him

around the Château to a bunker near the helicopter landing area, where they kept the Avgas. It was

very close, but better to take the truck to the Avgas than bring the Avgas to the truck. On their

way, bumping over the rough ground, the sergeant asked, 'Sir, what happened here?'

For the first time Krakovitch noticed that his eyes had a glazed look. He had helped load his

truck's awful cargo. Never ask that sort of question,' Krakovitch told him. 'In fact as long as you're

here - which will probably be a long, long time - don't ask any questions. Just do as you're told.'

They loaded the cans of Avgas just inside the truck's tailgate and drove to a wooded corner of

the Château's the Château itself that the tank did go, and by then the truck was a blazing shell

anyway. Hearing the thunderous roar and feeling something of its concussion, they looked back.

Cab and chassis and superstructure had all flown apart; bits of blazing debris were falling in the

snow; a mushroom of smoke shot with flame was uncurling itself high over the trees. It was done...

Krakovitch spoke for some time on the telephone to his go-between, an anonymous voice

which seemed hardly interested in what he was saying, yet precise and cutting as a razor when its

owner required more information. He finished off by saying: 'Oh, and I've a new assistant here, a

Sergeant Sergei Gulharov, from the supply and transport barracks in Serpukhov. I'm keeping him

on. Can you get him permanently posted to the Château, as of now? He's young and strong and I'll

have plenty of work for him.'

'Yes, I'll do that,' came the cool, clear answer. 'He'll be your odd-job man, you say?'

'And my bodyguard,' said Krakovitch, 'eventually. I'm not much physically.'

'Very well. I'll check out the chances of getting him on a military close protection course.

Weapons, too, if he's not up to scratch. Of course, we could take a shortcut and get you a

professional...'

'No,' Krakovitch was firm. 'No professionals. This one will do. He's fairly innocent and I like

that. It's refreshing.'

'Krakovitch,' said the voice on the other end, 'I need to know this. Are you a homosexual?'

'Of course not! Oh! I see. No, I need him genuinely - and he looks about as gay as a shipyard

welder! I'll tell you why I want him right now - because I'm alone here. And if you were here you'd

know what I mean.'

'Yes, I'm told you've had to weather quite a lot. Very well, leave it with me.'

Thank you,' said Krakovitch. He broke the connection.

Gulharov was impressed. 'Just like that,' he said. 'You have a lot of power, sir.'

'It seems that way, doesn't it?' Krakovitch smiled tiredly. 'Listen, I'm dead on my feet. But

there's one more thing to do before I can sleep. And let me tell you, if you think what you've seen

so far is unpleasant, what you're about to see is far worse! Come with me.'

He led the way through the chaos of shattered rooms and piled rubble, from the covered-in

courtyard area into the main, original building, then up two flights of time-hollowed stone stairs into

one of the twin towers. This was where Gregor Borowitz had had his office, which Dragosani had

turned into his control room on the night of the horror.

The stairwell was scarred and blackened, with tiny fragments of shrapnel, flattened lead bullets

and copper cases lying everywhere. The stink of cordite was still heavy in the air. That would be

from blast grenades, tossed down here from above when the tower came under attack. But none of

this had stopped Harry Keogh and his Tartars. On the second floor landing the door to a tiny

anteroom stood open. The room had served as an office for Borowitz's secretary, Yul Galenski.

Krakovitch had known him personally: a generally timid man, a clerk with no extrasensory talent.

Brian Lumley - Necroscope 2 - Wamphyri!

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