For Mature Readers Only

# 4
December '06

Strange Tales Presents

DRACULA LIVES

"Bedlam"

Written by Curt Fernlund

Fiona Wesley shivered as she hurried along the mist slicked, cobbled walk. Her heels clacked, echoing dully in her wake, loud and staccato in the dense, damp air. There was no wind, no sounds of traffic in the thick fog that barely swirled in her passing, only the click-clack of her shoes as she rushed down the dark lane, hurrying from the Tube.

She couldn't believe the weather of late, even for London, and England itself. Granted London's weather was rot for the most part; if not rain-drenched then it was laden with mist that chilled right down t' the bone. Humid in the summer and cold and wet in the winter, the pleasant days seemed few n' far between, an' even more so these past few years. Global warming they said.

It did not feel warm to Fiona. It was bloody cold.

And the damned fog. Bad enough the soaking storms that had swept London for the better part of the last fortnight, but no sooner had the drenching rains and winds died away then the fog had to settle in with a vengeance. She hated it. She had not seen it so thick and damp in years, not since she was a little girl on the East End.

Like that was so long ago, rather.

Still, her little flat in Bermondsey was a definite step up from the Council Housing that she had grown up in, the tiny walk-up that she had shared with her mum, da, three sisters and grams. No privacy at all. Never a drop of hot water. Living barest means all her life. It was for shit.

Fiona had leapt at the chance to get out of the End. Sure her job wasn't to praise; she was just a waitress after all. But the money was good, and the tips were even better, especially on the good nights. She had had her doubts in the beginning. She'd taken the flat on a prayer just a bit dubious that her weekly wage would be enough. But Short Tom was free with his money, to make up for the bizarre crowd that frequented the Coal Hole on a regular basis no doubt. She made good money, which more than made up for the sexist peasant dress that Tom called a uniform, not t' mention the leers n' gropes that she had t' suffer from the patrons. An' some of them... Cor!

Click-clack – click-clack – click-clack...

An' generally the walk home weren't so bad. On a better day she'd walk right ‘cross the Waterloo Bridge an' down to Lambeth Road, then a short jog t' Brook Street right past the old hospital, n' home. But with the weather so foul n' nasty she'd taken to the Tube, walking the extra few blocks the Charing Cross, taking the train to Waterloo Junction n' then home. It cut maybe a quarter hour off her time, an' it kept her dry, but she hated the Tube with a passion. It was so noisy n' smelly despite the recent never-ending attempts to beautify the stations n' the whole system. An' it was always so bloody crowded...

Fiona smiled as she shrugged her bag higher on her shoulder as she shoved her hands deeper into her pockets. She wished that a few of them folk was on the streets now. She'd never seen it so deathly still. The weather; had t' be.

Click-clack – click-clack – click-clack...

Arrroooo...

Fiona stopped short, a gasp caught in her throat at the sound of the unearthly howl that lingered, dying away. Visions of Oliver Reed flashed t' mind as she stared wide-eyed into the stifling gray, trying to pierce the damp veil. Her heart hammered wildly as she tried to draw breath, trying to calm from the sudden start. She felt suddenly cold and clammy, sweating bullets as she hunkered and shivered ‘neath the pale glow of halogen that did little but cause a glare. She circled slowly, stepping in place as her hand dipped into her bag, fingers fumbling for the small canister of pepper spray that she carried.

Off in the distance she could see the slight flicker of light, floating as though in space. A dog barked not so far away, and the clatter of a rubbish bin. Rats perhaps... Maybe...

Fiona turned in a circle again, slowly, her body ready to bolt at the slightest queer sight or sound. She held her breath, listening intently as she tried to will her heart t' silence. The fog just hung there like a shroud. She looked to the lights fading in and out, licking her lips. Nothing –

Aaahhhh!

Clackclackclackclackclack...

Fiona ran, one hand clutching the leather strap of her bag, her sharp boot heels sliding on the slick cobbles. Heaving breath, glancing about frantically, her vision trying to pierce the misty darkness. She did not know what that was. Did not care! Just a few more blocks and she would be safe at home.

