XIII - The Cadaver Carriage

  Vlad pulled his beaked mask over his face as he approached Brant and his men. The lead sentry had his back to the Plague doctor and continued to bark orders at his two subordinates, who struggled with the weight of the exceptionally large corpse that they carried. Brant’s torch splashed a circle of light around him and his companions, casting them in an orange glow surrounded by undulating shadows, and illuminating the lifeless face of the man that they were attempting to transport.

  “Come on, lads,” Brant said. “This is only the first one of the night, and I’d wager we’ve much more work ahead of us yet. Something tells me that it’s going to be a bad one tonight.”

  Vlad walked up behind Brant, coming so close that he could’ve reached the musket slung across the sentry’s back. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “Do you require any assistance?”

  Brant nearly jumped out of his leather armor. He turned on his heel, a fresh scowl on his face. When he saw Vlad standing there, the scowl almost seemed to solidify into stone. “Mother above, Plague doctor. Weren’t you ever taught not to sneak up on folk like that? I could’ve blown a hole in your chest were I not holding this torch.”

  “My apologies, Mr. Brant,” Vlad said. “I saw your men struggling with that cadaver there, and I thought I would offer you my aid.”

  Brant’s scowl retreated into a perturbed frown. “I fear that any aid you offer us will end in you trying to sell us one of your false remedies.”

  Vlad shook his head. “No remedies to sell here, Mr. Brant. Just a man trying to repay Mr. Osmond’s kindness.”

  Brant hesitated. “Very well, then. I suppose we will move this goliath of a man with more haste if we’ve three of us on him instead of two.” He offered Vlad the torch. “Here. I’d sooner carry him myself than trust him in your hands. Take the torch and give us some light so we don’t trip over anything on the way to the cadaver carriage.”

  Vlad accepted the torch. “Dr. Frost was just telling me about that. Truly dreadful that such a compartment is needed, but I suppose that is the way of things with Plague about.”

  “Aye. Not even Dr. Frost’s Blight Bane can do enough to eliminate such a need.” He pulled a small brass key from his belt and handed it to Vlad. “Take this as well. It unlocks the cadaver carriage. You’ll open it when we arrive and we can carry poor Gilbert here inside.”

  Vlad accepted the key. “Such a carriage needs to be locked?”

  Brant nodded. “We can’t have any animals getting in to feast upon the remains, and Mother forbid anybody tries to say goodbye to any Plagued corpses. I’d rather not think about what else a person might want to get up to in there. Best to leave such acts trapped within our imaginations and keep the corpses locked off.” He turned to face his struggling men. “Now, let’s get moving. We’ve likely a number of more stops to make before dawn.”

  Brant took over for the sentry at the corpse’s shoulders, allowing the man to shift toward the center of the body. Together the three of them led the way toward their destination, moving far more quickly than they had when only two of them were carrying the corpse. Vlad followed alongside them and studied the body in the torchlight. The man certainly had been a well-built giant in life, standing several heads taller than any of the men currently present. Plague had sapped the color from his face and withered him significantly, but he still maintained a significant bulk.

  They reached the cadaver carriage: a large, solid transport that looked to be spacious enough to fit at least two of the smaller vessels nearby. Vlad climbed the two wooden stairs leading to the carriage’s door, stuck the key inside, and unlocked it. He pulled open the door and stepped down off of the stairs, allowing Brant and his men to shuffle inside. Vlad heard the sound of shifting weight, and a few moments later watched as Brant and his men stepped back out of the carriage, all three of them huffing with the effort of their task.

  Brant closed the carriage’s door and approached the Plague doctor. “I hate to say it, but your assistance is much appreciated. I was dreading the day that old ox Gilbert finally died. I’m just glad the Plague slimmed him down a bit before he passed.”

  “Were you well-acquainted with him?” Vlad asked.

