Konrath, J.A. - DRACULAS (A Novel of Terror)

DRACULAS

a novel of terror by

Blake Crouch

Jack Kilborn

Jeff Strand

F. Paul Wilson

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction by J.A. Konrath

Dedication

Draculas — A Novel of Terror

Bonus Material

Interview with Crouch, Konrath, Strand and Wilson

“Cub Scout Gore Feast” by Konrath and Strand

“Serial” by Crouch and Kilborn

“A Sound of Blunder” by Konrath and Wilson

Draculas Deleted and Alternate Scenes

Excerpt of Crouch’s Desert Places

Excerpt of Strand’s Dweller

Excerpt of Wilson’s The Keep

Excerpt of Konrath’s Shaken

Biographies of Crouch, Konrath, Strand and Wilson

Bibliographies of Crouch, Konrath, Strand and Wilson

Exclusive Behind-the-Scenes Making of Draculas

Acknowledgments

Coming in 2011

INTRODUCTION

I grew up reading books where vampires were scary.

This novel is an attempt to make them scary again.

When I thought of the premise that became DRACULAS, I knew it needed to be a group project. Take four well-known horror authors, let them each create their own unique characters, and have them fight for their lives during a vampire outbreak at a secluded, rural hospital.

This is NOT a collection of short stories. It’s a single, complete novel.

And it’s going to freak you out.

If you’re easily disturbed, have a weak stomach, or are prone to nightmares, stop reading right now. There are no sexy teen heartthrobs herein.

You have been warned.

Joe Konrath

October, 2010

For Bram Stoker, with deepest apologies

DRACULAS

DRACULA’S SKULL UNEARTHED IN TRANSYLVANIA!A Romanian farmer discovered a skull with unusual properties while plowing his field near the town of Brasov. The relic, which appears to be ancient and human, has thirty-two elongated, razor-sharp teeth.

—NATIONAL TATTLER

VAMPIRE SKULL A HOAX?Discovered in Transylvania, the humanoid skull with sharp fangs is considered by many to be a fake. Fueling this speculation is the owner’s refusal to let scientists analyze the discovery, claiming it embodies an ancient curse.

—THE INQUISITOR STAR

MILLIONAIRE BUYS DRAC’S HEAD!Eccentric recluse Mortimer Moorecook of Durango, Colorado, has apparently purchased the so-called “Dracula skull” for an undisclosed sum, from the Transylvanian farmer who unearthed it a week ago. It isn’t known what Moorecook, who made his fortune on Wall Street during the late 80s, plans to do with the skull, though many are hoping it will be turned over to scientists for study. Moorecook, who was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, couldn’t be reached for comment.

—THE DRUDGE REPORT

Moorecook

MORTIMER Moorecook opened the massive oak door of his hilltop mansion just as the FedEx deliveryman was reaching for the doorbell.

“Hi, Mr. Moorecook, I have—”

“You have my package.”

“Yeah. Must be special. Only thing on my truck. Never been called out on a Sunday evening before.”

Mortimer looked at the cardboard box, covered in FRAGILE HANDLE WITH CARE stickers and some Romanian customs scrawl. His mouth went dry, and his already bowed knees threatened to stop supporting him.

Finally.

“Mr. Moorecook?”

The old man glanced up at the buff FedEx driver, thinking how he’d once been that young and vital. Never could’ve imagined how quickly and completely that sense of immortality deserts you. So much taken for granted.

“What?”

“Just need you to sign for it so I can keep my job.”

Taking the pen in his trembling grasp, Mortimer scribbled in the window of the electronic tracker. Then the box was in his hands. It barely weighed three pounds, but the magnitude of its contents made his arms shake.

“Shanna! It’s here! It’s here!”

Mortimer limped through the atrium as quickly as his thin, frail legs could manage, breathless by the time he reached the study. He set the box down on the coffee table in front of the hearth and eased back onto the leather couch just as his legs were about to give out.

His hospice nurse—a zaftig, forty-something woman named Jenny—rolled his IV bag into the study and plugged the line into his arm.

“Oh, stop it!” He swatted air in her general direction. “I ought to get a restraining order against you people. Everywhere I go, you’re always stalking me with that thing!”

But even as he spoke, he could feel the morphine-push flooding his system like a good, wet dream.

“Mr. Moorecook, you know what happens if we have any lapses between dosages.”

“Yeah, I might actually feel something.”

“Is writhing around on the ground in unimaginable pain the kind of feeling you want?”

Of course not, he thought. That’s the reason I…

“Mortimer!” Shanna appeared in the doorway of the study. “It’s really here?”

He nodded, eyes twinkling, then turning cold again as he glanced toward Jenny. “Leave us.”

Shanna walked past the nurse and came around the sofa. Mortimer could smell whatever body wash she’d used in the shower that morning as she sat down beside him, her brown curls bouncing off her shoulders like an honest-to-god shampoo commercial. She was thirty-five, had been single when she moved out to Durango at Mortimer’s request, but in the eight weeks she’d been here, she’d met a sheriff’s deputy and inexplicably fallen for him. It remained beyond Mortimer’s comprehension how this gorgeous biological anthropologist had seen anything in that redneck, who, as far as Mortimer could tell, was the epitome of what made the world throw-up in its mouth when it thought of Red State America.

Then again, he was old and dying, and maybe just a little bit jealous.

“Help me up, Shanna.”

With the morphine flowing, it felt like he floated over to his desk.

He opened the middle drawer, glancing out the big windows into the San Juan Mountains beyond a gaping canyon. The peaks were flushed with alpenglow, the snowfields pink as the sun dropped over southwest Colorado.

Lost in thought, Mortimer hitched up his tailored black pants—so loose now he had taken to wearing the gold-buckled belt left to him by his father—and ran his fingers over the Ouroboros insignia sewn into the breast of his red, silk robe. Then he reached into his desk drawer and took out the bottle he’d been waiting years to open, fighting a moment with the wrapper and cork. At last, he splashed a little of the rosewood-colored liquid into two tumblers.

“I’m not really much of a whiskey drinker,” Shanna protested.

“Humor me.”

Mortimer raised his glass, already catching whiffs of the fierce dried fruits and peat wafting toward him.

“To you, Shanna,” he said. “Thanks for spending these last few weeks with me. I haven’t been this happy since my Wall Street days, raiding companies. I ever tell you—”

“Many times.”

They clinked glasses and drank.

“That’s disgusting,” Shanna said, setting her glass down.

Mortimer shook his head.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing, it’s just that this is a fifty-five year Macallan. I paid $17,000 for that bottle many years ago, knowing I wouldn’t crack it until a night like this came along.”

“You paid too much,” she said.

“Some things are worth the price. Shall we?”

They returned to the couch, and Mortimer sat down and dug the Swiss Army knife out of the patch pocket of his linen shirt. It shook in his hands as he opened one of the smaller blades.