Frank Drake ran for all that he was worth. Ran as though the very Devil was on his tail, and for all he knew, he was. If the Dark Dimension was not Hell, then Frank Drake did not know what was.

Certainly the creatures that were chasing him were demons. They had to be, foul, disgusting monsters that they were. What else could they be? They were long and ugly things all scaled with tufts of bristling, wiry fur and dark, liquid eyes. They had mouths jammed with ragged, jagged teeth continually chomping and snapping as they skittered over the harsh ground or floundered through the thick, choking air. They stank of offal and made guttural chittering sounds, which was how Frank knew that they were still swarming at his heels.

He ran on resisting temptation to look back over his shoulder and check his lead. He could hear them right behind, he didn’t need to look, and god knew that as soon as he glanced back he would stumble over a stone or twist his ankle on the uneven ground and that would be all. That was how it always went in the lame movies he had seen as a kid; run from the monster, look back, trip and die. Frank tried not to laugh, his lungs could not take it in the cold, foul air. He had never thought that he would end up the victim in a bad horror movie though.

He was supposed to be the hero.

Drake launched himself into the air, almost flying for a moment until he came down and started skidding down the side of a rough and gravelly embankment. It might have been a riverbed once upon a time, and in the distance, in the lower spots he could still see stagnant pools of the thick brackish liquid that passed as water in this bizarre dark land. He hit the bottom of the gully and almost lost his balance, running full tilt head over heels as he tried to get his feet back under him. He could hear the howls and snarls of the creatures even over the sounds of his whining, gasping prayers that he not fall. They were piling down the embankment barely breaking stride in their chase.

Tears were running freely down his cheeks now. Not of fear, but of agony at trying to draw another breath. Drake was woefully out of shape despite the life he led, and the cigarettes were going to kill him for certain, here, a world away from anyone even remotely human.

God he wanted a cigarette…

He had been here before once, years ago. It had not been too long after he had first hooked up with Harker’s little band of fanatics That he and Rachel Van Helsing had passed the fringes of the Dark Dimension. They had been following Dracula of course. The better part of his adult life had been spent following his undead ancestor around the world, and beyond. This particular time however, the Lord of the Vampires had come upon a scheme that would open a portal to the past where he had hoped to go, back to the Transylvania of the Nineteenth Century. There he could stop Abraham Van Helsing from defeating him in their final confrontation, thus altering history for all time and all the better, at least for him. The Speculum Niger—the Black Mirror had been their ticket back then, and where Dracula had been pulled through the dark looking glass unprepared by Rachel’s mute manservant Taj, Drake and Van Helsing had stepped through willingly, hoping to catch them.

Drake had no idea of Dracula’s travails in the Dark Dimension—and Taj was not talking—but he and Rachel Van Helsing had traveled through the dark swirling mists, the incantation that they had used to open the magicks of the mirror keeping them safe in their journey. Still, they had seen the desolation of the hellish land that they passed, just on the fringes. They had seen the black jagged peaks in the shadowy distance. They had seen the blasted, decaying lands dry as bone save for the thick, tar-like water that bubbled and boiled in secluded pools. Too, they had seen the horrific, demonic creatures watching them from the safety of strewn broken rock and stunted shrubbery, watching and waiting…

And now Frank Drake had arrived, their long wait finally at an end. The lands had not changed, still bleak and desolate and unending. The black waters still churned, the dark mists still swirled, but now Frank Drake was in the thick of it, running madly with no escape in sight.

Drake screamed as sharp claws ripped through the leg of his trousers. He had felt the slightest scratch and staggered on a few more steps before falling and skidding into the dirt. His heart slammed over and over in his chest as he crawled, scratching at the ground trying to get away. Blood roared in his ears as he struggled to draw another tortured breath. He felt a dead, sodden weight collapse on his legs and he screamed again frantically trying to drag himself on. It was no use though. In seconds they would all be on him, ripping at his flesh and sucking the marrow from his bones. That’s what demons did…

Sucked!

But he would be damned if he would go out like that, kicking and screaming for it to end as they ate away at him. He had his gun, and had saved one final shell just in case. The special cartridges that Blade had made up; oaken shards soaked in Holy Water did little against the dark fiends of the Mirror Dimension. Bullets and holy items meant nothing to them. Drake wished that he still had ‘Linda’—his demonic exorcist gun that he had wielded when he ran with Blade and King, the three of them the Night Stalkers! Linda would have saved his ass again as she had so many times before. All he had though was his six inch sawed-off twelve gauge and a final shell that wouldn’t do shit against the demons.

Of course, he hadn’t saved that last cartridge for the demons, had he?

