Tomb of Dracula

Note: This story takes place somewhere not too long ago in Marvel: Omega’s past, but well before the events current in Thing and the Avengers, among other Titles. Also, most of the speech within is translated from Russian.

Siberia…

He ran.

He could feel the cold, a strange sensation it had been so long. Not since his ‘son’ had once made him human, trying to teach him humility, to punish him. It had not worked then. It would not work now. He had been cold before, cold and hungry and he had endured.

He would always endure.

So he ran across the barren, frigid plains, his feet pounding over the hard-packed earth, frozen already in the grip of encroaching winter. His legs were lead, dragging him down as he leaped over the scrub and bracken, staggering through the shrub and withered trees, the forest rotting and as dead as the rest of the land. There was a thin sheet of frozen snow covering the land, unblemished but for the tracks of the smaller animals that had adapted to the icy desert. Where were they now?

His breath came in ragged gasps; trails of vapor spiraling behind. He was so weak, so hungry that the old ways were coming forth, the old frailties. Too feed he could replenish, push back the weakness, but there was nothing here in the wastes. Nothing but him, and the cold, and the wolves…

He could hear them yapping, ever closer on his heels, mangy, half-starved curs that they were. Why they chased him he did not know. His flesh was long dead and what little blood remained was thick and cold, ice in his veins. They must smell him- he reeked of death, too weak even to control that. Still, there was movement in his limbs. No doubt they could hear his ragged, raspy breath, mistaking that for life. They were carrion-eaters he supposed, driven to scavenge whatever they might on the Steppes. He could not fault them for trying to survive. It was all he could do himself.

So he ran on, stumbling across the barren, broken land, sidestepping the scrub that dotted the frozen dirt, the dark clouds roiling along overhead, uncaring.

He cursed as his body failed. Flying forward, his feet lost beneath he sprawled to the hard soil, ancient flesh ripping on impact. He even felt the pain. He saw the blood welling, stared at the dark scrapes along his palms, his skin growing paler as his life force seeped away. He cursed his need, his fragile, failing body. Most he cursed the damned Celestial.

It was his own fault really- he supposed- for trusting the Shinpan. They had had a pact however, each aiding the other in a quest for immortality and power. The Chinaman had given soldiers over to the war, and he had in turn turned them to the Celestial’s desire, giving the lowly Si-Fan power beyond imagining. But when his own plans and schemes, his dreams of being reunited with his beloved Maria had shattered he had foolishly run to the Shinpan for sanctuary. That had been his final mistake.

The Chinaman was not known as the Lord of Strange Deaths for his understanding nature. The Celestial had spent centuries honing his craft, creating new and devilish ways that a man might die. Still, he had been fair, and when his own plans had failed, the Yadzi Gem lost to him the Devil Doctor had at least given him a chance, a last grace of will.

The Shinpan had had the black one- Midnight- transport him to the wastes, there to live or die of his own accord. The mute had been turned of course, and had stolen the very Cloak of Shadows that he had stolen from the mutant, Cloak. The black was devoted to his master however, and he was too weak to sway the Master of Dark Death from his task. Midnight had dumped him from the shadowy folds of his rippling cloak, saying nothing as he scrabbled and clawed for purchase on the frozen ground. He had left him there without a word.

Then he had heard the wolves…

And now he ran…

He scrambled to his feet once again, but he knew that it was too late. They were upon him. He could hear their pants and snarls, their claws scrabbling over the ice and rock. He could almost feel their breath on the back of his throat. He turned-

There were seven all told; a great silver beast directing the pack, letting two of the younger males take the fore. Behind were the bitches, bringing up the rear, ready to attack or defend their lord. The silver snarled as he backed away, gathering strength, drawing breath, the studs yowling in anticipation, ready for the slaughter. They would feast well this night, or so they thought. He would not show fear to such as these.

“Back!” he shouted, his voice barely cracking in the crisp air. He gathered his will, his essence as he stood tall, his ragged, tattered cloak whipping in the sudden gust of wind and snow. He stared them down.

“Back I say, mongrels!” he shouted, his voice rising, booming now. “Your Master commands!

“Dracula commands!”

The bitches whimpered, curling back with their tails tucked. The silver too hesitated, his huge golden eyes sparkling with confusion. He seemed uncertain. The studs however were too young and stupid, too arrogant. They snarled and snapped, sensing easy prey in a tired old man. They inched forward.

Once he would have turned them with but a thought. Once he commanded their like, their ilk; the wolves and rats, the vermin that made man’s skin crawl and brought forth their darkest fears. Once he would have simply turned to mist and drifted away. Once he would have assumed the form of a bat and flown to safety. Or a wolf, and he would have ripped them to shreds in kind. Once, but he was too weak. Still, he would not die by fang and claw by his own this night.