She saw the flicker of the old gas-light pillars outside the hospital and slowed. She gasped at her breath, still hurrying past the great iron gates that marked the archaic old entrance to the hospital.

The loonies... That's all it was. Should've known...

She'd been walking past the Royal Bethlehem Hospital for three years now, almost, but seemed over the last few weeks there was never a day when some queer noise didn't come creeping out of the walls n' windows. Since the State had opened the hospital again, Bedlam had been packed with lunatics; most of the worst or so the Times had said. Fiona believed it. She'd heard some strange noises from the grand, Goth hospital; screams n' crying, howls like animals or lost souls in torment.

Whatever, she wanted no part of it. That was another drawback t' where she lived. That was why the monthly fee was so low. There were stories of Bedlam, n' none of ‘em pretty Fairie stories neither.

She hurried across the lane, breathing a sigh of relief as the fog swirled a bit, thinning enough that she might see her own block and building just so in the distance. She giggled at her own foolishness, slowing her pace, glancing back a final time –

The hand was cold, ice as it shot from the darkness, strong fingers wrapping about her throat. Like bands of iron they clamped down, cutting off her air and constricting, her scream dying unheard in her throat, a low, bubbling gurgle.

Her eyes went wild and wide as she scrabbled for purchase, the soles of her boots sliding along the slick cobbled stone. Fiona raised her arms to fight, tiny fists thumping uselessly at the solid dark figure that held her so casually, firmly.

She saw him as her mouth worked open and closed wordlessly. Devilishly handsome with pale skin and jet black hair slicked back from the damp. He sported a pencil thin mustache, high pointed brows and chiseled features, but his eyes...

His eyes!

They were deep and red, and glowing? A red so dark as to be black, but shining there in the mist, pulsing almost. Throbbing...

She stared into his gaze, lost... losing as her struggles ceased. Her attention rapt as she gazed in return, longingly. Gray crowded the fringes of her sight as her lungs and brain screamed for oxygen. She blinked and he smiled, his teeth white as ivory, sparkling.

He leaned in and she ignored the fetid rank smell of decay and mold. He hissed and something cold washed across her throat. She felt a warmth wash through her body as his lips touched her skin, setting it atingle. She went slack as pain dug into her throat, ripping and wet...

Lambeth

Dracula let the woman's body drop to the cold, damp stone with a wet thump. He afforded her a final, disdainful glance, staring a moment at the bulbous bosom barely contained within the tattered remnants of her seventeenth century peasant's garb; the pleated and ruffled blouse now soaked red and torn, the laces of her corset ripped asunder. Well endowed indeed, but it had been the dress, which had drawn his interest. Nostalgia he imagined.

Her head lay at an odd angle (he had snapped her neck quickly in feasting), and her eyes stared wide and skyward as though seeking the barely full moon beyond the gray veil blanketing the whole of London. The flesh at her throat was ragged from his exuberance, the skin ripped and pink, but paling as her life's blood seeped into the stone at her back. She was nothing.

London was full of sultry, saucy tarts, buxom cows waiting to be slaughtered. Those few that caught his fancy were rarely worth the effort to turn. And besides, he had gone that route before. A world of Vampyr was a fool's dream and courted disaster. It was a doomed world, and one fraught with internal strife and eventual starvation. A controlled world however; one of his own design and making...

Dracula turned, glancing back the way that the woman had come. It seemed...

There! There it was again.

What was it? Naggingly familiar, like a whisper from the past, a half-remembered scent, a face lost to the shadows of time. It made the hackles on the back of his neck crawl, not with fear of danger, but annoyance. It was a sensation that he knew all too well of late.

The Lord of the Undead turned, sniffing the still, dead air trying to focus his senses on the feeling. He saw the filmy, gossamer glow of lights coming from the huge building barely visible in the shadows. He knew the place, deep in his memory. He recognized the ragged, twisted towers, the architecture of a bygone era that so permeated London, England's oldest, greatest city. That silhouette brought back memories, rushing through his mind's eye.

“Renfeld...” he whispered, remembering his first encounter with the eld Harker and Van Helsing. Names from his past that quickly became his bane, following him through these latter decades. And one other...