Frank Drake crawled forward, digging for purchase as he in turn dug into the folds of his tattered long coat. He rocked to the side, kicking out in agony to free his legs and heard something not human squeal. His legs were afire but free, and he rolled, snapping the shotgun from its holster on his hip and bringing the gun to bear. He jammed the twin barrels up under his chin, gritting his teeth and wincing with the effort it took to cock back the hammer. He was so tired…

“Hope you fucking bastards get splinters!” he cursed, his finger tightening on the trigger—

Frank Drake froze. He blinked, not quite believing, wondering what was going on. There in the swirling gloom not a foot away was the creature that must have attacked him. It was hunkering there in the darkness, a snake-like thing with a long, fat trunk of a body and spindly little arms that ended in taloned claws. It had big bat-wing ears and scales and some vile spittle dripped from its gaping maw spattering the ground with a hiss. Its dark eyes burned with a hatred, a hunger for Frank Drake but oddly it stood its ground- slithered rather- and came no closer. The rest of its pack were coming up behind, but they all too stopped short of their prey, spitting and howling and trying to stare frank to death rather than attacking. Drake did not understand, but too he did not care. He scrabbled quickly back crab-like, trying to put even more distance between them.

Drake thumped up hard against something behind him and set his head to ringing. He glanced back, still trying to keep the demons in his peripheral sight and gasped at what he saw. He had scrambled back into a fen empty of life- true life! Pools of black water roiled, churned from below, a mire of otherwise stagnant, foul swamp. Twisted stone ruins dotted the land, broken and eroded with time. Stark skeletons lay scattered about trapped and eternally writhing where they fell amidst the ruins. Some dark lichen pulsed as though alive and glowed eerily, the only real illumination he had seen so far in the dark realm, but even that seemed more shadow than light. Centered in the fen was a structure resembling a mausoleum. It was like a crypt from earth, or an altar of sorts, tall and ancient and cut from obsidian. Decaying corpses burned in a black flame upon a ledge overhead, burned but did not disintegrate! Too there was a door leading into the blackest black that Drake had seen yet. He did not care—

Frank Drake holstered his gun and scrambled on all fours towards the altar house, crawling through the dirt until he managed to climb to his feet to run. He could hear the frustrated howling of the demons watching impotently from behind some unseen barrier, some mystical line that they could not cross. Drake laughed and flipped them the finger before plunging into the darkened doorway.

Frank Drake collapsed inside the closed confines of the ancient crypt. He dropped to his knees and cried tears of joy to see the Black Mirror propped against the far stone wall. It was beautiful: black glass that seemed to want to melt away but held fast by the sparkling golden frame. There were odd shapes in the gild, designs and etchings that he did not recognize, nor did he care. He was saved. He was going home…

Drake stood, his legs burning from the scratches that the demon had given him outside. He took a step and winced, blood flowing from a gash in his leg that had to be a bite. He did not care and gritted his teeth against the pain, staggering forward.

The black glass swirled and melted, washing across the pane as he stared. It was active then, and he was glad. He would never have remembered the incantation needed to power up the bloody thing. As it was however, without the incantation he would be leaping blindly, on faith, hoping that wherever he ended up would be better than this. It certainly could not be worse.

Drake knew that the mirror was a portal not only through space but time as well. The proper incantation, invocation would open a path between the Black Mirror before him and another- if another existed where he wanted to go. Of course, the last time he had stepped through the looking glass, Rachel had spoken the spell. Rachel had always been the smart one, god he missed her.

He could end up in Transylvania in the 1900’s. He could end up in the 1600’s, where Ilsa Strangway had said the first mirror had been crafted. If luck was with him he would arrive in Strangway’s mansion in the proper year, just a few minutes after he had left the mortal plane. Right! That would happen…

Frank Drake took a deep breath and thought happy thoughts. He thought of Rachel and Marlene, of Misty and Colleen. He thought of Manhattan, his current home and the offices of Nightwing Restorations. There was no Black Mirror there he knew, but maybe, just maybe…

Drake stepped into the dark swirling mists, through the looking glass…

IF IT’S THURSDAY, IT MUST BE CLEVELAND!

By Curtis Fernlund

Frank Drake stepped from the dark swirling mists, from the looking glass and promptly dropped to his knees and started retching. His head was spinning from the wild ride he had just taken between dimensions. His senses were reeling and his stomach was churning to the point where he just could not hold it in anymore. Frank Drake blew chunks then fell face first into the mess that he had made.

He moaned, trying to stay conscious. Drake knew that he was in trouble, having just stepped through the Black Mirror from the Dark Dimension. He was free of that foul, fetid place, obviously, but he had no idea where he was, or even when.

As his sight slowed to a mild spin he could see that he was in a house. It was a large room with high vaulted ceilings and ornate woodwork along the upper moldings. The walls were pale and coated with peeling paint, and he could see that the pieces of furniture littered about were all covered in sheets against the thick coating of dust blanketing the room. It was dark, the slightest reddish glow seeping through the wooden slats nailed across the shattered windows. The house, wherever it was, was deserted and it was sundown. The only thing missing was a squeal of a rusty door hinge or the creak of a weakened floorboard, the whine of a coffin’s lid being raised…

CREEEEK…

“Aw, fuck…” Frank Drake heaved, pushing himself up out of the steaming puddle of vomit and vile, trying to get to his feet as he saw the far door slowly, albeit noisily open. “I used to be wrong all the time…” he mumbled, straining to rise and then to stay standing as the world whipped sideways again. He stumbled forward, bracing himself on the back of a hardback chair, trying to focus on the doorway.

