Inhaltsangabe
With the arrival of the "Three Great Vampires" on Earth, humans soon fall under the ruthless control of these mighty lords of the undead, but a group of psychically gifted men and women will move against them. Reprint.
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Über die Autorinnen und Autoren
Brian Lumley is the author of the bestselling Necroscope series of vampire novels. The first Necroscope, Harry Keogh, also appears in a collection of Lumley's short fiction, Harry Keogh and Other Weird Heroes, along Titus Crow and Henri Laurent de Marigny, from Titus Crow, Volumes One, Two, and Three, and David Hero and Eldin the Wanderer, from the Dreamlands series.
An acknowledged master of Lovecraft-style horror, Brian Lumley has won the British Fantasy Award and been named a Grand Master of Horror. His works have been published in more than a dozen countries and have inspired comic books, role-playing games, and sculpture, and been adapted for television.
When not writing, Lumley can often be found spear-fishing in the Greek islands, gambling in Las Vegas, or attending a convention somewhere in the US. Lumley and his wife live in England.
Brian Lumley is the author of the bestselling Necroscope series of vampire novels. The first Necroscope, Harry Keogh, also appears in a collection of Lumley's short fiction, Harry Keogh and Other Weird Heroes, along Titus Crow and Henri Laurent de Marigny, from Titus Crow, Volumes One, Two, and Three, and David Hero and Eldin the Wanderer, from the Dreamlands series.
An acknowledged master of Lovecraft-style horror, Brian Lumley has won the British Fantasy Award and been named a Grand Master of Horror. His works have been published in more than a dozen countries and have inspired comic books, role-playing games, and sculpture, and been adapted for television.
When not writing, Lumley can often be found spear-fishing in the Greek islands, gambling in Las Vegas, or attending a convention somewhere in the US. Lumley and his wife live in England.
An acknowledged master of Lovecraft-style horror, Brian Lumley has won the British Fantasy Award and been named a Grand Master of Horror. His works have been published in more than a dozen countries and have inspired comic books, role-playing games, and sculpture, and been adapted for television.
When not writing, Lumley can often be found spear-fishing in the Greek islands, gambling in Las Vegas, or attending a convention somewhere in the US. Lumley and his wife live in England.
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1
See the Creechur
IT WAS HOT AS HELL, AND FLIES THE SIZE OF Jake Cutter's little fingernails had been committing suicide on the vehicle's windscreen for more than a hundred and fifty miles now, ever since they'd left Wiluna and "civilization" behind.
"Phew!" Jake said, sluicing sweat from his brow and out of the open window of their specially adapted Land Rover. The top was back and the windows wound down, yet the hot wind of passage that pushed their wide-brimmed Aussie hats back from their foreheads, tightened their chinstraps around their throats and ruffled their shirts still made if feel like they were driving headlong into a bonfire. And the "road" ahead--which in fact was scarcely better than a track--wavered like a smoke-ghost in the heat haze of what appeared to be an empty, ever-expanding distance.
Behind the vehicle, a mile-long plume of dust and blue-grey exhaust fumes drifted low over the scrub and the wilderness.
"That's your fifth 'phew,'" Liz Merrick told him. "Feeling talkative today?"
"So what am I supposed to say?" He didn't even glance at her, though most men wouldn't have been able to resist it "Oh dear, isn't it hot? Christ, it must be ninety! 'Phew' is about all I'm up to, because if I do more man open my mouth a crack--ugh!" And he spat out yet another wet fly.
Liz squirmed and grimaced. "What the hell do they live on, I wonder? Way out here, I mean?" She swatted and missed as something small, black, and nasty went zipping by.
"Things die out here," Jake answered grimly. "Maybe that's what they live on." And just when she thought that was it, that he was all done for now: "Anyway, the sun's going down over the hills there. Another half hour or so, it'll be cooler. It won't get cold--not in this freaky weather--but at least you'll be able to breathe without frying your lungs." Then he was done.