“Come then, curs,” he snarled, hunkering down, his hands twisted into claws of his own. He felt the chill, the snow clinging to his cold, dead flesh. Dracula smiled…

“Come and take me! If you can…”

WOLVES OF THE STEPPES!

By Curtis Fernlund

The studs circled, prancing lightly through the new fallen snow as they came about from opposite sides. The Lord of the Vampires watched cautiously, waiting, gathering his strength. Let them make the first move. Let them attack.

He glanced at the silver, a huge, magnificent beast, watching him with narrowed eyes, pacing quickly in a tight figure eight, guarding the women while his juniors tended the target. It was old, but strong apparently still to command his pack, the bloodthirsty curs and a stable of bitches. There would be cubs near as well, they would not stray too far in full force. The females would have returned if they had gotten too far from the dens. The males however, in this cold and barren land would have followed for miles, wearing out the prey until it fell, then falling on it in force. Had they expected the prey to turn however- to fight back?

It did not matter.

More for the one that brought down the prey. Right of the spoils. Dracula understood that, applauded it even, but they would not find him an easy kill. No not at all…

The lead cur snarled, crouching down, hackles rising ready to pounce. Dracula shifted his weight, ready to defend as wet fur and flesh slammed into his side. He fell to the cold, hard earth, the other stud upon him, a feint. He felt claws slashing, ripping at his clothes and flesh. He could feel hot breath gushing, washing over him, spittle and saliva spattering his face as the beast’s jaws snapped at his throat, ever closer.

He reached up. Long, bony fingers slipping into the creature’s snapping maw, grabbing at the lower jaw. He found purchase, the beast whining as he pressed, holding the biting, slavering muzzle at bay as he reached out, ignoring the pain. He pressed the heel of his palm into the cur’s snout, forcing the upper jaw back as he held the lower fast. The wolf was strong, desperate, trying to fight free as he drove the jaws wide, screaming with the effort.

He was so weak.

He heard bone snapping, heard the wolf’s death cry as blood speckled his dead flesh, the creature’s bowels emptying in shock and agony. Dracula shoved the dead mongrel aside, his long tongue lapping at the blood on his face as the other was upon him.

He felt long, sharp fangs rip into the flesh of his throat, the creature’s snarls drowning his own screams of sharp, sudden pain. The cold swept over him as he dug his hands into the beast’s mane, the thick, wet fur loose on the flesh, full against the winter’s cold. Dracula snarled his own rage as the creature’s teeth dug into his flesh, his claws ripping into his sides. He could feel his own life’s blood oozing forth as he closed his hands on the cur’s throat, starting to squeeze.

He felt the beast’s hot breath on his face, heard the creature’s labored gasps for breath as he held on, squeezing, choking. The wolf started to whimper, struggling now to get away, to be free.

Dracula laughed, his teeth bared as he jerked forward, his mouth pressing through the beast’s fur and flesh. Blood gushed forth, washing his face, drenching him as he held fast, feeding, suckling.

Thunder boomed, a dull echo rolling over the icy plains and Dracula felt the wolf lurch. He heard the plaintive cries of the bitches, saw their shadowy forms as they darted away at the noise, disappearing into the snow-clogged night. The silver was there though, watching, waiting…

Their eyes locked, two Lords, two warriors struggling to survive. The wolf in his hands went limp, collapsing upon him as thunder slammed the night again, the weight pressing him down.

And again, the silver staggering at the noise. Dracula saw the red bead in the fur, steam rising as the old lord’s tongue lolled, his amber eyes glazing in confusion.

Pain…

The silver lumbered forward and Dracula cast the cur on him aside. It hit the hard, cold dirt without pride or glory, a pile of damp fur and chilling flesh, unmoving. Still.

The silver snarled, howled, lunging. Dracula raised his arms to fend off the attack as thunder boomed again.

The creature slammed into him, dead weight. Blank amber eyes stared at him, his own eyes failing, folding to gray. He was weak, tired. The creature heaved, kicked and lay still at last.

“<sergei! here!=””>”

He heard the voices, fading, the whipping, howling wind growing louder.

“<ach, look=”” at=”” that.=”” what=”” a=”” pelt!=”” anya=”” will=”” fuck=”” me=”” blind=”” when=”” i=”” bring=”” home=””>”

The world was spinning, darkening…

“”

“<he’s dead,=”” alexei.=”” escaped=”” from=”” the=”” gulag=”” by=”” look.=”” leave=”” him.=””>“

“<i’ll just=”” check.=””>”

“<wasting… time…=”” help…=”” the=”” wolf…=”” anya-=””>”

“Help…me…”

Dracula moaned, his head falling back to the cold, hard earth. He could see his breath.

“<fuck…>”

He could feel the flakes of snow lighting on his cold, dead flesh.

