99 Coffins: A Historical Vampire Tale Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chess

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Griest

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by David Wellington

  Other Books by David Wellington

  Copyright

  For Alex

  CHESS

  She is older than the rocks among which she sits; like the vampire, she has been dead many times, and learned the secrets of the grave.

  Walter Pater, Studies in the History of the Renaissance

  1.

  Fifty thousand men had died or been wounded on this broad valley, Montrose told himself. It must have been a scene out of hell—the injured lying sprawled across the corpses, the cannon still firing from the top of one hill at the top of another. The horses screaming, the smoke, the utter desperation. This was where the country could have fallen apart—instead, this place had saved it from utter ruin.

  Of course, that had been a century and a half ago. Now as he stared out over the dewy Gettysburg battlefield all he saw were the trees shimmering in the wind that swept down between two ridges and stirred the long green grass. The blood had dried up long ago and the bodies all had been taken away to be buried. Off in one corner of the field he could just make out the scrupulously period-authentic tents of a band of reenactors, but it looked like even they were sleeping in.

  He rubbed his face to try to wake himself up, forgetting for the third time that morning that he still had kohl daubed around his eyes from the previous night’s clubbing. Jeff Montrose was not a morning person. He preferred to think of himself as a creature of the night.

  Of course, when Professor John Geistdoerfer called you at six A.M. on a Sunday morning and asked if you’d supervise a student dig until he could arrive, you made your voice as chipper as possible and you got dressed in a hurry. The professor was the hottest thing going in the field of Civil War Era Studies, one of the most influential people at Gettysburg College. Staying on his good side was mandatory for a grad student like Montrose, if he ever wanted to have a career of his own someday.

  And when the student dig turned out to be something special—well, even the most hard-core night owl could make an exception. Montrose ran down through the trees to the road and waved at the professor’s Buick as it nosed its way toward him. The car pulled onto the side of the road where Montrose indicated.

  Geistdoerfer was a tall man with a shock of silver hair and a neatly combed mustache. He climbed out of the car and started up the track, not waiting to hear what his student had to say.

  “I called you the second we found it,” Montrose tried to explain, chasing after the professor. “Nobody’s gone down inside yet—I made sure of it.”

  Geistdoerfer nodded but said nothing as the two of them hurried toward the site. His eyes tracked back and forth across the main trench, a ragged opening in the earth made by inexpert hands. At the bottom, still mostly buried in dark earth, was a floor of decayed wooden planking. The undergrads who excavated it had come only for extra credit and none of them were CWES majors. They stood around the trench now in their bright clothes, looking either bored or scared, holding their trowels and shovels at their sides. Geistdoerfer was a popular teacher, but he could be a harsh grader, and none of them wanted to incur his wrath.

  The site had been chosen for student work because it was supposed to be of only passing interest to history. Once it had been a powder magazine, a narrow pit dug in the earth where the Confederates had stored barrels of black gunpowder. At the end of the battle, when the soldiers had beat a hasty retreat, they had blown up the magazine to keep it out of the hands of the victorious Union troops. Geistdoerfer hadn’t expected to find anything in the dig other than maybe some shards of burned barrels and a few whitened lead minié balls identical to the ones you could buy at any gift shop in town.

  For the first few hours of the dig they hadn’t even turned up that much. Then things got more interesting. Marcy Jackson, a criminal justice major, had been digging in the bottom of the trench when she uncovered the magazine’s floorboards about an hour before Geistdoerfer arrived. Now Montrose motioned for her to step forward. Her hands were shoved deeply into her pockets.

  “Marcy hit one of the floorboards with her trowel and thought it sounded hollow. Like there was an open space underneath,” Montrose said. “She, um, she hit the boards a couple of times and they broke away. There was an open space beneath, maybe a big one.” Which meant the site was more than just another powder magazine, though what else it had been used for was anybody’s guess.

  “I just wanted to see what was down there,” she said. “We’re supposed to be curious. You said that in class.”

  “Yes, I did.” Geistdoerfer studied her for a moment. “I also told you, young lady, that it’s traditional, at a dig, to not destroy anything before the senior academic on-site can have a look,” he said.

  Montrose could see Jackson’s shoulders trembling as she stared down at her shoes.

  The professor’s stare d
idn’t waver. “Considering the result, however, I think we can let this one slide.” Then he smiled, warmly and invitingly. “Will you show me what you found?”