She turned her head to look at him more fully: his angular face in profile, his hard hands on the wheel, his lean outline. But if Jake noticed her frowning, curiously intent glance, it scarcely registered. That was how he was: hands off. And she thought: We make a damned odd couple!
She was right, they did. Jake hard yet supple, like whipcord, and Liz soft and curvy. Him with his dark background and current…condition, and Liz with her--
--Which was when they hit a pothole, which simultaneously brought Liz's mind back to earth while lifting her backside eight inches off her seat "Jake, take it easy!" she gasped.
He nodded, in no way apologetically, almost absentmindedly. He had turned his head to look at her--no, Liz corrected herself--to look beyond her, westward where the rounded domes of gaunt, yellow- and red-ochre hills marched parallel with the road. They were pitted, those hills, pockmarked even from here. The same could be said of the desert all around, including the so-called road. "These old mine workings," Jake growled. "Gold mines. That was subsidence back there, where the road is sinking into some old mine. I didn't see it because of this bloody heat haze."
"Gold?" Squirming down into her seat, Liz tried to get comfortable again. Hah! she thought. As if I'd been comfortable in the first place!
"They found a few nuggets here," he told her. "There was a bit of a gold rush that didn't pan out. There may be gold here--there probably is--but first you have to survive to bring it up out of the ground. It just wasn't worth it.…"
"Because even without this awful El Niño weather, this was one hell of an inhospitable place to survive in." She nodded.
"Right." Finally Jake glanced at her--at her this time. And while he was still looking she grinned nervously and said:
"What a place to spend your honeymoon! I should never have let you talk me into it" A witticism, of course.
"Huh!" was his reply. Shielding his eyes, he switched his attention back to the rounded hills with the sun's rim sitting on them like a golden, pus-filled blister on the slumping hip of some gigantic, reclining, decomposing woman.
"Fuel gauge is low." Liz tapped on the gauge with a fingernail. "Are we sure there's a gas station out here?" In fact she knew there was; it was right there on the map. It was just the awful heat, the condition of the road, evening setting in, and a perfectly normal case of nerves. Liz's tended to fray a little from time to time. As for Jake's…well, she wasn't entirely sure about his, didn't even know if he had any.
"Gas station?" He glanced at her again. "Sure there is. To service the local 'community.' Heck, around these parts there's point nine persons per hundred square miles!" While Jake's sarcasm dripped, it wasn't directed entirely at Liz but rather at their situation. Moreover, she thought she detected an unfamiliar edge to his voice. So perhaps he did have nerves after all. But still his completely humourless attitude irritated her.
"That many people? Really?" For a moment she'd felt goaded into playing this insufferable man at his own game…but only for a moment. Then, shrugging, she let it go. "So what's it doing here? The gas station, I mean."
"It's a relic of the gold rush," he answered. "The Australian government keeps such places going with subsidies, or they simply couldn't exist. They're watering holes in the middle of nowhere, way stations for the occasional wanderer. Don't expect too much, though. Maybe a bottle of warm beer--make sure you knock the cap off yourself…yes, I know you know that--no food, and if you need the loo you'd better do it before we get there." Good advice, around these parts.
The road vanished about a mile ahead: an optical illusion, just like the heat haze. As the hills got higher, so the road began to climb, making everything seem on a level, horizontal. Only the throb of the motor told the truth: that the Land Rover was in fact labouring, however slightly. And in another minute they crested the rise.
Then Jake brought the vehicle to a halt and they both went off into the scrub fifty yards in different directions. He got back first, was leaning on his open door, peering through binoculars and checking the way ahead when Liz returned.