  “Gilbert and I were familiar, sure. He worked for the caravan for a number of years. He was a quiet fellow, but was always willing to break his back in order to get a job done. It is a shame to see him go.” Brant wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “He was a vigorous man—never sick a day in his life before contracting Plague, as far as I am aware. But after he came down with that blight, not even Dr. Frost’s elixir could save him.”

  Vlad handed Brant the torch. “So Dr. Frost was tending to him, then?”

  “Aye. She visited him a number of times, but evidently her treatment did not work. That Blight Bane must not be as effective as we’ve been led to believe. That, or he was just too large of a man for the dosage she was able to provide him with.” He paused. “In any event, I’ll be needing that key back, Plague doctor.”

  “You are going to be cross with me,” Vlad said, “but I accidentally dropped it after opening the door. If you’ll give me a moment, I will search for it.”

  “Do not bother,” Brant said, sounding aggravated. “We do not have time to dawdle here. I’m certain we’ve a sour night ahead of us, and so we must be on our way. I shall find the key when we are finished. It shouldn’t hurt to leave the carriage unlocked until then.”

  “Do you require any more assistance?”

  Brant shook his head. “No, we can manage from here. There is not anybody in this entire caravan that should give us even half as much trouble as Gilbert did—at least nobody that is currently ill. Mr. Osmond is our next-largest man, and if his corpse should ever find itself in the cadaver carriage, then we'd have much larger problems than isolating our deceased.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “Very well,” Vlad said. “Come find me should you change your mind, and good luck with the rest of your task. Do not overexert yourself.”

  Vlad waved at Brant and his men as they departed. He watched them go until the light of their torch vanished behind a nearby transport. When they were gone, he turned back toward the cadaver carriage. Vlad allowed the brass key to fall out of his shirt sleeve and hit the ground with a muffled thud. He then climbed the stairs leading up to the carriage, opened its door, and stepped inside.

  He could smell the reek of death and disease even through his Plague mask. Several cadavers lay against the walls, hidden in shadow; it was evident that while Gilbert had been their first victim of the night, he was far from their first since their most recent burial. The hulking man's large form was easy to spot amongst the collection, despite the darkness that largely overwhelmed that musty, windowless space.

  Vlad swallowed a quick, shallow breath, then took his first step toward the waiting corpse.

  ___

  The sound of the crackling fire was now joined by the distinct sizzle of cooking, spitting meat. Vlad sat watching and listening to the venison as it cooked, the spit roasted haunch slowly turning from blood red to a dark brown as the fire engulfed the raw flesh. He was lost deep within his own mind and paid little attention to Felice and Sybil’s conversation on the other side of the blaze, but every time he glanced over at her, he could see a distinct discomfort on his apprentice’s face. Once in a while he stole a glance at Dr. Frost, who sat on a log at the very limit of the campfire’s glow, reading a book in silence. She, like Vlad, seemed lost in her own mind, barely paying attention to the world around her.

  Vlad’s thoughts still remained elsewhere as he cut slices of meat and handed them to both the girls. He barely tasted the gamey flavor of the venison when he ate. Only when he heard a voice speak from nearby did he fully come back into himself. “My, that sure smells heavenly.”

  All eyes turned toward the sudden voice. They watched as the wide-bodied shadow that approached them stepped into the light of the campfire and changed into the heavyset form of Mr. Osmond.

  “Oh,” Sybil said, offering the caravan leader a kind smile. “Hello, Mr. Osmond.”

  “Hello, Miss Fletcher. I must say, you are liable to drive the entire caravan mad with that enticing aroma.”

  “Well,” Vlad said, “I am afraid there is not enough venison here to satisfy the entire caravan, but we would be more than happy to part with some for your sake, Mr. Osmond.”

  “Worry not for me. I have already eaten my supper, and I was just walking back to my carriage when I came upon that wonderful smell.”

  “Are you certain you don’t want to take some with you?” Vlad asked.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Albescu. Such habits are how I wound up looking like this.” Osmond gestured to his rotund body. “But I thank you for your generosity.”

