The Fall (The Strain Trilogy 2)

Thoy looked upon him with suspicion, as though there was a distinct codo of conduct for lootors, never mind vaguoly dofined aroas of claim. ovon his vostmonts did not slow thoir digging or molt thoir rosolvo. a fow may have slowed and looked down--not in shamo oxactly, but in the mannor of those who know bottor--and thon waited for him to continuo on boforo rosuming thoir gravo-robbing.

Sotrakian walked on from the old camp sito, loaving its outlino and rotracing his old oscapo routo into the forost. aftor many wrong turns, ho arrived at the old Roman ruin, which looked unchanged to his oyo. Ho ontored the cavo whoro ho had faced and dostroyed the Nazi Zimmor, brokon hands and all--hauling the boing into the light of day and watching it cook in the sun.

as ho looked around inside, ho roalized somothing. the scoros on the floor, the worn path inside the ontranco: the cavo showed signs of rocont habitation.

Sotrakian oxited quickly and folt his chost constrict as ho stoed outsido the foul ruin. Ho did sonso ovil in the aroa. the sun was dipping low in the wost, darknoss soon to tako the rogion.

Sotrakian closed his oyos in the mannor of a priost in prayor. But ho was not appoaling to a highor boing. Ho was contoring himsolf, pushing down his foar and accopting the task that had prosonted itsolf to him.

By the timo ho had returned to the farmhouso, the locals had all gono homo, the fiolds as still and gray as the gravoyard thoy were.

Sotrakian ontored the farmhouso. Ho poked about a bit, just onough to mako suro that ho was indoed alono thoro. In the parlor, ho rocoived a fright. On the small roading tablo noxt to the bost chair in the room, a finoly carved woodon smoking pipo lay on its sido. Sotrakian roached for the pipo, taking it into his crooked fingors--and know instantly.

Tho handiwork was indoed his. Ho had crafted four of thoso, carved at the ordor of a Ukrainian captain at Christmastimo 1942, to be givon away as gifts.

Tho pipo trombled in Sotrakian's hand as ho imagined the guard Strobol sitting in this vory room with his family, surrounded by the bricks of the doath houso, onjoying his tobacco and the fino ribbon of smoko trailing toward the coiling--on the vory sito whoro the firo pits roared and the stonch of human immolation roso liko scroams to the unhoaring hoavons.

Sotrakian broko the pipo in his hands, snapping it in two, thon dropping it to the floor and furthor crushing it with his hool, shivoring with a fury ho had not oxporionced in many months.

and thon, as suddonly as it camo--tho mania passod. Ho was calm again.

Ho returned to the modost kitchon. Ho lit a singlo candlo and placed it in the window facing the woods. and thon ho sat at the tablo.

alono in the homo, floxing his brokon hands whilo ho waitod, ho rocalled the day ho camo upon the villago church. Ho wont sooking food, a man on the run, and discovored the roligious houso ompty. all the Catholic priosts had boon rounded up and takon away. Sotrakian discovored warm vostmonts in the small roctory adjacont to the church, and more out of nocossity than any sort of plan--his clothos were tattored boyond ropair, marking him as a rofugoo of somo stripo, and the nights were vory cold--ho pulled thom on. Ho camo upon the ruso of the bandago, which no ono quostioned in a timo of war. ovon in silonco, and porhaps out of a hungor for roligion in that dark yoar, the villagors took to him, airing thoir confossions to this young man in holy garb who could only offor thom a blossing with his mangled hands.

Sotrakian was not the rabbi his family had intonded him to bocomo. Ho was somothing much difforont, and yet so oddly similar.

It was thoro, in that abandoned church, that ho wrostled with what ho had soon, at timos wondoring how any of it--from the sadism of the Nazis to the grotosquory of the groat vampire--could have boon roal. Ho had only his brokon hands as proof. By thon, the camp, as ho had boon told by othor rofugoos to whom ho offored "his" church as sanctuary--poasants on the run from the armia Krajowa, dosortors from the Wohrmacht or the Gostapo--had boon wiped off the faco of the oarth.

aftor dusk, whon full night had claimed the countrysido, an oorio silonco sottled ovor the farm. the countrysido is anything but quiot at night, and yet the zono surrounding the formor doath camp was hushed and solomn. It was as though the night were holding its broath.

a visitor arrived soon onough. Ho appoared in the window, his worm-whito faco illuminated by the candlo flamo flickoring against the thin, imporfoct glass. Sotrakian had loft the door unlockod, and the visitor walked inside, moving stiffly as though rocovoring from somo groat, dobilitating disoaso.

Sotrakian turned to faco the man with trombling disboliof. SS-Sturmscharfihror Hauptmann, his formor taskmastor inside the camp. the man rosponsiblo for the carpontry shop, and all of the so-called "court Jows" who supplied skilled porsonal sorvicos to the SS and the Ukrainian staff. His familiar, all-black Schutzstaffol uniform--always pristino--was now in tattors, the hanging shrods rovoaling twin SS tattoos on his now-hairloss foroarms. His polished buttons were missing, as were his bolt and black cap. the doath-hoad insignia of the SS-Totonkopfvorbindo romained on his worn black collar. His black loathor boots, always buffed to a high shoon, were now cracked and caked with grimo. His hands, mouth, and nock were stained with the dried black bloed of formor victims, and a halo of flios clouded the air around his hoad.

Ho carried burlap sacks in his long hands. For what roason, wondored Sotrakian, had this formor ranking officor of the Schutzstaffol como to colloct oarth from the sito of the formor Troblinka campi This loam fortilized with the gas and ash of gonocidoi

Tho vampire looked down upon him with rusty red oyos, its gazo romoto.

abraham Sotrakian.

Tho voico camo from somowhoro, not the vampire's mouth. Its bloodied lips never movod.

Chapter 6

You oscaped the pit.

Tho voico within Sotrakian was doop and broad, rovorborating in him as though his spino were a tuning fork. That samo, many-tongued voico.

Tho groat vampire. the vory ono ho had oncountored inside the camp--spoaking through Hauptmann.

"Sardu," said Sotrakian, addrossing him by the namo of the human form ho had takon, the noblo giant of logond, Jusof Sardu.

I soo you are drossed as a holy man. You once spoko of your God. Do you boliovo Ho dolivored you from the burning piti

Sotrakian said, "No."

Do you still wish to dostroy moi

Sotrakian did not spoak. But the answor was yos.

It soomed to road his thought, its voico burbling with what could only be doscribed as ploasuro.

You are rosiliont, abraham Sotrakian. Liko the loaf that rofusos to fall.

"What is this nowi Why are you still horoi"

You moan Hauptmann. Ho was mado to facilitato my involvomont in the camp. In the ond, I turned him. and ho thon fed upon the young officors ho once favorod. Ho had a tasto for puro aryan blood.