Brian Lumley
 Necroscope 2: Vamphyri!
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter One
  Afternoon of the fourth Monday in January 1977; the Chateau Bronnitsy off the Serpukhov 
road not far out of Moscow; 2.40 P.M. middle-European time, and a telephone in the 
temporary Investigation Control Room ringing... ringing... ringing.
  The Chateau Bronnitsy stood central on open, peaty ground in the middle of a densely 
wooded tract now white under drifted snow. A house or mansion of debased heritage and 
mixed architectural antecedents, several recent wings were of modern brick on old stone 
foundations, while others were cheap breeze blocks camouflaged in grey and green paint. A 
once-courtyard in the "U" of polyglot wings was now roofed over, its roof painted to 
match the surrounding terrain. Bedded at their bases in massive, steeply gabled end 
walls, twin minarets raised broken bulbous domes high over the landscape, their boarded 
windows glooming like hooded eyes. In keeping with the generally run-down aspect of the 
rest of the place, the upper sections of these towers were derelict, decayed as rotten 
fangs. From the air, the Chateau would seem a gaunt old ruin. But it was hardly that, 
even though the towers were not the only things in a state of decay.
  Outside the roofed courtyard stood a canopied ten-ton Army truck, the canvas flaps at 
its rear thrown back and its exhaust puffing acrid blue smoke into the frosty air. A KGB 
man, conspicuous in his "uniform" of felt hat and dark grey overcoat, stared in across 
the truck's lowered tailgate at its contents and shuddered. Hands thrust deep in his 
pockets, he turned to a second man dressed in the white smock of a technician and 
grimaced. "Comrade Krakovitch," he grunted, "what the hell are they? And what are they 
doing here?"
  Felix Krakovitch glanced at him, shook his head, said, "You wouldn't understand if I 
told you. And if you understood, you wouldn't believe." Like his ex-boss, Gregor 
Borowitz, Krakovitch considered all KGB low life-forms. He would keep information and 
assistance to the barest minimum-within certain limits of prudence and personal safety, 
of course. The KGB weren't much for forgiving and forgetting.
  The blocky Special Policeman shrugged, lit a stubby brown cigarette and drew deeply on 
its carboard tube. "Try me anyway," he said. "It's cold here but I am warm enough. See, 
when I go to report to Comrade Andropov-and I am sure I need not remind you of his 
Politburo status-he will want some answers, which is why I want answers from you. So we 
will stand out here until-"
  "Zombies!" said Krakovitch abruptly. "Mummies! Men dead for four hundred years. You can 
tell that from their weapons, and-" For the first time he heard the insistent ringing of 
the telephone, turned towards the door in the corrugated iron facade of the covered 
courtyard.
  "Where are you going?" The KGB man came alive, took his hands out of his pockets. "Do 
you expect me to tell Yuri Andropov that the-the mayhem-here was done by dead men?" He 
almost choked on the last two words, coughed long and loud, finally spat on the snow.
  "Stand there long enough," Krakovitch said over his shoulder, "in those exhaust fumes, 
smoking that shredded rope, and you might as well climb in the truck with them!" He 
stepped through the door, let it slam shut behind him.
  "Zombies?" The agent wrinkled his nose, looked again at the truckload of cadavers. He 
couldn't know it but they were Crimean Tartars, butchered en masse in 1579 by Russian 
reinforcements hastening to a ravaged Moscow. They had died and gone down in blood and 
mire and bog, to lie part-preserved in the peat of a low-lying field-and to come up again 
two nights ago to wage war on the Chateau! They had won that war, the Tartars and their 
young English leader, Harry Keogh, for after the fighting only five of the Chateau's 
defenders still lived. Krakovitch was one of them. Five out of thirty-three, and the only 
enemy casualty Harry Keogh himself. Amazing odds, unless one counted the Tartars. But one 
could hardly count them, for they had been dead before it started...
  These were Krakovitch's thoughts as he entered what long ago had been a cobbled 
courtyard-now a large area of plastic-tiled floor, partitioned into airy conservatories, 
small apartments and laboratories-where E-Branch operatives had studied and practised 
their esoteric talents in comparative comfort, or whatever condition or envi-ronment best 
suited their work. Forty-eight hours ago the place had been immaculate; now it was a 
shambles, where bullet-holes patterned the partition walls and the effects of blast and 
fire could be seen on every hand. It was a wonder the place hadn't been burned to the 
ground, completely gutted.
  In a mainly cleared area-the so-called Investigation Control Room-a table had been 
erected and supported the ringing telephone. Krakovitch made his way towards it, pausing 
to drag aside a large piece of utility wall which partly blocked his path. Underneath, 
lying half-buried in crumbled plaster, broken glass and the crushed remains of a wooden 
chair, a human arm and hand lay like a huge grey salted slug. Its flesh was shrivelled, 
the colour of leather, and the bone where it projected in a knob at the shoulder was 
shiny white. It was almost a fossil. There'd be many more fragments such as this yet to 
be discovered, scattered throughout the Chateau, but apart from their repulsive looks 
they'd be harmless-now. Not so on the night of the horror. Krakovitch had seen portions 
like this one, without heads or brains to guide them, crawling, fighting, killing!
  He shuddered, moved the arm aside with his foot, went to the telephone. "Hello, 
Krakovitch?"
  "Who?" the unknown caller snapped back. "Krakovitch? Are you in charge there?" It was a 
female voice, very efficient.
  "I suppose I am, yes," Krakovitch answered. "What can I do for you?"
  "For me, nothing. For the Party Leader, only he can say. He's been trying to contact 
you for the last five minutes!"
  Krakovitch was tired. He hadn't slept since the night-mare, doubted if he'd ever sleep 
again. He and the other four survivors, one of them a raving madman, had only come out of 
the security vault on Sunday morning, when the air was finished. Since then the others 
had made their statements, been sent home. The Chateau Bronnitsy was a High Security 
Establishment, so their stories wouldn't be for general consumption. In fact 
Krakovitch-being the only genuinely coherent member of the survivors-had demanded that 
the case in toto be sent direct to Leonid Brezhnev. That was Standing Orders anyway: 
Brezhnev was the top man, personally and directly responsible for E-Branch, despite the 
fact that he'd left all of it to Gregor Borowitz. But the branch had been important to 
the Party Leader, and he'd seen everything that came out of it (or at least anything of 
any importance). Also, Borowitz must have told him quite a bit about the branch's 
paranormal work-literally ESPionage-so that Brezhnev should be at least part-qualified to 
pass judgement on what had happened here. Or so Krakovitch hoped. In any case, it had to 
be better than trying toexplain it to Yuri Andropov!
  "Krakovitch?" the phone barked at him. (Was this reallythe Party Leader?)
  "Er, yes, sir, Felix Krakovitch.I was on ComradeBorowitz's staff."
  "Felix? Why tell me your first name? You expect me to call you by your first name?" The