“<…good as dead… lugging that back… miles…>”

“<…to drag the wolf back…>”

“”

He was cold… Wet… tired…

The leaden clouds rolled slowly by overhead, far away.

And weak. So weak…

Deercliff Cemetery
Queens

It was raining of course. Not just a simple rain but a cold and drenching downpour that soaked through and chilled to the marrow. A wicked wind whistled through the barren trees blowing dead, damp leaves in its wake, rattling tombstones. Thick, dark clouds roiled overhead, leaden and laden with moisture threatening a deluge with no end in sight. It was a perfect day for a funeral.

It was almost as if winter had come early and Colleen supposed that in a way it had. The freak storm had been the result of both Thor and Dracula screwing with the weather patterns both here and in the Middle East. The local stations and even the cable Weather Channel were at a loss for explanation of course, blaming everything on El Ninõ. Colleen knew better; the snow and frost in the south, the abrupt end to the rainy season in California, flooding in the Midwest and snow in the Rockies. It would be some time before the continent- the world would recover.

Ashes to ashes…

Colleen Wing sighed, trying to pay attention as the priest finished the services. The rain pattering on the vinyl of the umbrella she was sharing with Misty Knight was distracting, lulling and the rhythm made her mind wander. She tried to focus. She hated funerals and had been to far too many.

It was obvious that Alex Morgan had been loved in life by the crowd that had gathered in respect of his death. There were well over a score of men and women standing solemnly that were unknown to Colleen and apparently not family. That trio stood at the right of the priest, mother, father and sister, all grieving but the mother almost in hysterics. The others, the friends were sad, some crying, some frowning, and some simply staring stoically remembering their friend. She noted too that there were couples of men and women as well. Morgan had been gay, his chosen life partner the tall, dark man at the foot of the coffin. Colleen noticed too that if Alex Morgan had been loved, that sentiment had not extended to Eric Arcane.

The mage stood alone in his black suit and tie, his rumpled overcoat the only sign of the other life he led. He seemed tired and gaunt, but he had rested over the past few days and some of the vitality had returned to his body. He no longer looked the old man burnt out from the magic he had called upon in the recent war against Dracula and his minions. He looked again a strong and defiant black man in his thirties, none the worse for wear, though sad. The friends of Morgan seemed to shun him however, save for a simple bit of reverence to his lover’s passing. Short words, or even simply a nod in passing, not that it looked as though Arcane cared. The family had said nothing at all, though the mother’s eyes were burning every time she glanced his direction.

Dust to dust…

There were others too, the ones that Colleen knew, though they were few. Like she and Misty they had all come out of respect for the man that had fought at their side against Dracula and his evil. It had been a horrible, harrying battle, and not a one of them had come through unscathed.

Colleen glanced at her friend standing at her side. Misty Knight had lost her arm before, the first time in a terrorist’s bomb blast. She had lost her bionic arm time and again over the years, and again at the hand of one of Dracula’s minions. The arm had been replaced already, a testament to the authority that Thor commanded both as a hero and Avenger.

Thor had declined to attend the services however himself. He had deferred to pressing business in his homeland- Asgard- if that could be believed. Why not? Colleen had seen and been to far more exotic places than that in her running with the warrior of K’un L’un; Iron Fist. Why not an Asgard?

There were others though. Paladin stood tall in a black suit and tie, seeming out of place almost with the dark glasses he wore as a disguise. He had a thing about his identity. Not so Jim Skully, Skull the Slayer, formerly the Blazing Skull.

Skully was another hero with a long and convoluted past if not career. According to him he had been lost in time- for a time- in some odd, alien tower that preserved the ancient eras for some reason. There he had found a belt and harness that had endowed him with great strength and near invulnerability. That same belt had later caused his skin to go transparent for some reason, a crackling force field surrounding what appeared to be a skeleton. During the recent battle he had lost that aspect, though retaining the original merits of the belt. Magic, or science, who could say?

Skully had shown a desire to hang on however. He had been running with the Night Shift theses past few months, but that apparently was over. They had lost in the battle with the Vampire Lord. The Shadowoman had simply vanished, overcome by the shadows of the strange cape, which Dracula had stolen from the mutant boy, Cloak. He was now in a coma at St. Vincent’s, his partner- the young woman Dagger sitting vigil at his side. Shadowoman had not returned, nor had Lilith, who was apparently Dracula’s Daughter somehow. She too had vanished in that final fight, disappearing into the Cloak of Shadows as well, not to return. The final member of that squad- N’Kantu the (apparently) Living Mummy had simply died, his aged body finally consumed by the magic and fire of that final battle.

That left Skull the Slayer without a home or purpose. It had seemed the natural thing to do to ask him to join up with NightWing Restorations, the Detective Agency that consisted mainly of herself and Misty Knight. They could always use the muscle, and the help. Skully had accepted, having nowhere else to go. Paladin had declined however, ever the mercenary.