“Drake!”

And he knew then just why he felt so sickened and uneasy. He knew. It was that link that they had shared, however brief and disgusting. He and Drake and King all three melded into one form, each psyche striving for dominance. It had been one of his darkest times, and the mere thought sent a shiver running through his body.

He shook it off with a huff, staring at the grand, gothic structure barely visible in the misty darkness. Frank Drake, his pathetic descendant was within, though whether a resident or a visitor he did not know. Not that it mattered. If the latter, he would be ill prepared for the coming of Dracula. If the prior, revenge would be all the more sweet.

The Dark Lord laughed as he swirled his cape about himself, his body softening to ephemeral, becoming one with the mists, drifting towards the lights...

A Heartbeat and a Universe Away...

Dane Whitman screamed as the woman pressed her hands to his. He squirmed and squealed as he felt her strength, twisting and grinding the shattered bones of his right hand back into some semblance of order. He knew that it had to be done; the break had to be set. But GOD it hurt.

“Stop whining,” the blonde sneered as she moved her callused palms and fingers along the length of his forearm, twisting here, and popping there. He winced as she dug her nails in deeply, gasping as he saw blood when she pulled away. She nodded in satisfaction, the scars that ran the length of her face almost glowing in the queer light of the Dark Dimension. A star was in the process of dying overhead, causing a fiery display.

“Do it,” she said, rocking back on her heels, still kneeling before him. Whitman followed her gaze to the odd little creature that seemed to be her companion, if not pet. It was an ugly little thing, with a reptilian like skin that seemed to shift in color from a sickly green, to a dull gray and just as quickly a garish pink. It had huge, bulbous eyes and twig like spindly arms, no legs but a long, serpentine tail. Strangest of all, the little oddity seemed almost intelligent.

Like now as it slithered forward. It stared at Dane Whitman's outstretched arm, its huge eyes rolling slightly as though trying to focus. In fact, the creature's entire body seemed to quiver as it stared with a definite determination.

“Ack – “ the thing said, the noise clutching in its throat.

“Concentrate,” the blonde cooed, her hand drifting to its head as she scratched at the lump of gnarled flesh that was probably the horror's ear.

Whitman saw the thing sag and sigh, but then just as swiftly the look of determination swept over it again. Its mouth/beak quivered slightly, and a foul odor wafted past...

Cuurrragh –

The thing sniffled and spat, something green sizzling in the dirt.

Cur... Curare!

Whitman gasped as the monstrosity's spindly digits wrapped about his fractured arm and squeezed. The world went blurry, thankfully, as tears welled in his eyes. At the same time however, he felt a tingling, burning sensation emanating from the creature's claws and drifting into his arm and hand.

Magic!

Dane had heard the word in the mangled voice of the monster, but it was already fading from memory. He had been around mages enough; Strange, Victoria, the Scarlet Witch, to recognize a word of power. He tensed, not knowing what to expect.

But that burning, tingling faded into warmth that spread throughout his hand and up his arm. He cursed Dracula for crushing his hand underfoot as he hollered with the sudden pain of bones grinding and rubbing and trying to mend. He cursed as tears flowed down his face, twisted in agony against the apparent ‘Healing' spell that the monstrosity had sparked. Dane was certain that the creature had fouled up. No way this agony could be right.

But then the pain started to fade. He felt the tingling return as the swelling lessened in his hand and wrist. Slowly, gingerly he could move his fingers. He made a fist, weak for certain, but he could close his hand. It had worked.

Dane Whitman gasped with relief even as the little monstrosity staggered away as though drunk. Slithered rather, until it simply collapsed at the side of the scarred blonde. She smiled- not a pleasant thing- as she caressed the creature, finally turning her gaze to Whitman.

“Feeling better, Sir Knight?”

“Much,” he replied, flexing his hand. “Pity your little friend couldn't help me sooner. Dracula might not have gotten away.”

“You did well enough off-hand,” the woman said, standing. She shrugged. “Dracula is Dracula. A powerful foe by anyone's standards. It's often more luck than skill that thwarts his schemes.”