There seemed to be no one there of course. The door slowly swung open revealing an outer hall beyond lit by a flickering candle somewhere beyond his line of sight. There was a shadowy portrait on the wall, an old and tired man that seemed to stare into Frank’s very soul with his unblinking eyes. Drake shook his head to clear away the nasty thoughts—

“Freeze, bub!”

Drake’s head snapped up at the sound of the gruff voice. He scanned the doorway again but saw no one, nothing. Someone had spoken though, someone with a tinny, gritty voice like a midget with the grip. Frank pushed away from the chair, peering into the darkness—

“Hai-yah!”

Something flat and rubbery slapped across his face and sent him sprawling to the floor in a heap. He skidded through his vomit, cursing as he slammed up against the stonework of a decaying hearth, setting his head to ringing again on impact. He shook his head again, trying to clear it and sit up when something soft and feathery slammed into his jaw, knocking his head back yet again. He grunted, cracking his skull and seeing stars as he tried to focus, tried to see who was attacking him—

Feathers?

A shadowy silhouette scurried past ducking behind the sheeted furniture. It was short, draped in a baggy coat and wide-brimmed hat it looked, and Drake thought that his first guess—a midget—must have been right. Who it was, and why it was attacking him he had no idea, but he was not about to get taken down by a midget. Drake leaned forward, trying to rise—

“Waugh!”

“Yahhh!”

The midget leapt up and over the chair, his long coat billowing like a cape as he swooped in for the kill. Frank gasped to see knives in each of the little man’s hands and instinctively raised his arms to block the assault. The midget landed square in the middle of Frank Drake’s stomach, and whatever remained therein spewed out in a last gasp of his air as the weight of the little man drove the wind from him. Drake slammed back to the floor with the midget atop him—

“Eeew, gross!”

Drake stared up into the face of the little man straddling his stomach. He was dressed in a long, black trench coat and matching fedora. He wore a white shirt and wide dark tie that was held down by a bandoleer notched with knives—wooden knives! He was wearing black leather gloves on his three-fingered hands and a short tight pair of pants, but underneath all of that he had on what had to be a Halloween costume. He had a downy coat of pale yellow feathers and a big orange bill where his mouth should have been. A mask—had to be.

Frank Drake blinked, not believing his eyes…

“Y-You’re a duck!”

“Yeah, well, you ain’t no walk in the roses yerself, Princess! What the hell did you eat for lunch?”

Drake stared wide-eyed and slack-jawed as the-the duck scrambled out of his lap and started flicking the more solid chunks of bile from his coat with his stubby wings—hands. Drake blinked—

“Close yer mouth, son. The flies’ll fly in.”

Frank Drake stared dumbfounded as the duck brushed himself off, then started to dig about in his pockets. He was short, not quite three feet tall with big brown eyes that watched Drake cautiously, expecting trouble as he searched for something. Suddenly in a flash the duck whipped out a tiny golden cross and held it before Drake, just inches from his nose. Drake gasped and started to move back, then realizing what it was, held his ground.

His mind raced, wondering just where the Black Mirror had dumped him. It looked like Earth, but looks were deceiving. Was he in some weird and twisted world where ducks ruled and people were just helpless cattle? Had he flown to the future, some post-apocalyptic world where ducks had evolved into the dominant species? Was he trapped in a world he had never made?

Drake shook his head to clear it and started taking long, deep breaths before he started hyperventilating. He was definitely watching too much AMC.

“That don’t bother ya?” The duck asked waving the little cross in Drake’s face a few times before secreting it away within the folds of his long coat again. The duck eyed him queerly then but stepped away, pulling the bit of a thick cigar from his jacket pocket and sparking it to life with a few deep puffs—

“You ain’t one a’ them then. What’cha doin’ here, kid?”

The mallard took a few long breaths on the stogie, finally holding and rolling his eyes before exhaling with a satisfied sigh. He stared at the butt for a second, almost seeming to smile then wedging it into the corner of his- bill. He slipped his two wooden knives that he had been wielding back into his bandoleer and gave Drake the evil eye—

“Well?”

Drake stared. His mouth twitched, just a bit at first, but then cracking into a huge grin. He started laughing then, long and loud guffaws until tears started streaming down his face. He pointed at the duck-

“You’re really a d-duck!” he snorted and grabbed at his ribs. It was just so ridiculous. After all that he had been through, all the death and misery he was about to be killed by a miniature version of Blade in a duck suit! It was too much!

The duck shook his head and sighed, staring at the crazy man rolling around in the dust and vomit on the floor. Another insane hairless ape, he wondered if maybe he had landed in a loony bin full of ‘em when the Nexus had tilted ‘n’ spit him out on this mudball Earth years ago. It seemed so. Still, he had to get the loon outta here so he could go find Bev before the Undead got up and started prancin’ about.