"See anything?" she asked, secretly admiring Jake where he stood unselfconsciously posed, with one booted foot on the door sill, his jeans outlining a small backside and narrow hips. But the rest of him wasn't small. He was tall, maybe six-two, leggy and with long arms to match. His hair was a deep brown like his eyes, and his face was lean, hollow-cheeked. He looked as if a good meal wouldn't hurt…but on the other hand extra weight would certainly slow him down. His lips were thin, even cruel. And when he smiled you could never be sure there was any humour in it. Jake's hair was long as a lion's; he kept it swept back, braided into a pigtail. His jaw was angular, thinly scarred on the left side, and his nose had been broken high on the bridge so that it hung like a sheer cliff (like a Native American's nose, Liz thought) instead of projecting. But despite his leanness, Jake's shoulders were broad, and the sun-bronzed flesh of his upper arms was corded with muscle. His thighs, too, she imagined.…
"The gas station," he answered. "Sign at the roadside says 'Old Mine Gas.' There's a track off to the right from the road to the pumps…or rather, the pump. What a dump! Another sign this side of the shack says…what?" He frowned.
"Well, what?" Liz asked.
"Says 'See the Creature!'"Jake told her. "But it's spelled C-r-e-e-c-h-u-r. Huh! Creechur…" He shook his head.
"Not much schooling around here," she said. Then, putting a hand to the left side of her face to shut out the last spears of sunlight from the west, "That's some kind of eyesight you've got. Even with binoculars the letters on those signs have to be tiny."
"First requirement of a sniper," he grunted. "That his...
See the Creechur
IT WAS HOT AS HELL, AND FLIES THE SIZE OF Jake Cutter's little fingernails had been committing suicide on the vehicle's windscreen for more than a hundred and fifty miles now, ever since they'd left Wiluna and "civilization" behind.
"Phew!" Jake said, sluicing sweat from his brow and out of the open window of their specially adapted Land Rover. The top was back and the windows wound down, yet the hot wind of passage that pushed their wide-brimmed Aussie hats back from their foreheads, tightened their chinstraps around their throats and ruffled their shirts still made if feel like they were driving headlong into a bonfire. And the "road" ahead--which in fact was scarcely better than a track--wavered like a smoke-ghost in the heat haze of what appeared to be an empty, ever-expanding distance.
Behind the vehicle, a mile-long plume of dust and blue-grey exhaust fumes drifted low over the scrub and the wilderness.
"That's your fifth 'phew,'" Liz Merrick told him. "Feeling talkative today?"
"So what am I supposed to say?" He didn't even glance at her, though most men wouldn't have been able to resist it "Oh dear, isn't it hot? Christ, it must be ninety! 'Phew' is about all I'm up to, because if I do more man open my mouth a crack--ugh!" And he spat out yet another wet fly.
Liz squirmed and grimaced. "What the hell do they live on, I wonder? Way out here, I mean?" She swatted and missed as something small, black, and nasty went zipping by.
"Things die out here," Jake answered grimly. "Maybe that's what they live on." And just when she thought that was it, that he was all done for now: "Anyway, the sun's going down over the hills there. Another half hour or so, it'll be cooler. It won't get cold--not in this freaky weather--but at least you'll be able to breathe without frying your lungs." Then he was done.
She turned her head to look at him more fully: his angular face in profile, his hard hands on the wheel, his lean outline. But if Jake noticed her frowning, curiously intent glance, it scarcely registered. That was how he was: hands off. And she thought: We make a damned odd couple!
She was right, they did. Jake hard yet supple, like whipcord, and Liz soft and curvy. Him with his dark background and current…condition, and Liz with her--
--Which was when they hit a pothole, which simultaneously brought Liz's mind back to earth while lifting her backside eight inches off her seat "Jake, take it easy!" she gasped.
He nodded, in no way apologetically, almost absentmindedly. He had turned his head to look at her--no, Liz corrected herself--to look beyond her, westward where the rounded domes of gaunt, yellow- and red-ochre hills marched parallel with the road. They were pitted, those hills, pockmarked even from here. The same could be said of the desert all around, including the so-called road. "These old mine workings," Jake growled. "Gold mines. That was subsidence back there, where the road is sinking into some old mine. I didn't see it because of this bloody heat haze."
"Gold?" Squirming down into her seat, Liz tried to get comfortable again. Hah! she thought. As if I'd been comfortable in the first place!
