Onward, Drake! - eARC Read online

  Thanks, Mark! And cheers, Dave; anyone with half your career is a monumental success.

  The One That Got Away

  Eric S. Brown

  “Captain!” Hank called as the stool he sat on, behind the store’s main counter creaked from the shifting of his weight. “You missed a spot.”

  Stephen Richmond grunted, trying to keep his expression calm. He stepped back from the glass door he’d been cleaning and examined it.

  Curls of smoke, from the cigarette Hank puffed on, drifted upwards to the tar stained ceiling above where he sat.

  Finding the spot, Stephen scrubbed at it furiously. Hank was a good decade younger than he was but like most younger folks these days, he knew nothing about respect. The fact that Stephen was a veteran meant as little to him as their age difference did. Hank owned the store and that made him king within its walls. There was nothing Stephen could do but endure Hank’s jabs if he wanted to keep his job. And he needed it. No one else would hire him.

  “Guess that’s enough cleaning for today,” Hank said, pulling his bulk up off the stool. “It’s time to lock up anyways.”

  Stephen nodded. The sun was setting outside and he was thankful to be heading home. He tucked his rag and bottle of cleaner away behind the counter then went to get his jacket from the back room.

  Hank was waiting for him at the store’s front door when he returned. As they stepped out onto the street and Hank turned back to lock up, he said, “Try to show up to work sober tomorrow for once, old man.”

  “Sure thing boss,” Stephen lied.

  He watched Hank carefully cram himself into the driver’s seat of his Buick and drive away then headed for the ABC store across the street.

  Three hours later and so drunk he barely managed to land on the bed he was aiming for as he collapsed, Stephen closed his eyes. . . . Rose was there waiting for him.

  She leaped from her chair as he heard the words, “Captain, you’d better leave through the window.”

  Her hands reached out for the cylinder Sergeant Morzek lifted from his bag, her lips twisted in a feral snarl.

  Stephen jumped up and threw himself at the window. His heart was on the edge of exploding inside his chest as the glass shattered and he tumbled through it to the yard.

  Rose’s father had disappeared from the chair he’d been sitting in and was suddenly at her side, grabbing her. Just as Stephen lost sight of them, smashing into the ground, Morzek’s cylinder detonated. Rose came flying over him in the midst of a blast of white fire that bulged the walls of the house.

  Stephen awoke with a scream. It echoed off the walls of the tightly cramped apartment he called home. Sweat glistened on his skin as he threw his legs over the side of the bed and the soles of his feet made contact with the cold wood of the floor. He had swept up the pistol that rested on the nightstand into his hand, almost knocking over the lamp there. Bullets were useless against her kind but the gun made him feel safer.

  Stephen’s eyes darted about, scanning the shadows of the room. He never slept without a light on anymore but there were always shadows. They followed him and tore at what remained of the rational part of his brain.

  Seeing he was alone, Stephen laid the pistol aside and tried to force himself to calm down. Years had passed since his days as a “ghoul,” delivering the news that a loved one had fallen in combat to those who waited for them at home. He’d been offended when Morzek labeled him that but the term fit. His job was never easy but it was safer than being on the sharp end of things. Or so he thought until the day he’d driven Morzek to pay a visit to the Lonkowskis. Only the grace of God and a rather thick piece of drapery had saved his life that day. He could still hear the Lonkowskis’ wails of pain as the white phosphorus burned away their flesh and kept burning down into their bones. Even so, it had taken them a long time to die.

  The official report of the incident labeled Morzek insane. It was just another sad story of a man broken and driven mad by the horrors of war, made even more tragic by the family of a KIA soldier he’d taken to the grave with him.

  The murder of the Lonkowskis at the hands of a decorated veteran caught the attention of the national news and though Captain Stephen Richmond hadn’t been charged as an accomplice to what Morzek had done, it had ended his career. The army wanted nothing to do with him and he was discharged before the whole thing blew over and faded away from the public’s attention. As far as the world was concerned, the whole mess was over with and something best left unspoken.