  The student bit her lip and climbed down into the trench, with Geistdoerfer following. Together they examined the hole in the boards. The professor called up for Montrose to fetch some flashlights and a ladder. Geistdoerfer went down first, with Montrose and Jackson following. At the bottom they waved their lights around with no idea what they might find.

  The powder magazine had been built on top of a natural cavern, they soon decided. Pennsylvania had plenty of them, though most of the big caves were north of Gettysburg. It looked like the Confederates had known it was there, since in several places the ceiling of the cave was shored up with timbers. Jagged stalactites hung from the ceiling, but some effort had been made to even out the floor. Their flashlights did little to cut through the almost perfect darkness in the cave, but they could see it wasn’t empty. A number of long, low shapes huddled in the gloom, maybe large crates of some kind.

  Jackson played her light over one of them and then squeaked like a mouse. The two men turned their lights on her face and she blinked in annoyance. “I’m okay. I just wasn’t expecting a coffin.”

  Montrose dropped to his knees next to the box she’d examined and saw she was right. “Oh my God,” he whispered. When they’d discovered the cave he’d assumed it would hold old weaponry or perhaps long-rotten foodstuffs and general supplies. The thought it might be a crypt had never occurred to him.

  He started to shake with excitement. Every archaeologist at heart wants to dig up old burial sites. They may get excited about flint arrowheads or ancient kitchen middens, but the reason they got into the field in the first place was because they wanted to find the next King Tut or the next stash of terra-cotta warriors. He waved his light around at some of the other boxes and saw they were all the same. Long, octagonal in shape. They were plain wooden coffins with simple lids held on by rusting hinges.

  His mind raced with the possibilities. Inside would be bones, of course, which were of great interest, but maybe also the remains of clothing, maybe Civil War–era jewelry. There was so much to be done, so much cataloging and descriptive work, the entire cavern had to be plotted and diagrams drawn up—

  His train of thought was derailed instantly when Jackson reached down and lifted the lid of the nearest coffin. “Hey, don’t—” he shouted, but she already had it open.

  “Young lady,” the professor sighed, but then he just shook his head. Montrose went to take a look. How could he not?

  Inside the coffin lay a skeleton in almost perfect preservation. All the bones were intact, though strangely enough they were also completely bare of flesh. Even after a hundred and forty years you would expect to see some remains of hair or desiccated skin, but these were as clean as a museum specimen. Far more surprising, though, was that the skull was deformed. The jaws were larger than they should have been. They also had more teeth than they should. Far more teeth, and none of them were bicuspids or molars. They were wicked-looking triangular teeth, slightly translucent, like those of a shark. Montrose recognized those teeth from somewhere, but he couldn’t quite place where.

  Apparently Geistdoerfer had a better memory. Montrose could feel the professor’s body go rigid beside him. “Miss Jackson, I’m going to ask you to leave now,” he said. “This is no longer an appropriate site for undergraduate students. In fact, Mister Montrose, would you be good enough to go up top and send all of the students home?”

  “Of course,” Montrose said. He led Jackson back to the ladder and did as the professor had asked. Some of the students grumbled and some had questions he couldn’t answer. He promised them all he’d explain at the next class meeting. When they were gone he hurried back down the ladder, desperate to get to work.

  What he found at the bottom didn’t make any sense to him. The professor was kneeling next to the coffin and had something in his hand, a black object about the size of his fist. He laid it quite gently and carefully inside the skeleton’s rib cage, then leaned back as if in surprise.

  Jeff started to ask what was going on, but the professor held up one hand for silence. “I’d appreciate it if you went home too, Jeff. I’d like to be alone with this find for a while.”

  “Don’t you need someone to help start cataloging all this?” Montrose asked.

  The professor’s eyes were very bright in his flashlight beam. Jeff didn’t need more than one look to know the answer.

  “Yeah, sure,” the student said. “I’ll see you later, then.”

  Geistdoerfer was already staring down into the coffin again. He made no reply.

  2.

  I met with General Hancock for the last time in 1886, on Governors Island in the harbor of New York City. He was in ill health then, and much reduced in his duties as Commander of the Atlantic Division, and I waited in the anterooms of his office for several hours in the cold, with only a small stove to warm me. When he came in he walked with much difficulty, and some pain, yet gave me the warm felicitations we two have always shared.