Whitman made a tight fist, watching as the woman, Rachel Van Helsing she had said, stared away into the dim. The pain was all but gone.

“Well, I thank you both for healing my hand, but it's a moot point I think. Dracula's trapped us here. The portal closed as soon as he slipped through with Victoria.” Dane Whitman shrugged towards the point where the portal had been, now a blot of gray hovering in midair. It led through the Black Mirror, back in the real world and right into Victoria's home. Dracula had done something as soon as he had stepped through. Probably something as simple as draping a sheet over the obsidian mirror. Damn, he hated magic...

“I've dealt with enough magic over the years to know that there's probably no easy way out of here. It takes the likes of a Doctor Strange to pass through dimensions and such.” The woman looked at him, looked him up and down with a sneer twisting her lips. Despite the scars on her face, Whitman had to admit that she was quite attractive. Given the present circumstances and surroundings of course.

“There's always a way, Knight,” she said with a tired sigh. “You just have to find it.”

“Heh. You sound like Captain America. And call me Dane... Rachel?”

“If you must.” She turned away again. “You should get dressed. This land is dotted with ruins from some old civilization. We should head for one and regroup. Plan our next move, and soon. The creatures that inhabit this dimension will be getting their courage back soon enough, once they sense that Dracula is gone.”

“Right.”

Dane Whitman glanced at the little critter that never seemed to stray too far from the feet of Rachel Van Helsing. One of the creatures in question? He did not know, but what else could it be? He had seen some strange things over his years; first as a scientist, then as the swashbuckling hero and Avenger the Black Knight. Everything from aliens to demons to, well... vampires, so extra dimensional monsters was no stretch of his imagination. He could not imagine however, just how much trouble even a mob of the little beasts might be.

Still, when in Rome. Dane Whitman gathered his gear from where it had fallen. He had been in a hurry, fearing for the life and safety of Victoria Bentley after Dracula had lured her through the obsidian mirror back in the reality of London, such as that was. In a mad dash he had smashed the case where his old armor had been on display, bundling that up in its cape, along with his laser sword and leapt through the mirror portal in little more than his robe and pajamas. After the brief and lop-sided battle with Dracula, he realized that he was almost crusading in the all-together and decided that suiting up would be the better part of valor.

Rachel Van Helsing was already starting out by the time Whitman was pulling on his final boot. He stood, shifting his feet a bit for comfort and then jogged up behind her and the little monster that was now wrapped by tail about her arm. She looked surprisingly clean and fresh despite their recent fight, not to mention the oppressive environs of the Dark Dimension. Whitman was already starting to sweat from the heat and thick humidity, and he figured that it would take weeks just to get the sulphurous smell out of his nose let alone his clothes, hair, skin...

Something glowed overhead, and Whitman glanced up to see another star flaring. The black night sky was like pitch, so deep and velveteen as to be a darkness that he could not imagine even existed, let alone to perceive. In contrast, there seemed uncountable stars and planets, rocks and other celestial bodies hanging on that tapestry and looking so close as though one might reach out and touch them. Blazing light streaked across the darkness, cutting it in half in the form of comets and meteorites. There were gaseous anomalies swirling in multi-hued magnificence. Crackling blobs of plasmic energy throbbed and pulsed as though alive. Yet it was dark.

The cracked and parched dirty, dusty world that they found themselves stranded upon was cast in a cold and numbing shadow that only seemed to thicken as time slipped past. The chill of that darkness conflicted with the heat, both arid and humid all at once. The Black Knight found himself sweating and shivering alike, squinting into the glare of darkness and straining to see in the dim brilliance. It was making his head hurt, trying to figure out how, so he stopped.

Magic...

God, how he hated magic.

Lambeth

Getting in was the easy part.

Of course, that was generally the case. Unless you were dealing with the mega mad like the Skull or Viper or the ultra paranoid like drug czars, most defenses were easily bypassed or avoided. The super baddies would overload their not so secret headquarters with hyped up thugs and death traps along with their state of the art security systems. The drug runners would simply hire an army of gun-toting mercenaries, paid to shoot anything that came too close. There were pluses and minuses to both of course, and the real key was knowledge; know what you were getting into and be prepared. Emphasis on the latter, when one was trained by the two biggest Boy Scouts in history.