“Yo! Dude!” he kicked at the crazy man with the toe of his webbed-foot. “Up ‘n’ at ‘em, sunshine. This ain’t no place you wanna be right now. Inna bout five minutes this joint’s gonna be crawlin’ with Vampires an’ I ain’t got time or patience to be lookin’ after no crazy hairless ape. Now git yer ass up ‘n’ outta dodge before I-“

The hairless ape suddenly stopped laughing, cut it off just like that and sat straight up with a wild look in his eyes. Despite himself the duck found himself edging back and away, his hand drifting towards his wooden knives again. The loony ape wasn’t a vampire—the cross had proved that—but he could be a Ghoul!

“What’s yer problem, Sunshine,” the duck said pointing with the fiery tip of his stogie. “Jus’ stay put now.” Despite his warning however, the fool human leaned forward, started to rise—

“Vampires!” he shouted as he scrambled to his feet. The fowl backed away, folding the tails of his long coat back over his hip as he eyed the queer ape. He had seen better days obviously. His hair was as wild as his eyes, his clothes filthy and ripped and spattered with mud and vomit by the stench, if not worse. He had a huge gash on his leg crusting over with dried blood, a bite by the looks. What was he about, this crazy man? What was he doing here?

“You said vampires,” the ape continued suddenly spinning about and scanning the darkness fervently. “You have a cross, wooden knives! You’re hunting vampires!”

The man’s head shot up and in two quick strides he was over in the shadows scooping something up. When he turned he held a sawed-off shotgun in his hand, and the duck instantly produced a knife, waving it about in defense.

“Right there, Sweetheart! Don’t take another step,” the duck ordered standing his ground. He knew that in a draw the scatter gun would win, but the ape would have a knife in his chest for his efforts. Oddly the big man blinked as though realizing just then that he had the shotty in his hand. He smirked and popped the barrel with his thumb, lowering the useless weapon to his side. The drake saw only one shell in the chamber.

“Sorry,” the ape said in a soothing voice, trying to smile. He gently brushed at the front of his own long coat and sneered realizing how pointless it was. He ran a filthy hand through his equally filthy hair, smiling again. “Old habits die hard, I guess. It’s just—well, when you said vampires—I saw the knives and cross…”

The hairless ape took a tentative step forward, extending his hand—

“Drake…”

“Yeah?” the duck slipped his knife back into the bandoleer and slid the cigar back into his bill eyeing the man’s grimy hand. The man blinked again, a smirk twisting the corner of his mouth as he tried to suppress a giggle.

“No… I’m Drake—”

“You tryin’ ta be funny, boy?” the mallard snarled, eyeing the human queerly. Maybe he was insane after all. It was hard to tell with humans sometimes.

“No, no… That’s my name. I’m Frank Drake!”

“Yer kiddin’…”

The human—Drake—shook his head and raised his hand as though to swear. “God’s honest,” he said, extending his hand again. He was still trying to suppress a fit of the chuckles as the duck eased his wing out slowly for the obligatory greeting. Better to play along he figured, at least for awhile—

“Name’s Howard, Drake. Howard T. Duck!”

The human had a firm grip, and Howard saw that the madness had left his eyes for the moment. Still, he had to get the crazy man out of the mansion before he went round the bend again. This was no place for a schizo, loony human.

“Pleased ta meet’cha, Pal, but now I’d suggest ya high-tail it outta here. In about five minutes this joints gonna be crawlin’ with freaks make yer hair stand on end. Ain’t no place fer a pretty boy like you, no matter yer tailor.” Howard glanced at the boarded up windows, and past the thick draperies he could see the ruddy glow of the setting sun. Not much time left. He had to lose the loony and go find Bev.

“Vampires,” the human said finally letting the giggles out. “I know. Believe me I can see the signs. And I’ve seen more than my fair share of freaks too…”

Howard the Duck glanced up at the man, and even in the fading light he could see the human biting back his words, trying to take his foot from his mouth, blushing. Howard sighed and turned towards the door. Screw it! Pretty boy was on his own-

“Wait!” the human said and Howard could hear the big man clomping behind.

“Take a walk, chum,” Howard said dismissively, waving the human away. “I got no time fer you an’ yer jokes. My girl’s holed up in this dump someplace, an’ I gotta find her before she becomes the Blue Plate Special.”

“But I can help!” the man said easily catching up to the duck’s slower waddle. Howard felt the big hand on his shoulder, easily spinning him about with greater strength, but what the duck lacked in mass he more than made up for in skill. Howard grabbed the man’s thumb and twisted, forcing his hand cocked back in an almost impossible angle. Howard ignored the bigger man’s squeal of pain as he applied the slightest pressure and drove him to his knees. Howard leaned in close, blowing smoke in the human’s face—

“One time, asshole,” he snarled. “Touch me like that again and I twist it off. Now get the hell outta here!”

Howard shoved the man back, turning on his heel as the human hit the floor in a heap, whimpering. He had just made it through the doorway when he heard the shotgun snap back into locked position. He slowly eased his hand towards his knives—

“Don’t try it, Duck,” the human warned a steely grit to his voice. Howard could hear the sudden change and knew the crazy man was gone.

“This is wrong,” the man said and Howard could hear him trying to stand, probably trying to keep the gun leveled at his back. “You’re hunting vampires. That’s why I was laughing. Not because I thought you were crazy, but at the irony. Fate threw me here for a reason I guess…”

Howard heard the hammers on the gun uncock and chanced a glance back over his shoulder. The human was standing there with the shotty cradled in one arm again brushing the dried mud and offal from his clothes.