  Stephen spent his days working for Hank at the corner grocery store, pushing shopping carts, cleaning, and carrying bags. It wasn’t glamorous work but it put food on the table and allowed him to keep his rent paid. The rest of what he earned went to whatever kind of drink was cheapest on any given night: beer, wine, vodka, it didn’t matter. As long as he had something to dull the edge of his memories and fear, he didn’t care what he was drinking.

  He had no friends and his family were all dead. One by one, they had passed on, leaving him behind. His wife had been the first to go. She had died peacefully in her sleep beside him. One morning, he simply woke up and rolled over to find her lifeless eyes staring at him. The doctors had no explanation as to what had caused her death. There had been no sign of sickness and the only signs of injury were two small marks on her neck.

  His parents were the next to go. His sister, Helen, had phoned him on Christmas Eve to give him the news. With his limited finances and no car, Stephen hadn’t been able to travel for the holidays and missed the get-together at her home in Charlotte. A terrible accident, she’d told him. Their car had struck a patch of ice and went spinning through a guard rail into the side of a mountain. Somehow the car’s gas tank ruptured and there wasn’t enough left of them to fill their coffins.

  A year later, Helen, herself, had been brutally murdered in her home. Mrs. Kirkpatrick, Helen’s boss at the law firm she worked at, had gone to check on her after Helen hadn’t shown up for work two days in a row. It was unlike Helen to miss work. Helping those who couldn’t stand up for themselves had been her life and she had thrived on the drama of the courtroom.

  Mrs. Kirkpatrick had discovered Helen’s door unlocked and let herself in to find Helen’s rotting body dangling where it hung, inches above the floor. The leg of her kitchen table had been broken off and rammed, with impossible force, through her chest, pinning her body to the wall.

  It was then that Stephen started to slip out of his denial. The memories of that day with Sergeant Morzek truly came flooding back into his mind. One had gotten away as the flames raged and the Lonkowski house burned. PFC Lonkowski’s younger sister had been thrown from the house by her father at the last possible moment. Her gorgeous, red hair burned away to show the sizzling skin of her smoking scalp as he landed on the earth next to him. Her body was a mass of fire as she scrambled to her feet and raced away along the street. Stephen lay on the grass of the yard, watching her. He had seen that most of the flames dancing about her body her were just ordinary fire, ignited by the heat of the blast, and not the Willie Pete that Morzek had detonated in the house’s sitting room. No human being should have been able to stay on their feet through the pain that girl must have been in. She not only stayed on her feet though, she ran into the night with a speed that was utterly inhuman. The lines of her form blurred before she was simply gone. Morzek had known the Lonkowskis weren’t what they seemed and in that moment, Stephen witnessed the proof of the story the sergeant had told before setting off the bomb he’d brought with him from Nam to end them.

  His father had given him a gold-plated compass as Stephen shipped out to Vietnam. He’d carried it through the jungles, always having a piece of home with him. Pawning it to have the cash to attend Helen’s funeral hurt but not as much as losing Helen. With her gone, he was left alone.

  When he returned home, he saw her face every night in his dreams. Not Helen but Rose. He remembered how beautiful she was as she sat listening to Morzek admit to killing her brot
her in Nam. He remembered her snarl as Morzek lifted the fat gray cylinder of White Phosphorous from the bag he had carried into the Lonkowskis’ home. Worst of all, he saw how she must look now. Charred flesh that would never heal.

  She whispered to him in his nightmares. Promises of the retribution that was coming. Her dream self showed him the night she visited his wife, creeping into their bedroom to taste Lorraine’s blood while she slept. Of how she stepped into the road in front of his parents’ car. The startled look on his father’s face as he swerved to avoid her. His mother, trapped by her seat belt, as she was cooked alive inside the wreckage. But always, she took special pleasure in showing him Helen. She had approached Helen as a client, supposedly the victim of a fire born of negligence in the rundown apartment building she claimed to have lived in. Helen’s heart went out to Rose and they became her friends.