Enter Jack Monroe, once kid sidekick, Bucky to not one but two Captain Americas. Jack's life had been a roller coaster ride of ups and downs, sometimes creeping along but more often crashing along at breakneck speed. He had been orphaned early on, in simpler times when kids with the slightest prospect of being beneficial to society were shuffled off to higher end boarding schools. It was at one such that he met the first Steve Rogers. That one had been a professor at the school, and had immediately taken a liking to the young Jack – and not in THAT way. They had a thing in common, a sort of hero worship for Captain America, the star-spangled hero of World War Two.

Little did Jack know at the time that Steve Rogers, his Steve Rogers had rediscovered the formula that had created the original Captain America. He found out soon enough though, when a new Red Skull emerged and threatened to blow up the United Nations building in Manhattan. Steve had produced his formula, created and prepared but mothballed by the US Government after the war had ended. Without hesitation, Steve Rogers injected them both and a new Captain America and Bucky had been born. That was the beginning. It was later that things started to change...

Jack repressed a shiver as he eased into what had to be the kitchen. They had agreed to go in dark and silent, trying to get as deep into the shit as they could before they started raising the roof. Both he and Jim Skully were thus suitably attired; Skull the Slayer head to toe in black tights of unstable molecules © FF Inc and trademark Reed Richards. Where Dakota North had gotten a hold of those threads Jack could not imagine, but he supposed money could open a lot of doors, not that he would ever know for sure. The only bit of color on Skully was his alien belt and harness, that thing that he had pilfered in the weird extra-dimensional tower where he had spent a few sordid and harrowing months. The belt gave him enhanced strength, speed, dexterity and almost invulnerability putting the man on a par with Jack, if not more so.

For his part, Jack was dressed in his old Nomad gear; black on black over black, mask and all. Both men were armed to the teeth as well, not that either man thought they would need it. Skully carried his ‘cannon', the big-mouthed slug thrower that shot beanbag projectiles. Not lethal, but the cannon shot out its hard-packed pillows with enough force to stun most anyone normal, and then some. Jack on the other hand was a bit more lethal. Just a bit of the nastiness that his life had become, a touch of the insanity that kept him oddly sane. He had his .44 Magnum strapped at his right in the breakaway holster, and his Glock was up and out of the way under his left arm. Harder to get to, the smaller plastic gun was more a holdout than anything, but, just in case. Along with the assortment of staves and knives and simpler black jacks and brass knuckles, there was little to fear they figured.

So why are you shakin', Jack? Cuz you're creepin' around the fuckin' nut house ass hole!

Jack took a deep breath and tried to calm his rapidly racing heart. He hated being here. Too many memories, all of them bad. He hated insane asylums, as he had spent a couple horrible years in one after he and his Captain America had been defeated by the original Cap and his partner the Falcon... and Cap's girlfriend too. Not just defeated, but humiliated, and that had been the worst. He'd been beaten by a girl and a Nigger –

No! Dammit, I'm over that!

And he was. The hell he'd gone through in that other nut house had inadvertently cured him of the craziness that his Cap's Super Soldier formula had infected him with. The original Vita Rays had been the stabilizing factor in Professor Reinstein's process that made the real Cap what he was. Jack's Cap and Jack himself, without the Vita Rays had simply gone bug nut and when they had run out of villains to bust up they started in on the Communists, then the Blacks and Asians, the Mexicans, then the homeless, the bums... Hell, anyone who did not look right.

The government had shut them down and locked them away in cryogenic suspended animation for a couple decades, basically lost and forgotten in one of the secret storehouses in the capitol. They got out eventually, then promptly got their asses handed to them by the real Cap and his partners. They got locked up again, and then the horrors had started...

“Hssst...”

Jack blinked, wiping away the stray strands of sweaty hair from his eyes to see Skully right at his side, staring at him intently.

“You okay, kid?” he whispered. It was funny almost. Biologically, Skully was older, but chronologically Jack had him by a good two dozen years easily. Such was the life of a hero turned Popsicle.