"They found a few nuggets here," he told her. "There was a bit of a gold rush that didn't pan out. There may be gold here--there probably is--but first you have to survive to bring it up out of the ground. It just wasn't worth it.…"
"Because even without this awful El Niño weather, this was one hell of an inhospitable place to survive in." She nodded.
"Right." Finally Jake glanced at her--at her this time. And while he was still looking she grinned nervously and said:
"What a place to spend your honeymoon! I should never have let you talk me into it" A witticism, of course.
"Huh!" was his reply. Shielding his eyes, he switched his attention back to the rounded hills with the sun's rim sitting on them like a golden, pus-filled blister on the slumping hip of some gigantic, reclining, decomposing woman.
"Fuel gauge is low." Liz tapped on the gauge with a fingernail. "Are we sure there's a gas station out here?" In fact she knew there was; it was right there on the map. It was just the awful heat, the condition of the road, evening setting in, and a perfectly normal case of nerves. Liz's tended to fray a little from time to time. As for Jake's…well, she wasn't entirely sure about his, didn't even know if he had any.
"Gas station?" He glanced at her again. "Sure there is. To service the local 'community.' Heck, around these parts there's point nine persons per hundred square miles!" While Jake's sarcasm dripped, it wasn't directed entirely at Liz but rather at their situation. Moreover, she thought she detected an unfamiliar edge to his voice. So perhaps he did have nerves after all. But still his completely humourless attitude irritated her.
"That many people? Really?" For a moment she'd felt goaded into playing this insufferable man at his own game…but only for a moment. Then, shrugging, she let it go. "So what's it doing here? The gas station, I mean."
"It's a relic of the gold rush," he answered. "The Australian government keeps such places going with subsidies, or they simply couldn't exist. They're watering holes in the middle of nowhere, way stations for the occasional wanderer. Don't expect too much, though. Maybe a bottle of warm beer--make sure you knock the cap off yourself…yes, I know you know that--no food, and if you need the loo you'd better do it before we get there." Good advice, around these parts.
The road vanished about a mile ahead: an optical illusion, just like the heat haze. As the hills got higher, so the road began to climb, making everything seem on a level, horizontal. Only the throb of the motor told the truth: that the Land Rover was in fact labouring, however slightly. And in another minute they crested the rise.
Then Jake brought the vehicle to a halt and they both went off into the scrub fifty yards in different directions. He got back first, was leaning on his open door, peering through binoculars and checking the way ahead when Liz returned.
"See anything?" she asked, secretly admiring Jake where he stood unselfconsciously posed, with one booted foot on the door sill, his jeans outlining a small backside and narrow hips. But the rest of him wasn't small. He was tall, maybe six-two, leggy and with long arms to match. His hair was a deep brown like his eyes, and his face was lean, hollow-cheeked. He looked as if a good meal wouldn't hurt…but on the other hand extra weight would certainly slow him down. His lips were thin, even cruel. And when he smiled you could never be sure there was any humour in it. Jake's hair was long as a lion's; he kept it swept back, braided into a pigtail. His jaw was angular, thinly scarred on the left side, and his nose had been broken high on the bridge so that it hung like a sheer cliff (like a Native American's nose, Liz thought) instead of projecting. But despite his leanness, Jake's shoulders were broad, and the sun-bronzed flesh of his upper arms was corded with muscle. His thighs, too, she imagined.…
"The gas station," he answered. "Sign at the roadside says 'Old Mine Gas.' There's a track off to the right from the road to the pumps…or rather, the pump. What a dump! Another sign this side of the shack says…what?" He frowned.
"Well, what?" Liz asked.
"Says 'See the Creature!'"Jake told her. "But it's spelled C-r-e-e-c-h-u-r. Huh! Creechur…" He shook his head.
"Not much schooling around here," she said. Then, putting a hand to the left side of her face to shut out the last spears of sunlight from the west, "That's some kind of eyesight you've got. Even with binoculars the letters on those signs have to be tiny."
"First requirement of a sniper," he grunted. "That his...
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