As it is on Earth, so too in Heaven…

There was another actually. The woman Marlene.

Or was it Rachel now? Colleen did not know. She was the final member of the Night Shift, though she had been a mystery from the start. The estranged wife of Frank Drake- the man that had gotten them into this mess to begin with- she had had some minor psychic powers. Hardly Jean Grey, thank god, still she had some telepathy and clairvoyance. In that final battle in the Syrian Desert however, she had changed. There at the end, when Dracula had been trying to call his love from beyond, someone else had appeared, some woman called Rachel. Rachel Van Helsing, the true love in Frank Drake’s life. That woman had died, turned by Dracula himself, later slain by Wolverine of the X-Men, when Dracula had been trying to reincarnate his precious Maria, the Van Helsing woman had stepped in and thwarted his plans. She had taken Maria’s place, her very essence and soul now inhabiting the body of Drake’s ex.

Not a situation that Colleen wanted to be involved in. Marlene/Rachel had left with little more than a thank you, and Frank Drake had vanished as well, diving into the Black Obsidian Mirror after the Dark Lord of the Undead. Arcane had doubted that Drake was dead, but he had explained that the mirror and those like it were gateways, not only through dimensions but time as well. Frank Drake could be literally and figuratively anywhere.

They would just have to wait.

They were good at waiting, both she and Misty both. Waiting for Danny. Waiting for Scott. Waiting for that next job.

Of course they had ins now. They had made good with SHIELD and the Avengers both over all this. Jimmy Woo was interested in working with NightWing against the Vampires on some sort of regular basis, and he had government funding to burn. And Thor had made promises, though of course his word might be bond to him- but it was Captain America leading the Avengers now. Still…

Amen.

“Col?”

Colleen Wing looked up again at the sound of her friend’s voice, the gentle nudge of an elbow in her ribs. The services were over, the crowd dispersing.

“Let’s give our condolences and get the hell out this rain, partner.”

“Right.”

Most of the mourners were moving off, hurrying into the rain from the overhang towards their cars. A few lingered, staring at the coffin in the pit, tossing dirt or flowers. Arcane was shaking the priest’s hand, forcing a grim smile.

“Guess that’s that.”

Both Colleen and Misty stopped short as Paladin stepped in front of them. He was drenched to the bone despite the wide umbrella he carried. He nodded towards Arcane.

“I’ve said my good-byes enough. Time I got outta here.”

“Sure you won’t reconsider?” Colleen asked and saw the man smirk.

“Tempting as that sounds, traipsing all over the world killing Vampires- for free, mind- well, it’s just not my cuppa tea, y’know what I mean? ‘Course if things get outta control…“

Paladin whipped a small business card from his breast pocket and handed it to Colleen. She took it, glanced at it and smiled…

Fantastic Four Inc.
555-4444
“Who ya gonna call?” Paladin grinned, turning his collar to the cold and damp and stomped off towards the parking lot, into the driving rain.

“Too bad,” Misty said, glancing at the card in her partner’s hand. “Would’ve been nice t’have another gun on board.”

Colleen shrugged, slipping the card into her coat pocket.

“Win some, lose some partner-“

Colleen looked up at the sudden sound of shouting. She saw the family- Morgan’s mother to be precise standing before Arcane, screaming bloody murder and shaking her finger in his face.

“-fault! Killed him! Killed my son! Faggot bastard! He was normal before you came along. A good boy…”

She was sobbing, shrieking, her whole body heaving as she screamed at Arcane. For his part, the magician simply stood there, taking the abuse.

“Martha…” the husband said trying to steer his wife away. The daughter simply stood aside as though in shock, hugging herself. The priest moved forward.

“Mrs. Morgan, please…”

Colleen winced as the woman drew back and slapped Arcane across the cheek. His head jerked with the impact, a bright mark glowing on his face, but otherwise he did not move or even flinch. He stared at the woman, the whites of his eyes rimmed with red. Tears or rain washed down his dark skin.

“You get nothing! Nothing!” the woman continued to rant, her voice hoarse and choked. “Stay out of our lives! Get out!”

The mage simply stared as the husband and the priest finally managed to steer the distraught woman away. She was wailing, huddled in her husband’s embrace, the priest whispering platitudes and prayers. The daughter looked up, a pretty girl in her late teens sporting the same white shock of hair as her dead brother. She wiped at her nose and eyes with the back of her hand.

“I’m sorry, Eric,” she sniffed, biting her lower lip. She looked down, then away. “Sorry…” she hurried off across the green, splashing through the puddles to rejoin her family- what was left of it.

Colleen watched as the mage sagged, pulling a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lighting it as she and Misty approached.

“You okay?” she asked and blue smoke billowed about his face, dispersing on the wind.