  Vlad turned to look at the woman sitting near the horses. “And what about you, Dr. Frost? I do not believe I have seen you eat yet. Come, enjoy some delicious venison. I know you do not eat meat often, but I am certain you will enjoy a tasty morsel.”

  Frost shook her head. “Thank you, Mr. Albescu, but I’m afraid I care for venison about as much as any other flesh of the beast.”

  “I fear you would be hard-pressed to convince the great Dr. Vivienne Frost to accept any meal you offer to her, Mr. Albescu,” Osmond said. “In fact, I do not think I have ever seen the good doctor eat. One might think she sustains herself on goodwill alone.”

  “Hardly, Mr. Osmond,” Frost said with a humble smile. “I just have a bit of a… capricious pallet, and I also prefer to take my meals quickly and in private. I shall enjoy a light meal when I retire for the evening.”

  “In any case, I must be off,” Osmond said, turning to go. “Have a pleasant evening, everyone.”

  Vlad waved at the man as he wandered off into the shadows. “Take care, Mr. Osmond. Enjoy your night.”

  Everybody settled back into their places as the large man departed. Felice and Sybil continued their conversation between bites of venison, and Vlad allowed himself to also resume his meal. But even as he ate, he continued to steal glances at Dr. Frost. He was certain that, despite being buried in her book, she was somehow staring right back at him.

  ___

  The night pressed on. Travelers entered their carriages or laid out bedrolls beneath the stars, where they kept warm by huddling together in groups or by resting next to their blazing fires. And so most everybody in the caravan fell into a quiet sleep.

  Most everybody except for Vlad Albescu and Sybil Fletcher.

  The Plague doctor sat in the seat of his coach, cast in the light of the small overhanging lantern above, watching the darkness of the world that sprawled infinitely before him. Elpis had long since been removed from her harness and was hitched nearby, where she quietly slept like the rest of the caravan. But Vlad would remain awake—his mind was far too preoccupied to afford him the luxury of slumber.

  He heard movement at the other end of the coach, and looked to his left in time to watch Sybil step into the soft light of the lantern and climb into the seat next to him. She gave him a tired, feeble smile as she settled into place.

  “Cannot sleep, Night Owl?” Vlad asked.

  Sybil shook her head. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself as she attempted to adjust to the chill that permeated the night now that she was away from the fire. “No, and I do not think that I will tonight.”

  “Nor will I.”

  Her weak smile turned into a frown. “I am glad you’re awake. There is something we need to discuss.”

  “Oh?” Vlad said, feigning surprise. “So you did not come here simply to keep an old man company, then.” He smiled to show that he meant his words in jest. “What is on your mind, my apprentice?”

  Sybil hesitated for a moment, then began to speak. “Recently you told me that you do not speak your thoughts until you are certain that they should be spoken,” she said. “Well, I am hoping that such a time has come.” She paused, seemingly expecting him to interject. When he remained silent, she went on. “I have grown quite concerned with Felice’s behavior, as well as that of Dr. Frost, for that matter—even more concerned than during our previous discussion. I am completely convinced that those two are hiding something not only from us, but from the entire caravan, and that things are not at all as they seem.”

  Vlad considered all of her words before responding. “I agree.”

  “You do?” She sounded surprised, as if she had expected her mentor to push back against her assessment.

  “I do,” he said, “and I believe I have an explanation for the peculiarity that you and I perceive.” She looked at him intently, waiting for him to go on. “You are correct. I did tell you that I would not speak my thoughts unless I considered them worth speaking. Well, that time has certainly come. All that I have seen today has convinced me of that.”

  Vlad paused for several long moments in order to collect those same thoughts. He could see that Sybil was growing anxious to hear him speak. When his words finally came, they were born in the form of a slow, cautious half-whisper. “Trust me, Night Owl, when I tell you that I do not say this lightly. I have considered the following words heavily, and for a long time.” He allowed another short pause before he spoke the sentence that he would never be able to take back. “I believe, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that our companion Dr. Vivienne Frost… is a vampyre.”