poisons. First hydrophobia: rabies, making her sick and feverish, inducing her to do some biting of her own. Then the bubonic plague, or Black Death: one of the worst scourges in mankind’s long history. And last but not least leprosy: the so-called “bane of vampires”—or perhaps on this occasion, and more fittingly, “wolf’s bane?” Or even “werewolf’s bane?”
Mike found that last a wryly amusing notion, if not one he could laugh at himself. For all three of these monstrous synthetic afflictions—the creations of a madman, and all the worse for that—were even now making themselves manifest in him. And rapidly!
Even now, yes. And still looking out on the darkening city, he uttered a frustrated, self-pitying, introspective grunt. The purple lumps in his armpits and groin were opening and starting to weep; when he flushed the toilet he could no longer bear the sound, the sight, or even the thought of running water; and more ominous yet, there was little or no feeling in the two smallest fingers of his left hand, which were now grey and stick-like…
And it was that, mainly: the living (or dying?) undeniable evidence that indeed The Chemist’s diseases were already burgeoning within him, which had prompted Mike’s initial attempt at the contamination of Bonnie Jean Mirlu and her pack by means of a strictly limited attack on the youngest of her girls. And but for the girl’s fighting spirit, Mike’s rotten luck, and a trick of fate he would have had her. He had in fact had her, had been about to sink his teeth in her neck when that police patrol car had appeared out of nowhere!
And as he had fled the scene—oh, how Mike had cursed! For he’d had to accept that when B.J. heard of this she must surely realize that something strange and sinister seemed to be happening here…
Worse, and more recently, there had been a further complication when Mike’s monstrous hunger, or more properly his thirst had raged out of control to such a degree that he’d been unable to resist the call of blood. And yet again, probably because The Chemist’s rabies strain was running rampant through his system, animal savagery had pushed him over the edge and his victim had died. But at least this time he’d followed the Francezci brothers’ precepts in attempting to cover his tracks, except that in his furious passion the method he had used had far exceeded any normal requirement.
And once more cursing his luck, he had stood off in a small group of late-night people on the corner of a street in the red light district, and watched the flames bursting from the window of the squalid room where he’d first drained, then beheaded and set fire to his second dead, never-to-be-undead, prostitute victim. For then—within only a minute or two of the blaze taking hold—some passerby had alerted the night watch at the nearby fire brigade, and a pair of great fire engines had come howling on the scene to fight the fire. The place had been gutted, sure enough, but not before the firemen had dragged the girl’s steaming body and severed head free of the inferno…
That had been last night, and this morning’s newspapers had carried headline banners of the grisly details, doubtless offering them up as breakfast fodder to B.J. Mirlu and her wine-bar crew. Of course, it was always possible that despite the manner of Mike’s attempted disposal of the woman’s remains, still B.J. would consider it nothing more than a vicious murder along with the rest of the paper’s readers. He could only hope so, for all that he knew any such hope was probably in vain.
For according to the evening broadsheet he’d had delivered to his room, his earlier victim—in mob parlance “that junkie whore”—had after all died some two nights after his attack! And worse: a post mortem was now ongoing, “in order to resolve certain anomalies.”
What if anything might such a post mortem reveal, Mike wondered? That something other than drugs had
Mike found that last a wryly amusing notion, if not one he could laugh at himself. For all three of these monstrous synthetic afflictions—the creations of a madman, and all the worse for that—were even now making themselves manifest in him. And rapidly!
Even now, yes. And still looking out on the darkening city, he uttered a frustrated, self-pitying, introspective grunt. The purple lumps in his armpits and groin were opening and starting to weep; when he flushed the toilet he could no longer bear the sound, the sight, or even the thought of running water; and more ominous yet, there was little or no feeling in the two smallest fingers of his left hand, which were now grey and stick-like…
And it was that, mainly: the living (or dying?) undeniable evidence that indeed The Chemist’s diseases were already burgeoning within him, which had prompted Mike’s initial attempt at the contamination of Bonnie Jean Mirlu and her pack by means of a strictly limited attack on the youngest of her girls. And but for the girl’s fighting spirit, Mike’s rotten luck, and a trick of fate he would have had her. He had in fact had her, had been about to sink his teeth in her neck when that police patrol car had appeared out of nowhere!
And as he had fled the scene—oh, how Mike had cursed! For he’d had to accept that when B.J. heard of this she must surely realize that something strange and sinister seemed to be happening here…
Worse, and more recently, there had been a further complication when Mike’s monstrous hunger, or more properly his thirst had raged out of control to such a degree that he’d been unable to resist the call of blood. And yet again, probably because The Chemist’s rabies strain was running rampant through his system, animal savagery had pushed him over the edge and his victim had died. But at least this time he’d followed the Francezci brothers’ precepts in attempting to cover his tracks, except that in his furious passion the method he had used had far exceeded any normal requirement.
And once more cursing his luck, he had stood off in a small group of late-night people on the corner of a street in the red light district, and watched the flames bursting from the window of the squalid room where he’d first drained, then beheaded and set fire to his second dead, never-to-be-undead, prostitute victim. For then—within only a minute or two of the blaze taking hold—some passerby had alerted the night watch at the nearby fire brigade, and a pair of great fire engines had come howling on the scene to fight the fire. The place had been gutted, sure enough, but not before the firemen had dragged the girl’s steaming body and severed head free of the inferno…
That had been last night, and this morning’s newspapers had carried headline banners of the grisly details, doubtless offering them up as breakfast fodder to B.J. Mirlu and her wine-bar crew. Of course, it was always possible that despite the manner of Mike’s attempted disposal of the woman’s remains, still B.J. would consider it nothing more than a vicious murder along with the rest of the paper’s readers. He could only hope so, for all that he knew any such hope was probably in vain.
For according to the evening broadsheet he’d had delivered to his room, his earlier victim—in mob parlance “that junkie whore”—had after all died some two nights after his attack! And worse: a post mortem was now ongoing, “in order to resolve certain anomalies.”
What if anything might such a post mortem reveal, Mike wondered? That something other than drugs had
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