“I’ve just buried the man I loved, the soul I craved. His family hates me. Our friends hate me. And I’ve stood here for the past two hours praying to a God that I don’t believe in like a hypocrite, because I knew that Alex loved him.” He turned to Colleen, tears rimming his eyes. “My life is over. Everything we ever hoped and dreamed is done. No, I’m not ‘okay’.”

Colleen Wing and Misty Knight both frowned at the speech. They had both lost friends and loved ones over the years. They knew just what he was feeling. They wanted to help.

“I will find him though… and kill him. Dracula is dead.”

“Sounds like a plan, m’friend,” Skully said, his hand dropping on the magician’s shoulder. “You won’t be alone. I lost some friends the other night too, an’ a little pay back’s just the ticket. ‘Course, until we get a lead as to where ta look, you might wanna stay with the ladies here, same as me.”

Arcane glared at Jim Skully for a moment, but when he turned to Colleen and Misty his expression had softened. Colleen nodded,

“Now’s not the time Arcane- Eric- but you are welcome.”

“Sure,” Misty added, reaching out with her good hand to touch his arm.

“I-“ Arcane took a deep breath, exhaled, flicking his sodden cigarette into a nearby puddle. Finally he nodded.

“I’ll need some time, but yeah. It took all of us and then some to beat the bastard to a stalemate. No way I can do this alone. I’ll stay. Just…”

“Take all the time you need,” Colleen said, her hand on his arm reassuringly.

He almost smiled…

Siberia

“Well, doctor?”

Colonel Mikhail Ursus smirked at the impatient, frustrated look the doctor gave him. For his part he was impatient as well, not that he had anything important to do here, stationed on the borders of Christian Hell as he was. If Dante was correct, then the Devil himself must be sitting just over the horizon chewing happily on the likes of Rasputin, Stalin and the Czar himself. It was certainly cold enough.

“He’s dead,” the doctor said, standing straight and arching her back. Mikhail winced to hear the popping sounds it made as she twisted and moaned with pleasure. He let his eyes drift over her slim form as she stretched, only partially hidden by the blood-smeared lab coat she wore. Her skin was fair, pale and smooth as a still glass of milk. Her long golden hair was wound tightly into a bun at the back of her head, held into place with shining pins and a ball point pen. She wore the standard khaki dress beneath her coat, and a thick pair of leather boots, the tops of her long woolen socks just peeking out. He just had to smile, she was so beautiful.

Doctor Krista Maloff raised her eyeglasses to perch atop her head as she pinched the bridge of her nose, then reached up to shut off the glare of the overhead light. Ursus had not realized how hot it had been with the beaming, but tugged at his high collar now as he felt the sweat trickling down his back. It was otherwise cool in the medical laboratory, the heat lowered to an almost unnoticeable temperature to accommodate the various experiments conducted within, as well as the cadavers in the morgue.

They kept it cold in the ‘Bunker’ as a rule. As cold as they all could stand of course, the dozen loyalists assigned to operate Station Zero: Station Stalin. The dozen men and woman the new Federation did not wish to abide.

No, that was not true. Ursus had been sentenced here, so far away from the Russia he had loved, after his failures with the others. The Crimson Dynamo, Vanguard, beautiful Laynia, and the Gremlin- that little conniving bastard, and the rest whom had ‘failed’ Mother Russia in their time of direst need. The country had collapsed, and there was nothing they could have done, yet still as blame was laid, fingers were pointed and the Soviet Super Soldiers were swept away with the rest of the old guard. He had heard that Laynia- Darkstar was working with others again, other heroes for the United Nations. Of the others, he had no idea, nor a care. Let them all rot.

Doctor Krista Maloff had been caught up in the cleansing flood of the new regime- the ‘Purging’ as it had been dubbed. Guilt by association, she had been the leading medic at the SSS Compound tending the wounded. And when the old government collapsed and the new more liberal capitalists took hold she had been sent, along with Ursus to the fringes of human territory, the wastes of Siberia, far to the north and east. Out of sight, out of mind…

It was beautiful in a stark and barren sort of way, and most nights the Northern Lights made for a fantastic, if not romantic display. But it was cold. Freezing. Frigid. Not that the cold bothered Ursus. He was above such frailties.

“Mikhail,” Krista asked, her hand snaking inside of his thick coat. She smiled, biting her lower lip as she eased closer, sharing his warmth. He could see her breath. “Are you listening?”

“Of course,” Ursus said with a knowing smile and nod. If she had been talking, he had not heard a thing. She stared at him, her lips twisting in a smirk.