“Fine,” Jack whispered back, nodding. “Just got a bad feeling about this.”

“Trust in the Force, Luke,” Skully said with a smirk as he patted his cannon. He shrugged. “It's a state hospital, partner. Loonies and rent a cops. Nuthin' to worry about.”

Easy for you to say... partner.

Jim Skully was good all around; good friend, good man, good partner, etc. He just did not know, and that was mainly Jack's fault. He and Skully had shared origin stories on many a drunken night out, but there were things that Jack had never revealed. One such was his time in the asylum of Doctor Faustus. Faustus was one of original Cap's lesser villains with grand schemes that usually centered around making Captain America crazy, or outcast. The scheme that involved Jack had been actually to brainwash his own Steve Rogers and to use the man as the leader of some Supremacist society that the good doctor was backing. Faustus had not needed Jack, and had ‘killed' him as the final straw to break Steve.

After that, Jack had drifted from nut house to loony bin at least until the money ran out. Ironically, all the shit that Faustus had put him through had actually cured him of the craziness that had made Jack a brutal bigot, and the time spent in the subsequent asylums had done a bit to get him back into a state to rejoin society. Not enough he quickly found out, but a bit...

All of that had led to a brief stint as Bucky again at the side of the true Cap. That led to his eventual role as Nomad, the hero without a life. Mercenary, bounty hunter, and now Repo Man working for Dakota North Investigations. Current job, rescue some whacko name of Drake from the Royal Bethlehem Hospital; THE ultimate Lunatic Asylum. Jack sighed...

Repo Man spends his time gettin' IN intense situations...

Skully nodded and eased forward into the darkness. Creeping through the kitchen of the nut house after midnight was intense, and just being in the place gave Jack the heebie-jeebies, but he had to grit and grin and bear it. He'd signed on for the job, and damned if he'd back out now, no matter the bad memories.

And so far Skully had been right. They had scaled the outer wall no problem, avoiding the cameras with ease. They had crept across the outer grounds and parking lot with the thick fog as cover, right up to the service entrance at the back of the huge, gothic building. Apparently the place had fallen into disrepair since its brief time as a museum. The Tories had funded the hospital's reopening after some weirdness in London a few years past, but the upkeep had been cut, North's briefing had said. The place was full of psychos though, understaffed and minimally guarded by the looks of things. They had taken out the first two guards that they had run into without a fuss. Rent a cops, like Skully said. Not a problem.

The kitchen stank though. Even in the dim, Jack could see the paint peeling and water stains oozing slowly across the ceiling and walls. There were filthy dishes piled high in both the sink and dishwasher, as well as on the table and countertops and stove. It was like no one cared, or had simply given up and walked off. Even in the worst asylum he had stayed in, the living conditions had been better. Had to keep the crazies healthy for those days when the family felt guilty enough to pay a visit.

But then, the Royal Bethlehem had always been a worst case scenario. Back in its heyday in the 19 th Century it had been London's real haunted house so to speak. It had been jammed to the rafters with the worst of England's crazies, true, but also with those that the gentry had wanted out of the way. Everyone had known back then that once you entered Bedlam, you never came out. The books were full of horror stories of the place and the conditions behind the high stone walls and darkly wicked façade. Inmates were beaten and starved, locked away in the (then) newest form of torture device that society could think of, from straitjackets to thumb screws to birdcage helmets on the head that were so heavy they often snapped the prisoner's neck. And anyone in Bedlam fell victim to the whims of the doctors and nurses, attendants they called them back then, and Alienists. There were tales of experiments with the then still new electricity, and venomous new wonder drugs. Many of those experiments involved sexual deviations as well; AKA rape. That one Jack knew...

He had no idea what went on behind the walls of this NEW Bedlam, and frankly did not care. He and Skully were not hip deep in shit to change society. This was supposed to be a simple snatch and run. All he wanted was to find Drake and get the hell outta Dodge.

He followed Skully through the Baize door and into what was probably supposed to be the dining room. It looked only a little better than the huge kitchen had, but that was saying little. It stank too, but more of human waste than spoilt food. There was garbage on the floor, the carpeting moldy and tattered, and threadbare in the obvious spots of traffic. Jack spun quickly, gun in hand to see a rat the size of a small cat slink through a crack in the baseboard.