“We got off on the wrong foot, Howard? Sorry…

“My name’s Frank Drake. I hunt vampires!”

They made their way through the mansion quickly, staying to the shadows and trying not to make too much noise. Throughout Howard gritted his teeth, grimacing as Drake rambled on in hushed whispers telling his tales. The man spun a good yarn Howard had to admit, but some of the things he said he had done seemed too far-fetched even for an insane hairless ape.

First the man would have to be better than seventy years old to have been fighting the Undead for as long as he claimed. Couple with that all the weirdness he had supposedly seen—vampires and werewolves, walking skeletons and other assorted corpses, trips through other dimensions…

It was ridiculous!

Craziest of all was Drake’s conviction that throughout the biggest pain in his ass had been Dracula himself. The Dracula from the storybook no less, alive and kicking—in a manner of speaking. Drake did have one hell of a vivid imagination.

Still, Howard was from another dimension; Duck World, where fowl had evolved into the dominant species unlike Earth where the Hairless Apes ruled—and ate birds with a relish. Howard shivered at the thought, his worst nightmare of being trapped on this over-sized insane asylum. Too, he had encountered some oddness in his time on Earth even beyond your run of the mill crazy hairless apes:

Doctor Bong…

Le Bevair…

Hell Cow…

That was the one thing that gave Drake’s story credibility. At least a little bit, that Howard had run into vampires before. He remembered how the humans had looked at him after he had slain the vampiric bovine and figured he could afford to give drake the benefit of the doubt with his little fantasies.

Besides, Drake would make good fodder…

Frank Drake eased behind the duck slowly following as they crept through the mansion’s dark corridors. He could smell the reek of death and decay growing stronger with every step. It was almost as though he had been tracking the Undead for so long that he could sniff them out.

He felt good too, energized and high on adrenaline. His leg had stopped throbbing and remarkably it had already began crusting over with a scab. Apparently his trip through the Dark Dimension, the Black Mirror had been more beneficial than he could have hoped. Granted, he was not in Manhattan, but despite the appearance of his feathered friend he was on Earth; Cleveland to be precise.

Frank listened as the duck rattled off his own tale in gruff whispers as they made their way deeper into the house, searching room for room. He came from someplace called Duck World and had been transported here several years ago when something called the Nexus of All Realities had tilted throwing him up in Florida. After some wild adventures he had eventually ended up here in Cleveland, shacking up with a woman that had taken him under her wing so to speak. It was that woman—Beverly—that he was trying now to find and probably rescue.

The woman apparently was a dancer down in a strip club on Cleveland’s seedier side. Howard drove a cab, impossible as it sounded, and as always was going to pick her up after both of their shifts had ended just the night before. He had been a bit late however and arrived just in time to see the woman being accosted by an oddly dressed group of… men and women. Howard had bore down on the scene, plowing into the fringe of the group with his taxi and taking out two of the small mob. Apparently unfazed, the rest of the group had turned on him while the largest of their number held the woman prisoner, shouting orders.

Howard claimed to be a master of some odd form of martial arts, and who was Frank Drake to doubt him with the company he had been keeping lately. Regardless, the duck had been holding his own when the big one holding the woman had suddenly risen into the air, changing his shape as the woman screamed and struggled in his grip. Howard had watched in awe as the man morphed into a bat- a huge bat- and flown away into the false dawn.

When he had come to his senses he found that the bat-man’s followers had run, those that could at any rate. Howard had found one however, one of the original pair that he had run down that was willing to talk, with a bit of persuasion. The man claimed to be a follower of the Great Scribe and they had taken the woman to sate his master’s lust and appetite, and to spark his creativity once more. More importantly the man had told Howard where they had taken the woman.

The old abandoned house on the hill…

It was like a bad script from a cheesy Seventies horror flick complete with Vampires, cults and a spooky old house. Frank Drake was used to it though.

Story of his life…

They heard the screams as soon as the duck eased the cellar door open. The hinges were rusty and squealed with the slightest movement, enough to alert whatever waited below in the darkness that they were coming. They were assaulted by a foul smell wafting up from the basement, a sickening odor that seemed to taste of rats and mold making the darkness seem almost thick and palpable. The woman’s scream cut through it like a sharp knife.

Howard the Duck knew that scream all too well. He had heard it often enough over the last few years and every time he hoped that he would never have to hear it again. It was high-pitched and grating, making every nerve in his body jangle. It also made his heart skip a beat and rise up in his throat-

“Bev…”

Ignoring Drake’s warning of caution Howard charged forward into the darkened cellar. Too late he sensed the rickety old stairs as they creaked and moaned under his slight weight. There was a moment’s panic as he ran right out into open space, the momentum of his headlong charge sending him arching out into the darkness, sailing, falling.

Historians on Duck World had always claimed that ages ago ducks had been able to fly. It was ridiculous of course. If ducks were meant to fly they would have wings. At that point however Howard did not care.