  We had some matters of small business to conclude. Last of these was the thin sheaf of documents I had compiled, about my work at Gettysburg in July 1863. “I think they should be burned,” the general told me, without a glance at them. His eyes were fixed on my face instead, and as sharp and clear as I remembered, from the third day of the battle. The pain had not then touched his fierce intellect, nor his spirit. “These papers offer nothing to posterity save moral terror, and would ruin many a fine career should they be published now. What benefits any of us to stir up old memories?”

  One does not question a man of Winfield Scott Hancock’s authority. I bowed over the papers and gathered them again into my valise. He turned to reach for a glass of tea, which steamed in the icy room.

  “And what of the soldiers?” I asked. “They are veterans, all.”

  But his answer was immediate. “They are dead, sir,” he told me, putting his feet up on the stove. “It is better for them to remain so.” His voice sank lower as he added, “and best for our sacred Conscience, as well.”

  A week later he was brought to Pennsylvania, and buried there, having died of a very old wound that never healed.

  —THE PAPERS OF COLONEL WILLIAM PITTENGER

  3.

  The unmarked car sat screened by a row of trees only a hundred yards from the barn. The same barn she’d been looking at for so long—just a big unkempt pile of weather-eaten wood planks, with here and there a broken window. It looked like it ought to be deserted, or even condemned, yet she knew it was full to capacity with the fifteen members of the Godwin family, every single one of whom had a criminal record. As far as she could tell they were all asleep. A gray squirrel ran up the side of a drainpipe and she nearly jumped out of her seat. Getting control of herself, she scribbled some notes on her spiral pad. Sept. 29, 2004, continuing surveillance outside of Godwin residence near Lairdsville, Pennsylvania. This was it, she thought. The day of the raid had finally come. She looked up. The dashboard clock ticked over to 5:47 A.M. and she made a note.

  “I count five vehicles out front,” Corporal Painter said. “That’s all of them—the whole family’s in there. We can get everybody in one sweep.” As the junior officer on the investigation, Caxton had been assigned to shadow one of the more experienced troopers. Painter had been doing this for years. He sipped at an iced coffee and squinted through the windshield. “This is your first taste of real police work, right?”

  “I guess you could say that,” she replied. Once upon a time she had worked on a kind of investigation. She had fought for her life against vampires far more deadly than any bad guy Painter might have tracked down in his career. The vampire case had gotten her promoted, but it didn’t appear anywhere on her permanent record. It had been nearly a full year since she’d moved up from the Bureau of Patrol to the Bureau of Criminal Investigation. In that time she’d taken endless classes at the
academy in Hershey, qualified on tests both written and oral, passed polygraph and background checks and full psychological, medical, and physical fitness evaluations, including a urinalysis for drug screening, before she was actually permitted to work a real investigation in the field. Then had come the hard part, the actual work. For the last two months she had been pulling twelve-hour shifts in the car, watching the barn that they believed contained one of the biggest meth labs in the Commonwealth. She hadn’t made a single collar yet, nor confiscated any evidence, nor interviewed a person of interest. This raid would prove whether or not she was cut out for criminal investigations, and she wanted to do everything perfectly.

  “Here’s a tip, then. You don’t have to write down the time every five minutes if nothing happens.” He smiled and gestured at her notepad with his coffee cup.

  She smiled back and shoved the pad into her pocket. She kept her eyes on the barn. She wanted to say something funny, something to make Painter think she was one of the guys. Before she could think of anything, though, the car radio lit up and the voice of Captain Horace, their superior, came through.

  “All cars, all cars. The warrant just came through. Hazmat and firefighters in place. All cars are on scene. Let’s wake ’em up!”

  Caxton’s body surged with adrenaline. It was time.

  Painter twisted the key in the ignition and threw the car into gear. They lurched forward onto the road, then swung into the broad unpaved driveway in front of the barn, their tires squealing. All around them other cars—hidden until that exact moment—came tearing out of the woods, and armored cops spilled out onto the gravel. Beside her a pair of troopers brought up a breeching device—a length of PVC pipe filled with concrete that could knock down even a steel-core door. Another trooper ran toward the door to knock and announce—to give the legally required warning he had to shout out before they could bust in and serve the warrant. Everyone was armored, and everyone was masked up. She grabbed her own gas mask off her belt and strapped it over her face. Meth labs churned out some pretty nasty chemicals, including phosphine gas that could kill you in seconds. She couldn’t see very well through the faceplate, but she ran forward anyway, drawing her weapon and keeping it down near her hip. Her heart pounded in her chest. Everything was happening so fast.