He breathed out, trying to calm, ignoring Skully's smirk. Slowly they moved towards the far doors, ignoring the two side exits that led to a washroom on one side and a pantry on the other. Both glanced through the grimy French doors that led to a small, neglected court yard where the fog seemed to swirl with a life of its own. It almost seemed that it was scratching at the glass, trying to get in.

Jack shivered again and hurried to catch Skull the Slayer...

Dracula melted back into solidity, watching as the two men crept through the doors and deeper into the darkness of Bedlam. Coincidence that thieves had come to the hospital at the same time as he? Doubtful. Fate perhaps, but who were they?

The Lord of the Undead doubted there was anything within the decrepit and decaying walls left worth stealing. Drugs perhaps, but little else worth any true value. So the men were either ignorant, or something more. Mercenaries of a sort seemed likely, but again, why were they here?

Pity that the Dark Lord had arrived too late to influence them enough to open the doors. The hospital was not truly a dwelling, so the old standards technically did not apply, and there were openings everywhere that he might enter. Still, there was the romance of the olden times to consider, and the basic appearance of the building simply cried out for a bit of the horrific.

The moment passed however with the two forms receding, disappearing into the bowels of the hospital. And there was Drake to consider, somewhere within. That was the first concern; vengeance and closure to a long vendetta. There were outstanding debts to be paid, oaths to be fulfilled. And if nothing, Dracula always paid his debts.

The Dark Lord of the Vampyr grinned as he willed his body to shift again. Black, coarse fur sprouted from his darkening skin as his form compacted. Hands and feet elongated, turning to claws. His arms stretched, leathern wings unfolding as his mass shifted, his ears growing out, his face expanding into a twisted snout. He flexed, his wings gathering the still air and at once he was flying higher towards destiny...

“Fuck me, Jesus...”

“Ya got that right.”

Both Jack and Jim stared down into the pit in disbelief. It wasn't really a pit, but that was the general impression from their perch on the old rickety catwalk that ran the perimeter of the huge, horrible room. The walls stretched high above them, disappearing into the darkness, and below probably thirty feet to the cold stone ground. The wood paneling had probably been attractive once, but was now warped and stained and missing in places. Dark bulbs and empty sockets littered the walls in spots, a minimal light struggling against the thick dim that seemed overwhelming throughout the vast hall. It was cold within, a dank and rotting smell that oozed and swelled from everywhere all at once. Too, they saw the remnants of chains and manacles hanging sporadically from the walls at various heights, and worse, not all of the rusty restraints were empty.

The floor of the huge room was packed with the dismal dregs of society, those lost and lonely souls that had been committed to the asylum. There were dozens of people of every size, shape and age below, some milling about, wandering aimlessly, others curled up on the floor in fetal position, some sprawled and looking lifeless. There was a constant murmur, a drone of mumbling noise rising from the pit that monotony broken by the occasional sob or gasp or scream. The laughter was the worst though, maniacal and lost and echoing up through the room.

Most were wearing filthy once-white gowns that hung limp and loose about their knees. Many were naked, and most looked malnourished and sickly gray in the queer lighting. There was obviously a pecking order within the grim halls, those that were bigger and fatter getting the food and privileges, the others getting the scraps of leftovers that apparently were few and far between.

As Jack scanned the room he indicated several poor souls that were actually chained to the walls. Most of those were skeletal and unmoving, though as he stared he saw a couple that still clung to life, hanging broken and limp from the rusting manacles. Jack saw more than a few of the inmates wearing various forms of straitjackets; mostly canvas and archaic, though some of a newer form and seemingly plastic. A loud clatter caught his attention and directly below them he saw a man with his arms caught behind his back in a leather sleeve and his head encased in a metallic ‘collar cap'. He was banging the heavy headset over and over against the stone wall, staggering back with every blow only to charge forward again futilely. The birdcage looking helmet was not going to come off that way, Jack knew from experience.