He almost seemed to glide as a spark of light caught his eye and attention, a flickering coming from beyond the near wall that supported the stairs. He saw shadows moving beyond, the glow growing brighter as he twisted, reaching for his knives. He landed softly, tucking into a roll that brought him upright and kneeling, knives in hand before a scene that he would remember until his dying gasp.

The basement was big and dark with a hard-packed dirt floor and stone walls of gray brick stained with water and mold. There was garbage and debris, moldy food and chicken bones strewn across the floor along the wall’s base and even at a glance Howard could see that the rats had had a field day. His eyes quickly focused on what was happening however, narrowing at the three cultists that had turned to face him at his entrance. They were wearing thick baggy robes that cults seemed to favor, their deep hoods pulled up over head to hide their faces though Howard could tell that they were two women and a man by their shapes.

Beyond them Howard saw two flickering candles almost melted to the nub sitting on crates off to the side walls. They were situated flanking a long, wooden box that just had to be a coffin, though it too was little more than a packing crate by the look of it. It had seen better days, and a few stops by the labels plastered on the sides but apparently it served its purpose. Even that however could not hold Howard’s attention for long as he directed his gaze to the far wall.

Beverly Switzler was there, alive and unharmed more or less. She was tied, her wrists far overhead wrapped in rope that had been thrown over a high jutting pipe running through the floorboards and support beams. She was stretched to tiptoe and stripped down to her unmentionables; her huge breasts barely held in check by her skimpy, lacy bra, her modesty covered by a thin, silky swath of panty. Her mouth had been gagged, cleaved with an old scarf but she still managed to scream her lungs out somehow, her eyes wide and pleading as her terrified gaze met his. She started struggling and dancing about almost distractingly, forcing Howard to turn his attention back on her captors-

Howard stood slowly, gnawing on the bit of his cigar as he eyed the three. He could hear Drake behind him, easing down the stairs as quietly as he could, none too effectively. As fodder he was a bust, but he might make a good distraction-

“Awright chumps,” Howard snarled hopefully loud enough to hide Drake’s clomping on the stairs. “Ya got one chance, one second ta get her down. I suggest ya do it…”

He watched as the three stared at him, their faces hidden within the shadows of their hoods. Still he could read their collective body language, their hesitation and confusion as they stared at him. He knew what was coming-

“Y-you’re a du-ack!”

Howard let the first blade fly even before the man finished the sentence. The tiny wooden blade disappeared into the man’s cowl followed closely by a sickening wet thunk cutting off the cultist’s stuttering exclamation. The women squeaked as Howard darted to the side letting another knife fly even before the man crumpled all the way to the dirty floor. The second blade caught one of the women in the side making her cry out though the thick woolen robes she wore took the brunt of the cut. He was drawing another knife as the other woman turned to run to the coffin.

Beverly started screaming with a renewed zealousness as a shadow flew overhead. Howard rolled into a crouch waving his knife above him, following the fleeting image as Frank Drake slammed into the woman, tackling her to the ground. They rolled around in the dirt, both kicking and clawing. The woman’s hood flew off and Howard saw that she was young, little more than a girl by the look. Apparently it startled Drake as well as he stared for a heartbeat, just long enough for the girl to ram her fist into the man’s nose. Howard heard the sickening crunch of bone as blood spurted and Drake toppled off the girl.

“Fool!” she shouted, kicking her legs to get out from under Drake’s legs. “None will stop the dramatic comeback of the Great Scribe! The master Harold shall rise up, returning to the greatness he once—Gack!“

Howard had heard enough, and all before in one form or another. He chucked his blade into the girl’s throat cutting off her ramblings before she got out of control. She fell back clawing at the dirt with one hand while clutching the knife with the other. Once she yanked it free the blood really started to pump and flow. Howard was up and running even before she fell back gurgling her last breath.

Charging forward, Howard leaped high over the packing crate disguised as a coffin. He reached out, his hands groping for the rusty piping overhead hoping that it would support his weight along with Bev’s. He grabbed hold, swinging there for a moment as he looked down at the Hairless Ape that had become so dear to him over the last few months. He could see the tears in her big cow eyes as she tried to smile around the gag. He smiled back, shifting his cigar out of her face as he dangled and withdrew another knife-

“Hang in there, Toots. I’ll have ya down inna minute.”

Bev mumbled something into her gag, then looked away and Howard saw her eyes grow huge. She started screaming again and thrashing about and Howard found it hard just to hang on as she slammed against him. Cursing as he dropped the blade he craned his neck to see what had her so upset now. He should have seen it coming of course…

The lid on the long crate was sliding to the side, tilting as gangly, bony fingers slid from the confines. With a scratchy crash the lid tipped and fell away and a moment later something sat up. The thing was big, all but naked with chalky gray skin looking old and decayed. There were scabs and scars all over the decrepit skin, the limbs long and gnarled as it stretched and popped. Its head was topped with a kinky mass of brown hair and Howard could see the ugly misshapen face as it looked about, blinking squinty eyes in the candle light. It was the leader of the cult from the night before; the bat-man, the Great Scribe—

“Harold?”