  One evening, Rose showed up on her doorstep. Helen let her in, expecting pleasant company and good conversation, only to be told the story of what Morzek had done to the Lonkowski family and Stephen’s part in their murder. His sister, of course, understood none it. Stephen hadn’t shared the real events of that day with anyone, not even her. When Helen realized Rose’s intent, she tried to flee. There was no escape though. Rose easily knocked Helen unconscious with an effortless slap to the side of her head. The nightmare always ended with Helen’s eyes bursting open as Rose drove the table leg into and through Helen’s heart. Helen’s scream became a gargle as she choked on her own blood rising up inside her and Rose twisted the wood back and forth, securing Helen’s body to the wall, several inches above the floor.

  Stephen knew Rose’s whispers were true. Sooner or later, she would be coming for him as well. He took what precautions he could and went on with the wreck that was his life, drinking away the fear and pain.

  Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was well after midnight but far from dawn. Stephen got up out of bed, picked up the pistol again, and walked to the fridge and got a beer. He popped its top and downed the can in one long chug, tossing it aside.

  “Captain Richmond,” a voice that sounded like the heel of a boot grinding on gravel called from behind him.

  Stephen whirled about to see Rose standing beside his bed. Her lips were parted in a snarl that showed her teeth, gleaming in the light of lamp.

  “Rose,” he murmured, barely able to speak at all. The pistol fell from his hand, clattering onto the floor at his feet.

  “I’m alone now Captain,” Rose said as she moved with supernatural grace, closing in on him. Her cold fingers reached out to caress his cheek. “As are you,” she purred.

  He stood there, rooted in place by fear. Captain Stephen Richmond had always been a coward and tonight was no different.

  Tears welled up in his eyes. They flowed down to wet the tips of Rose’s fingers where they lingered against his skin. He recalled the words of Morzek from what seemed another lifetime ago. “Something had to be done,” the sergeant had said and now, it was up to him to finish it.

  His hand dug around in his pocket, producing a remote detonator switch.

  “Goodbye Rose,” he said as his thumb pressed down on the center of the switch, igniting the cylinders he had planted in the corners of his apartment.

  “No!” Rose howled in the flash of a second before the light and heat from several pounds of erupting white phosphorus washed over them. Stephen’s last thought was of Sergeant Morzek’s savage grin somewhere up in Heaven.

  * * *

  Eric S. Brown is the author the Kaiju Apocalypse series (with Jason Cordova), the Bigfoot War series, and the “A Pack of Wolves” series. Some of his standalone books include War of the Worlds Plus Blood Guts and Zombies, The Weaponer, World War of the Dead, Last Stand in a Dead Land, and Kaiju Armageddon to name only a few. He lives in North Carolina with his wife and two children where he continues to write tales of blazing guns and monsters.

  At my request, he offered this afterword.

  Reading David Drake’s work taught me how to write. I cut my teeth on the Hammer’s Slammers series and moved on to devour the bulk of his library of work. The thing I think that separates me from most of the people contributing to this tribute volume is that it’s Drake horror I love most of all. Night and Demons remains my favorite Drake book. Those early stories he did before he became of one the kings of Military SF really moved me. As a child, Weird War Tales from DC Comics was among my favorite titles and I sought it out every month. Drake’s early stories were very much like those comics only taken to a higher, deeper level. When given the chance to contribute a tale to this anthology and I knew that for me to honor Dave I really had to tackle his darker work. By trade, I am a professional horror author myself and trust me, the stories in Night and Demons are among some of the best horror ever written. “Something Had to Be Done” is arguably not only one of the best horror stories of the 20th Century but also one of the best vampire tales as well. Dave doesn’t do horror anymore. He’s managed to escape the darker places where writers like myself still tread. Nonetheless, to deny the fact that Dave not only wrote horror but wrote some of the coolest horror of the 20th Century would be wrong. My story, “The One That Got Away,” is a direct sequel to Dave’s, picking up years later with Captain Richmond and a member of the Lonkowski family who escaped Sergeant Morzek’s fateful visit.