“I said, he’s dead,” she said, pulling away from the big man. She turned to the body on her examination table, still half-clothed in the oddly tailored dark suit he had been wearing when the perimeter guards had brought him in. She scratched at the pale skin with the edge of a scalpel. “And he has been for years unless I am grossly mistaken. See the way that the skin flakes away, almost dried, like parchment. There is no heartbeat, no breathing, though oddly no rigor as well.“

“Soryev and Bulkhest both claimed he was alive and breathing, fending off wolves.” Krista shrugged.

“Perhaps too much bottled warmth, eh? I’ll have to run tests of course, perform an autopsy, but I seriously doubt this man was running across the Steppes fighting wolves.”

Colonel Ursus glanced at the various machinery that was hooked into the alleged corpse; a heart monitor, breathing apparati, there was even a steady flow of plasma dripping into his veins.

“Why the hardware then?” he asked even as Doctor Maloff started to shut down the machinery.

“I was told that he was alive. The monitors are standard as I defibrillate. So’s the blood drip. Standard medical procedure for frostbite, and I thought a bit of warm plasma might kick start the man if his vital signs had simply slowed due to the cold. It has been known to happen.”

Ursus grabbed the doctor’s arm as she reached for the metal tree holding the plasma bag. He turned her about, pulling her close.

“That cannot wait for later?”

Krista smiled and Mikhail’s heart seemed to melt.

“I suppose, if you have more pressing matters I should attend, Colonel. The plasma is wasted anyway, as I said.“

“Good,” he smiled, chuckling as he pulled her away from the table and the corpse. “I have a growth that I wish you to inspect.”

“I’ll just bet you do…”

The complex was not large, at least not the operating sectors. There were rumors of course- there always were- of sub-levels that stretched far beneath the frozen earth, miles deep with tunnels running all the way back to Moscow. Whether all of that were true or not, Private Trechenko had no idea, though he often wished that he could go exploring, try to find the lower levels and the treasures that they contained. It would be just like his hero, Indiana Jones. Siberia Trechenko and the Lost Bunker! Trechenko chuckled.

“Day dreaming again, Yuri?”

Private Yuri Trechenko snapped to, pushing the childish images out of his head, willing his smirking face to stony stoicism. He glanced sideways at his companion, his comrade and finally grinned at Corporal Alinov’s own mocking smirk. Yuri burst out laughing.

“I can’t help it, Piotor. This is so boring. Why must we safeguard this forgotten station? Who is going to infiltrate here in the midst of nowhere to steal experiments on mold and ice dredged from the dirt?”

“Again Yuri?” Alinov smiled, shaking his head. “We do our duty because that is what we are told to do. Never mind we joined the military for adventure and glory, and got stationed to North Bum Fuck. We do what we must, what we are told and hope we survive to move on.”

Trechenko sighed, nodding as he hoisted his rifle a bit higher on his shoulder and out of the groove that the weight was digging into his skin. He glanced about the hall, the dim lighting of the outer reaches of the complex barely glowing for their benefit. He saw at the far end of the corridor the locked and barricaded elevator that allegedly led to the mysterious levels below. He stared almost longingly for a moment, then turned, nodding his head at the dead end hallway.

“I suppose,” he grudgingly agreed, then smiled at his friend. “It seems an omen though, this hall. A dead-end, like my career in the military. Time to turn about and start off in another direction.”

“So profound, Yuri,” Alinov joked as they started back the way they had just come, once again checking doors that were sealed and always locked. “Are you a prophet now?” Trechenko chuckled.

“It does not take a gypsy fortune teller to see my life is going-“

Crash

Trechenko whipped his rifle from his shoulder, waving it cautiously down the deserted hallway. The light at the far end was brighter than where the two soldiers stood, and though the tiled floor was grimy and streaked with dirt it still reflected queerly, making it hard to see. He listened intently, but all he heard was the grind of the internal heating system and the flickering hum of the florescent lights.

“What?” Alinov had brought his own gun to bear but looked about the hall with a curious expression.

“You didn’t hear that? Something fell… broke.“

Alinov sniffed, “Probably the Ice Queen fussing about in her lab. She’s probably examining that body that Soryev and Bulkhest brought in before.”

“She’s not as frigid as you think, Piotor. I think she only has eyes for the Colonel.”

“Hmmph. Colonel Bear- I don’t know what she sees in him.”

“Perhaps she prefers hairy men. Besides, the door to the lab was locked when we passed before, and the lights were out.”

“Your damn cat then.”

“Jones is not a ‘damn cat’! He’s a great mouser.”

“He’s a useless, mangy beast. Always underfoot, or nowhere to be found. There’s been a mouse in my quarters for three nights now, and where is your mouser, eh?”

Trechenko frowned, turning his attention to the laboratory door. He tried the handle, but found it still locked.

“You see? You are imagining things again. You watch too many American movies, comrade.” Trechenko shrugged, but pulled the ring of keys from his belt none the less.

“I still better look,” he said fumbling through the heavy ring, searching for the proper key out of the dozens.

