Guillermo del Toro - The Fall. Book II of The Strain Trilogy

“How is he different?”

Only stronger. He is like us; we are him — but he is not us.

In less time than it took to blink, the Ancient had turned toward him. Its head and face were time-smoothed, worn of all features, with sagging red eyes, less a nose than a bump, and a downturned mouth open to toothless blackness.

One thing you must do. Gather every particle of our remains. Deposit them into a reliquary of silver and white oak. This is imperative. For us, but also for you.

“Why? Tell me.”

White oak. Be certain, Setrakian.

Setrakian said, “I will do no such thing unless I know that doing so won’t bring more harm.”

You will do it. There is no such thing now as more harm.

Setrakian saw that the Ancient was right.

Fet spoke up behind Setrakian. “We’ll collect it — and preserve it in a dustbin.”

The Ancient looked past Setrakian for a moment, at the exterminator. With sag-eyed contempt, but also something like pity.

Sadum. Amurah. And his name… our name…

And then it dawned on Setrakian. “Ozryel… The Angel of Death.” And he understood everything, and thought all the right questions.

But it was too late.

A blast of white light and a pulse of energy, and the last remaining New World Ancient vanished into a scattering of snow-like ash.

The last remaining hunters twisted as though in a moment of pain — and then evaporated right out of their clothes.

Setrakian felt a breath of ionized air ripple his clothes and fade away.

He sagged, leaning on his staff. The Ancients were no more. And yet a greater evil remained.

In the atomization of the Ancients, he glimpsed his own fate.

Fet was at his side. “What do we do?”

Setrakian found his voice. “Gather the remains.”

“You’re sure?”

Setrakian nodded. “Use the urn. The reliquary can come later.”

He turned and looked for Gus, finding the vampire killer sifting through a hunter’s clothes with the tip of his silver sword.

Gus was searching the room for Mr. Quinlan — or his remains — but the Ancients’ chief hunter was nowhere to be found.

The narrow door at the left end of the room, however, the ebony door Quinlan had retreated to after they entered, was ajar.

The Ancients’ words came back to Gus, from their first meeting:

He is our best hunter. Efficient and loyal. In many respects, unique.

Had Quinlan somehow been spared? Why hadn’t he disintegrated like the rest?

“What is it?” asked Setrakian, approaching Gus.

Gus said, “One of the hunters, Quinlan… he left no trace… Where did he go?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. You are free of them now,” said Setrakian. “Free of their control.”

Gus looked back at the old man. “Ain’t none of us free for long.”

“You will have the chance to release your mother.”

“If I find her.”

“No,” said Setrakian. “She will find you.”

Gus nodded. “So — nothing’s changed.”

“One thing. They would have made you one of their hunters if they had succeeded in pushing back the Master. You have been spared that.”

“We’re splitting,” said Creem. “If it’s all the same to you. We know the ropes now and it seems to me we can carry on with the good work. But we all have families to gather. Or maybe we don’t. Either way, we have places to secure. But if you ever need the Sapphires, Gus — you just come and find us.”

Creem shook hands with Gus. Angel stood by uncertainly. He sized up one gang leader, and then the other. He nodded at Gus. The big ex-wrestler had chosen to stay.

Gus turned to Setrakian. “I’m one of your hunters now.”

Setrakian said, “You don’t need anything more from me. But I need one more thing from you.”

“Just name it.”

“A ride. A fast one.”

“Fast is my specialty. They got more Hummers in a garage underneath this funhouse. Unless that shit evaporated too.”

Gus went off to claim a vehicle. Fet had located, inside a chest of drawers in an adjoining room, a briefcase full of cash. He dumped out the paper currency so that Angel had something to deposit the Ancients’ ashes in. He had heard the entire conversation with Gus. “I think I know where we are going.”

“No,” said Setrakian, still looking distracted, only half-there. “Just me.” He handed Fet the Occido Lumen and his notebook.

“I don’t want this,” said Fet.

“You must take it. And remember. Sadum, Amurah. Will you remember that, Vasiliy?”

“I don’t need to remember anything — I’m going with you.”

“No. The book is the thing now. It must be kept safe, and out of the Master’s claws. We can’t lose it now.”

“We can’t lose you.”

Setrakian shook that off. “I am very nearly lost as it is.”

“That’s why you need me with you.”

“ Sadum. Amurah. Say it,” said Setrakian. “That’s what you can do for me. Let me hear that — let me know that you keep those words…”

“Sadum. Amurah,” said Fet obediently. “I know them.”

Setrakian nodded. “This world is going to become a terribly hard place of little hope. Protect those words — that book — like a flame. Read it. The key to it is in my notes. Their nature, their origin, their name — they were all one…”

“You know I can’t make heads or tails—”

“Then go to Ephraim, together you will. You must go to him now.” His voice broke. “You two need to stay together.”

“Two of us together doesn’t equal one of you. Give this to Gus. Let me take you, please…” Now there were tears in the eyes of the exterminator.

Setrakian’s gnarled hand gripped Fet’s forearm with fading strength. “It is your responsibility now, Vasiliy. I trust you implicitly… Be bold.”

The silver plating was cold to touch. He accepted the book finally, because the old man insisted, like a dying man pressing his diary into the hands of a reluctant heir. “What are you going to do?” asked Fet, knowing now that this was the last time he would see Setrakian. “What can you do?”

Setrakian released Fet’s arm. “One thing only, my son.”

It was that word—“son”—that touched Fet the deepest. He choked back his pain as he watched the old man move along.

The mile Eph ran into the North River Tunnel felt like ten. Guided only by Fet’s night-vision monocular, over a glowing green landscape of unchanging train tracks, Eph’s descent beneath the Hudson River was a true journey into madness. Dizzied and frantic, and gasping for breath, he began to see glowing white stains along the rail ties.

He slowed long enough to pull a Luma lamp from the pack on his back. The ultraviolet light picked up an explosion of color, the biological matter expelled by vampires. The staining was recent, the ammonia odor eye-watering. This much waste indicated a massive feeding.

Eph ran until he saw the rear car of the derailed train. No noise; all was still. Eph started around the right, seeing ahead where the engine or the first passenger car had jumped the track, angled up against the tunnel wall. He entered an open door, boarding the dark train. Through his green vision, he viewed the carnage. Bodies slumped over chairs, over other bodies, on the floor. All budding vampires, due to begin rising as soon as the next sunset. No time to release them all now. Or to go through them, face-by-face.

No. He knew Nora was smarter than that.

He jumped back out, turning the corner around the train, and saw the lurkers. Four of them, two to a side, their eyes reflecting like glass in his monocular. His Luma lamp froze them, hungry faces leering as they backed away, allowing him passage.