The Fall

Fet ran to the end of the landing, and Eph saw it now: a tugboat, large tires tied all the way around its sides, acting as fenders. They climbed onto the main deck, Fet running up into the wheel-house. The engine started with a cough and a roar, and Eph untied the aft end. The boat lurched at first, Fet pushing it too hard, then launched away from the island.

Out on the West Channel, floating a few dozen yards off the edge of Manhattan, Eph watched the horde of vampires clamor to the edge of FDR Drive. They bunched there, trailing the boat along its slow southern path, unable to venture out over moving water.

The river was a safe zone. A no-vamp’s-land.

Beyond the plunderers, Eph looked up at the looming buildings of the darkened city. Behind him, above Roosevelt Island, in the middle of the East River, were pockets of daylight-not pure sunlight, for it was evidently an overcast day, but clarity-between the smoke-veiled landmasses of Manhattan and Queens.

They approached the Queensboro Bridge, gliding underneath the high cantilever span. A bright flash streaked across the Manhattan skyline, turning Eph’s head. Then another went up, like a modest firework. Then a third.

Illumination flares, in orange and white.

A vehicle came tearing up FDR Drive toward the throng of vampires following the boat. It was a Jeep, soldiers in camouflage standing out of the back, firing automatic weapons into the crowd.

“The Army!” said Eph. He felt something he hadn’t felt in some time: hope. He looked around for Setrakian, and, not seeing him, headed into the main cabin.

Nora finally found a door, leading not to any sort of exit from the tunnel but into a deep storage closet. There was no lock-the planners never anticipated pedestrians one hundred feet below the Hudson-and inside she found safety equipment, such as replacement bulbs for signal lights, orange flags and vests, and an old cardboard box of flares. Flashlights also, but the batteries were all corroded.

She evened out a pile of sandbags in the corner to fashion a seat for her mother, then grabbed a handful of flares, throwing them into her bag.

“Mama. Please, please, be quiet. Stay here. I am coming back. I am.

Nora’s mother sat on the cold throne of sandbags with a curious look about the closet. “Where did you put the cookies?”

“All gone, Mama. You sleep now. Rest.”

“Here? In the pantry?”

“Please. It’s a surprise-for Papa.” Nora was backing out through the door. “Don’t move until he comes for you.”

She closed the door quickly, scanning the tunnel for vampires with her scope, then dumping two sandbags in front of the door to hold it shut. She then went racing back toward Zack, simultaneously leading her own scent away from her mother.

She had taken the coward’s way out, she supposed-stuffing her poor mother inside a closet-but at least this way there was hope.

She continued back along the eastbound side of the tunnel, looking for the place where Zack had hidden. Things looked different through the soupy green light of the monocular. Her marker had been a stripe of white paint along the low side of the tunnel-but she could not locate it now. She thought again of those two vampires who had come up on her, and was leaping with anxiety.

“Zack!” A yelled whisper. Foolhardy, but concern trumped reason. She had to be near where she had left him. “Zack-it’s Nora! Where are…?”

What she saw before her chased the voice from her throat. Illuminated in her monocular, illustrated on the broad side of the tunnel, was a vast graffiti mural rendered with exceptional technique. It depicted a great, faceless humanlike creature with two arms, two legs, and two magnificent wings.

She realized intuitively that this was the final iteration of the six-petal tags they had been finding all around town. The earlier flowers, or bugs: those were icons, analogs, abstractions. Cartoons of this fearsome being.

The image of this broad-winged creature, and the manner in which it was rendered-at once both naturalistic and extraordinarily evocative-terrified her in a way she could not begin to understand. How eerie was this ambitious work of street art appearing in this dark tunnel so deep beneath the surface of the earth. A brilliant tattoo of extraordinary beauty and menace written upon this bowel of civilization.

An image, she realized at once, intended to be viewed only by vampiric eyes.

A sibilation spun Nora around. In her nightscope, she saw Kelly Goodweather, her face twisted into an expression of want that nearly resembled pain. Her mouth was an open slit, the tip of her stinger flicking like a lizard’s tongue, her parted lips bared in a hiss.

Her torn clothes were still soaked from the surface rain, hanging heavily from her thin body, her hair flattened, smears of dirt streaking her flesh. Her eyes, which appeared screaming white in the greenness of Nora’s scope, were wide with want.