“Fine,” Alinov spat, moving down the hall and fingering his own set of keys. “I’ll check the other rooms, just to make you happy.”

Trechenko grimaced as his partner made his way down the corridor, then returned his attention to the door in front of him. Alinov was probably right. It was probably just the cat, but it was their job to guard and check, and any break in the monotony was welcome. Finally, finding the proper key he slid it into the lock and turned then pushed the heavy door open.

Trechenko wrinkled his nose as the cooler air wafted out of the room. As always there was a sickly, medicinal smell in Maloff’s lab that reminded him of the dentist’s office back in Tomsk when he was little. He shuddered as he stepped inside, his teeth suddenly aching in ghostly memory.

The room was still, only a slight rustle of the internal air blowing the dusty blinds along the shuttered windows. It was dark as well with only a night-light glowing softly in the corner near the lavatory door, a wash of light along the floor coming from the doorway behind him. He swallowed, inching into the room, gun barrel wavering before him.

“Jones?” he whispered, licking the sudden sweat from his upper lip and thin hairs from his mustache. Alinov was right- he did watch too many movies. Whatever had prompted him to name the base cat after the one in Alien, he would never know, except for the resemblance. Now he wished he had not.

As he eased into the chill, dim room he saw the reason for the noise he had heard before. The recently arrived body lay on an examination table, half-clothed and covered in a stained white sheet. The metal tree for the blood drip had tipped over. Trechenko swallowed hard to see that one of the body’s arms had slipped from the protective dustsheet and now hung limply, dangling.

The body…

Trechenko licked his lips again as he inched towards the examination table, staring at the corpse covered in thin white fabric. Apparently the body had shifted in death, a muscle spasm or bowel movement, settling blood. Trechenko had heard that things like that happened as a body released its grip on life. Learned that on Quincy.

Private Trechenko stared at the still mound before him. It was not moving now, but whatever had happened, the IV had pulled free when the tree had fallen. Trechenko crouched, grabbing the tree and righting it on its stand, gathering the rubber tubing of the IV. Oddly the blood bag was empty.

He sighed, turning back to the body. He saw that the sleeve on the arm had been rolled away and only a tiny dot scarred the pale arm where the IV had been struck. There was no stain of blood, no drip at all, even on the tiled floor. Odd, but he supposed he should put things to right, replace the arm then notify Maloff about what had happened. Not that she would be available, no doubt, warm in the arms and bed of Colonel ‘Bear’. Trechenko smirked, reaching for the dangling arm-

The arm shot up and out like lightning, the large, gangly hand wrapping about his throat and cutting off his startled cry, his air. Eyes wide, Yuri Trechenko tried to raise his rifle, panic flooding him, jerking him about but he saw the other arm of the corpse reach from the sheet and grab the gun, wrenching it from his grip. Yuri’s scream of agony choked in his throat, his eyes tearing as he stared at the stub where his trigger finger used to be, blood gushing forth.

The corpse sat up, the sheet falling away and Yuri felt a warm dampness filling his trousers as his bowels emptied in sheer terror. The face was gaunt, demonic almost, pale and withered but for a slight flush to its cheeks. Its eyes were glowing almost, a blood red as he stared and Yuri was unable to look away. He felt the hand tighten about his throat.

“Where…” the voice asked and Yuri gasped feeling the long bony fingers ease their pressure only slightly.

“S-Stalin… St- Station…” he gasped as the grip tightened again. The corpse- the man glanced about the room as he struggled to rise.

“Russia…” he whispered, his gaze drifting away for just a moment. Yuri raised his hands, gripping the arm that held him, trying to pry it away. The man turned on him again.

“How far?”

“What?”

Yuri felt the hand shift, the grip tightening sharply. There was a snap and Yuri felt his head loll, suddenly heavy. His vision swam as pain washed through him, his body shivering in convulsion. The last thing he saw were those eyes, glowing red. Shining…

Lieutenant Piotor Alianovna watched as the private shoved his way into the medical facility before he reached into his pocket and produced the tiny transmitter. He slipped the receiver bit into his ear, holding the tiny microphone up to his lips, whispering.

“This is Alianovna,” he hissed, hearing nothing but static. “Acknowledge, dammit…”

“Patience, comrade lieutenant. I am here,” the staticky voice crackled over his earpiece. “Report.”

“Private Trechenko heard something. He is investigating. I think it is the cat, but it is in the medical lab. The body-“

“Why are you bothering me with trivialities?” the voice on the other end snapped. “If Trechenko heard something, investigate. If the body is- was KGB then we must be prepared.”

“I doubt that,” Alianovna said with a frown. “Soryev said it looked like a peasant, dressed in a ragged tuxedo of all things.“

“And you do not find that strange? Investigate you fool. If the KGB is so close-“

“I do not think-“

“Which is why you are not the leader! Do as I say!”