Frank Drake wiped at his nose as he stood feeling the warmth of fresh blood. Just the thing in a vampire’s nest he thought as he dabbed at the wound. It hurt but he was fairly certain that it was not broken. He sniffed, glancing at the girl at his feet as she died, the duck’s blade having pierced the artery in her neck. There was an irony there too he supposed—

Frank’s head snapped up at the renewed sound of the woman’s screaming. He saw her there still tied—almost seductively—to the overhead pipe. Howard was dangling from the pipe as well, just barely, the both of them staring at the creature just rising from his coffin.

It was an ugly one to be sure, Nosferatu by the look of him with his gangly arms and decaying skin. His nose was huge, his ears flapping aside the curly mop of dirty brown hair. The way he was squinting and looking about in confusion Frank figured he was not quite out of torpor yet, still an easy kill. All the better. Frank raised his shot gun, glad he had saved the last shell of blessed, white thorn wood after all. He aimed, waiting for the creature to turn to get a clear shot at his chest. An easy kill.

The vampire turned, trying to rise from the crate and Frank afforded himself a smile. It quickly faltered however as recognition hit him like a slap in the face—

“Harold?”

Frank Drake was stunned speechless, watching as the creature peered into the dim light, blinking in an all too familiar way. The misshapen, ugly face was distorted and pale, squinting and sniffing but still Frank recognized it even after all these months-

Harold H. Harold had been one of them once, one of Harker’s little band of Vampire Hunters. He had been an author, a writer that had run afoul of Dracula one night and had decided to dig into the dirty underworld to help with his writing. They had shared some adventures, but at one point around the time that Quincy Harker had finally slain Dracula—and himself—Harold had disappeared.

He had turned up in Hollywood eventually, now a screen writer and living in the fast lane complete with a make-over to hide his once geeky nature. Apparently he had sold one of his stories after his adventures and had rocketed to stardom out in California. But like a shooting star he had quickly vanished again, and now Drake knew the reason why.

He had never made the connection—never actually thought about it truthfully, but Harold’s most recent vanishing act coincided with Doctor Strange’s using the Dark Hold to wipe the vampire legions from the face of the Earth. Harold had been turned then, made a vampire, which actually explained a lot; his meteoric rise to fame and his sudden good looks and sex appeal. But what had happened to him after that? How was he back and why did he look like a monster?

Frank Drake screamed as pain shot through his leg. Staggering he fell, his eyes going wide to see one of the duck’s tiny wooden blades jutting from his thigh. The first cultist was there before him on her hands and knees laughing at him, a bloody stain on the side of her robe—

“Thus fall all who would oppose the Great Harold! Surrender to the Scribe’s wisdom, man! Join him! Join the Club—”

Drake blinked as a blade appeared in the girl’s forehead. Her eyes rolled up, crossing as though she were trying to focus on the strange thing jutting from her skull, then she simply toppled over, dead.

“Waugh!”

Frank spun about bringing his gun to bear to see the duck scrabbling over Harold’s back. Howard had leaped onto the vampire, yet another knife in hand and with one arm about Harold’s throat was slamming the wood into Harold’s flesh over and over. Frank could see that the duck’s reach was too short however, and the knife kept missing the heart.

Howard in tow and ignoring the woman’s hysterical screaming Frank watched Harold stand and calmly step from the coffin. What he had lost in looks he had gained in mass, and even hunched as Harold did Frank could see he was well over six feet tall. He staggered a bit as he tried to walk forward, ignoring both the duck on his back and the sawed-off aimed at his chest. Harold sniffed—

“Frank Drake,” he said cocking his head oddly as he squinted. “This is a surprise.”

“Shoot him now! Shoot him now!” Howard shouted still slamming his blade into Harold’s shoulder. The vampire winced occasionally with some of the blows but finally simply shrugged and sent the duck flying. Howard slammed into the packing crate, in turn knocking the candles and all into a heap of shattered wood on the dirt floor. Harold ignored the carnage even as the old dry wood caught fire.

“It’s really not so bad, Frank, being undead.” Harold sniffed again, rolling his shoulders and popping his neck as he stumbled forward. “There’s this gnawing hunger at first, but you get used to it. The pluses far outnumber the minuses.” Frank stared, watching as his one time ally came closer. His eyes were sparkling now, and Frank could see the right of what he was saying. How better to beat a vampire than by becoming one himself. It made perfect sense.

“Power, Frank,” Harold cooed, his long bony fingers reaching out to caress Frank Drake’s throat. “Throw that silly gun away and I’ll show you real power…”

Frank felt his grip on the shot gun loosen. He could toss it aside, and if Harold was wrong- as he usually was—he could always pick it up again…

“That’s it, buddy…” Harold grinned, his fangs glinting as the flames sparked and crackled behind him. “Toss it—Aieee!”

Frank Drake blinked as Harold H. Harold screamed. He shook his head as his eyes struggled to focus, the Vampire’s mesmerizing spell suddenly broken. He stared to see Harold towering over him, a long jagged board jutting from his shoulder. The vampire spun and Frank saw Howard hanging on to the other end of the board, finally falling away at the creature’s quick, jerky movements.