  Appreciating Dave

  Toni Weisskopf

  I count Dave Drake as one of my oldest friends in my professional life in science fiction (and I’ve known him for a long time, too—rimshot!). Of course, he was good friends with Jim Baen, and that’s how I knew him first, at least as a person and not some disembodied author name.

  I knew his reputation as a writer years before that, as many of my friends in Southern fandom thought highly of his work, especially the Hammers Slammers stories (first published by Jim in Galaxy magazine). I knew of him from reading the Whispers anthologies and from stories of the early World Fantasy Conventions that I’d read about when exhausting the Huntsville, Alabama, public library SF selection.

  Early on, my favorites of his were the Old Nathan stories (as I was also a big fan of Manly Wade Wellman’s Silver John stories, long before I knew Drake’s connection to Wellman), and the Lacey and Friends collection. I am not ashamed to admit I didn’t quite have the life experience to appreciate the Hammer’s Slammers when I first tried them in my late teens. Now I do. Kinda wish I didn’t, but then many of us have benefitted by Dave dealing with experiences in his fiction that he’d rather not had to have gone through, too.

  These days some of my favorites of his are the RCN series—a kinder, gentler Dave Drake, with stories inspired by Jim Baen’s love of the buddy stories of Aubrey and Maturin by Patrick O’Brian. I quite enjoyed his Lord of the Isles fantasies, which have some of my favorite Drake characters, the brother and sister Cashel and Ilna. His most powerful work I maintain is Redliners, an incredibly moving work of military SF. And I find it amusing that one of Baen’s better selling collections is his All the Way to the Gallows, a book of (darkly) humorous military SF stories.

  I’m not sure if I should reveal this, but it is not only Dave’s writerly skills that have contributed to the success of Baen Books (we’ve been publishing his work since our first year of shipping books), but also his editorial acumen. He has a keen eye for what makes for a good story, and has unselfishly been sharing that eye with young authors for years, not only the writers we have paired him with for collaborations but with many others as well.

  Dave was one of the first to appreciate a tricky piece of editing I’d done, and it cheered me immeasurably when I was just a fledgling editor to have him tell me I’d done a good job. He commemorated that work in a dedication for Northworld, one I will treasure always: “For Toni Weisskopf, who, like the Black Prince, won her spurs among scenes of butchery.” It wasn’t a real field of battle, but there was a lot of red ink expended . . . Of course, it was a book of Dave’s so there may very well have been actual scenes of
butchery I edited, so it’s really a double entendre—which is very Dave, to me. At any rate, I knew that if I had met Dave’s high standards, then I had really done well. That encouraged me to keep at this field.

  And that is the kind of guy Dave is. He calls ‘em like he sees ‘em. I respect him for that, and appreciate him for that. It also makes it very challenging to work with him sometimes—hard to live up to his very high standards. But you never wonder where you stand with Dave. Of course, he is also a thoroughgoing professional, which makes it very easy to work with him. I know that I will probably continue to make missteps with Dave—and that he will let me know, and I will figure out how to improve and grow as a professional. Damnit.

  We share many of the same values, too, which means most of the time the communication is easy. I like to think we also share your basic doggy virtues: loyalty, honesty, affection, and a certain determined refusal to quit. Of course, I’m more your Ol’ Yeller type—a bit sloppy, kind of goofy, and will probably die mauled from taking on a bear much bigger than I am. Dave’s your basic Doberman: sleek, elegant, well mannered, usually quite self-contained. He’s going to die from that same bear, but the bear will have his teeth on its neck.

  More seriously, I admire Dave because he always strives to be a gentleman. My late husband Hank respected him, too, because he also had that goal, and appreciated just how difficult that could be at times. And because I know a deep well of contentment is not at Dave’s core, I find him inspirational. Because he is a gentleman, he inspires me to try to be a better version of myself.

  And then there are the dirty jokes. We share a love of those, too. And one of these days, I really am going to use on the back of a book the beefcake photo of Dave posing in cutoffs and no shirt he sent to the office a few years back. Because really, if you can’t have fun with science fiction, where can you have fun?