“Yes,” Alianovna grimaced, cutting off the radio link. “Bastard…”

Lieutenant Piotor Alianovna cursed and grumbled as he eased his way cautiously back down the corridor. He hated this assignment, being at the beck and call of Phobos, but there was little he could do but obey- and obey well. Advancement was the only way to free himself from the will of fools and idiots.

“Yuri?” he whispered as he poked his head about the door, peering into the darkened room.

The hand wrapped about his throat before he could move, or scream, or fire. He felt his feet rise off the floor as he was lifted up at the end of the arm. He kicked and struggled as his gun was batted from his grip to clatter down the corridor. He gasped, eyes wide as he struggled; for freedom, for breath…

The man that held him hissed, his mouth gaping, bearing fangs long and sharp. His ruddy face was smeared with blood, his eyes darkly glowing, pulsing red. Alianovna felt the grip at his throat tighten as the man- the corpse brought him near. He saw Yuri sprawled on the floor in the room beyond, eyes staring widely, his throat ravaged and steaming.

The damned cat was sniffing about the messy puddle on the floor…

Phobos replaced the microphone and stared coolly at the communications console. Was this the KGB? He wondered. Granted, they no longer existed, officially at any rate. Putin had disbanded the final remnants of the old guard when he took over, but of course that was mainly for the Western Media. Little did the world really know what actually happened behind the rusting ‘Iron Curtain’.

A supposedly dead man found in the wastes, a man fighting wolves suddenly dead. A Mutant? No, his machines would have shown him surely. What then?

There were mysteries abroad in the world of course; deities and demons, ghosts and monsters abundant. What then had infiltrated Zero Station, and was it a threat? Alianovna would find out- damn his eyes- or he would be stripped and transferred. There were worse places than Cherskiy after all.

“Papa?”

Phobos turned at the soft voice. He stared at the little girl, her soft blond hair, big blue eyes wide with wonder. He had not even heard her approach.

“Anna,” he said, squatting down to talk to the little girl barely eleven years by two weeks. She was pure and simple, fresh, dressed in her flannel nightgown and fluffy Sponge Bob slippers. She rubbed at her eyes.

“I heard you shouting. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, my sweet one,” Phobos smiled, his hands rubbing along her soft arms. So precious…

“You should be in bed child.” He stood, his big hand snaking out about hers. She smiled up at him.

“Come, let us go,” he said reassuringly, walking with her deeper into the complex, the forgotten levels beneath Stalin Station that now housed his School for Super Soldiers. It would not do to have some KGB agent burst in on his ‘unofficial’ activities. He had to plan…

He had to be ready.

Next Issue: Arc Two heats up quickly as Dracula struggles to stay alive- or is that undead- in a Russian nest of junior mutants to rival Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. Be here next time for…

Suffer the Children!

From the Grave

This is the first ‘NEW’ issue of Tomb of Dracula that has not previously appeared, though in effect it is not new at all. I wrote this to start the second arc of the series when it was originally running at M2K over 5 years ago, but it never saw virtual print as things happened, both personally and at M2K.

There was going to be a Dracula Lives series that sort of came out of this one as a follow up at a site that Chris Munn was starting up after he left a great run as EIC at M2K. That never happened, but lucky us, I have 5 issues of that still in the coffers and ready to go as soon as I write to a segue point. That segue will occur after a few issues that find Dracula abroad and making his way back into the world and looking for revenge.

Long story short; I have more Dracula tales to write. I loved the mainstream Tomb of Dracula back in the 70’s, and I hope it shows in my stories. And like in most of the Titles I write, expect to see some unexpected Guest Stars along the way. I’m sure you recognized a couple already this issue.

And now some kind words from Dave Ingram…

Hear that sound? It’s the sound of me actually getting off my ass and giving you feedback, and hell freezing over.

The Good: Tomb of Dracula is a fantastic read for me for a whole bunch of reasons. Something that allows me to completely enjoy the series is that I’ve no ‘fanboy’ notions of how the characters in question ‘should be’. I know about Frank Drake, Paladin, Daughters, etc. but they’re not really my personal favorites or anything. So long as they’re well written, I think you’d be able to do anything to them without pissing me off.

And boy, are they well written! I know enough about the characters in question to know when they’re in character, which would be every single second of Tomb. The scenes are well described, the tension is there, the build up towards something big is there, the history/continuity is there (and it compliments the series/plots like it should) and best of all, while it has it’s own niche, Tomb doesn’t exist in a vacuum in the MU (for fear of stating the obvious).

To be perfectly honest, like M2K’s Black Widow, this series is one that I’ll likely run out of compliments for because everything is done perfectly. Good action, characterization and mystery. What more do you need?

Keep up the kick ass work, man!

Thanks Dave. I’ll do my best…

 

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