Howard landed in a crouch, the stubby bit of cigar still locked in his beak, puffing away. The duck glanced at Drake as the vampire snarled in pain and anger, clawing at the wood that had just missed his heart by inches.

“Ya missed yer shot, Pal,” Howard said, turning his attention back to the creature. “Luckily though, there’s more than one way ta kill a vampire!”

Both human and fowl flinched to hear the sound of snapping wood. Harold screamed his rage as he tossed the front half of the broken board away. There was no blood of course- he had yet to feed- but a jagged scar remained showing the dull pink of his insides. His eyes blazed red as he tried to focus, squinting, his head turning between his two assailants. He chuckled—

“A Drake…” he sneered staring at Frank, then turning towards Howard, “and a drake. Must be Duck Season!”

And for once in his life Frank Drake got the joke and did not miss his cue. He raised his gun and fired!

There was an explosion as a flurry of white thorn wood blessed and soaked in Holy Water spewed from the barrel of the shot gun. The force of the special shot struck the creature that had been Harold H. Harold squarely in the chest, the impact throwing him back the length of the cellar and remarkably into the middle of the blazing fire. Harold screamed his agony, hissing and writhing about as the flames raged higher, engulfing him quickly. His dry, decayed skin melted away as he squirmed, calling out for Frank to help him—save him.

Frank Drake ignored his old ally’s screams, watching until the body crumbled and burned away finally. Behind the blaze the woman had finally stopped her own screaming as well as she hung limply from the end of her tethers fainted away. She would be fine, eventually, probably having slept through the worst of it.

Frank felt a nudge at his side, saw the duck standing beside him. A fresh cigar hung from the corner of his bill and he held another out for the man. Frank took it, nodding his thanks. Howard struck a match, lighting the pair and shrugged, flicking the spent match into the fire. Frank saw the duck smile…

“Wabbit Season…”

Epilogue

Appropriately it was pouring rain the next night as the three stood hunkering in the shelter of the overhang of the Gray Hound Bus Terminal. It was cold out, cold and clammy but there was some comfort in the glare of the florescent lights blazing overhead. There was a thick smell of burning diesel fuel in the air but oddly it smelled of life and Frank Drake did not care.

After Harold’s demise they had put out the fire, saved the girl and gotten out of the house. Beverly had been fine more or less; her wrists a bit sore after dangling in the basement for most of the previous day. When they were sure that it was all over then, they had gone back to her apartment in downtown Cleveland where they had cleaned up, eaten and slept for a bit before comparing notes.

Frank had explained the whole sordid tale of vampires on Earth; their rise and fall and eventual rise again thanks to the efforts of Marie LeVeau- the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. He figured that Harold had been called back by that cult—though why he had not a clue. It had been Beverly that suggested the probable truth—

Groupies…

Harold had developed a following as a screen writer and author, using his vampiric powers to sway the masses. He had been on a par with King or Koontz for a time, at least until he disappeared with the rest of the world’s Undead. Apparently, like a cancelled television show his fans had brought him back. Hopefully this time he would stay dead.

There was a hiss of air and a horn blared signaling that the Express Bus to New York was ready to leave. Frank Drake shrugged his oblong bag over his shoulder, its only contents his gun and a change of underwear. Between the three of them they had scrounged enough money to get him a fresh pair of jeans and a shirt and managed to wash what was left of his long coat. Now showered and shaved, his wounds bandaged—though strangely almost healed—he held a one-way ticket in hand hoping to never see Cleveland again.

He turned to the pair, the beautiful red-head as tall as he was and the odd little duck in the rumpled blue suit and hat that was more of a man than most men he had met. He stepped aside to let the few other passengers board the bus, not quite sure of what to say. Finally however the woman stepped forward and hugged him, giving him a quick peck on the cheek—

“Thank you,” she said simply, stepping back as Frank blushed, nodding. Howard extended his hand then-

“It’s been fun, Drake, but listen,” Howard said as he shook the taller man’s hand. “If ya ever find yerself passin’ this way again, well, just keep on passin’, alright? Once is enough.” The duck grinned and Frank couldn’t help but chuckle, nodding in agreement—

“Not a problem, Howard. Take care.”

There seemed nothing else to say so Drake turned and boarded the bus, finding a quiet seat far in the back. He settled in, then glanced out the window to see Howard and Beverly pulling up alongside the bus in the duck’s checkered cab. Howard was leaning out the window motioning for Frank to open his own. Despite the chill and the protests of the other passengers he did—

“Hey Pretty Boy,” Howard yelled, gunning the sputtering engine of his hack. “You watch yer tail feathers, all right?”

Frank smiled, shouting back as the bus roared to life, starting the long turn to pull away into the street, “And you watch your ass, Shorty! Everyone knows it’s really Duck Season!”

Frank Drake laughed as he settled back into his seat and slid the window shut. After all the shit over the last day and night, all the bizarre oddities and ironic coincidences there was one more to cap it all off. One final image to end his adventure in Cleveland, of the yellow checkered cab roaring off into the rain swept streets…

Howard the Duck flipping him the bird…