“How the hell are we supposed to find Drake in that?” he heard Skully ask. Jack of course had no idea. They knew what the man looked like, they both had a photograph provided by the Harker woman who was paying the bills, but to employ that meant going down into the extreme set from ‘Night of the Living Dead' down below. Right then and there, that was not even an option.

“I figure we save this for last,” Jack suggested trying to keep the quiver out of his voice while keeping his teeth from chattering. “It's a big place. Maybe Drake's in one of the private rooms.”

“You sound nervous, Jack.” Jim Skully was looking at him curiously, his white eyes slits in the black of the grease paint smeared on his face. “Nothin' down there gonna hurt either one of us. Lunatics get strong, sure, but we're super, man. No worries.”

Jack was about to answer when he felt something at his back. Suddenly he was airborne and falling. Someone had shoved him off of the catwalk, snuck right up on his ass he was so fuckin' scared. Serve him right if he took the nose dive into the damp sponge, but unfortunately, or fortunately based on point of view, instinct and training took over. Jack was twisting and trying to spin as he fell, working furiously to get his feet back under him. He succeeded to a point, trained by the best it was hard to forget as he came crashing down onto one of the crazies.

He hit and rolled, absorbing the impact and quickly coming up in a defensive crouch, Magnum in hand and scanning the catwalk. He afforded a quick glance to his surroundings and saw the sprawled broken body of the woman that he had landed on, her neck almost twisted backwards and her eyes staring at him accusingly. The other loonies were still milling about, though some were looking his way with a vacant curiosity.

He heard Skully choke out his name and looked up again. A panel had opened silently in the wall not so far from where he had been standing and he saw a huge silhouette of a gorilla-like man climbing through. The long arm had snaked out to grab Skully by the throat, causing the Slayer some grief apparently as he was struggling to get free. There was someone else behind the huge silhouette, but Jack ignored that, aiming at the gorilla. He fired.

The Magnum jumped in his hand, the flare and explosion sending the crazies around him into a howling frenzy. Jack tried to ignore them, watching instead the huge brute that barely staggered a bit with the impact of the lead. Jack had hit the man's arm, but he had shrugged it away, keeping Skully's throat in hand. It had given Jim Skully a chance to gain his footing though, and immediately Jack saw his partner sparkle as he kicked in his alien belt. Skull the Slayer was on the job.

With a swiftness and dexterity to rival either Cap, Jack saw Skull's arms slip up to grab his attacker. A quick twist and Jack heard the loud crack of bone, though oddly the brute that held him did not cry out or even seem fazed as his arm went limp and folded in half at the wrong spot. The big man simply stepped up and backhanded Skull to send him flying out over the pit.

Jack got to his feet and shoved his way through the loonies that were starting to gather about him, shouldering through them with little concern as he made his way to his friend's side. Skull had landed hard but was already scrambling to get to his feet amidst the encroaching tide of insane. The crazies were curious, fascinated by their sudden intrusion and still on about the gun's explosion. Jack tried to be gentle as he could as he swatted them aside, turning to back Skull.

“You okay, Jim?” he asked, and the Slayer nodded by the movement Jack felt.

“Yeah. I think we best get outta here though. The peasants are revolting to say the least.”

“No argument here. Let's – “

Both men turned at a scream and saw the huge brute that had attacked them land with a meaty thump about a dozen feet away. Jack could see him now in the flickering shadows; big and fat, his gray skin mottled and scabrous, bald entirely and nakedly raging with excitement. His right forearm hung limply, broken in half and dangling as he started stalking towards them, his good hand clawing at the air. Jack raised his gun and fired. A hole appeared between the brute's eyes but he staggered on for a few steps before finally falling to the cold stone almost at their feet.

“Jesus...” Jack gasped, licking his lips. “What the fuck was that?”

“One of my lesser achievements.”

A voice drifted down from above and immediately Jack looked up. He saw six more of the brutes lining the catwalk now and wondered how the old rickety wood was holding their weight. Each had to be seven feet tall at least and better than four hundred pounds of flab and muscle. He raised his gun by rote, taking aim without thought as his gaze drifted towards the open panel and the man silhouetted there. He was no lightweight in his own respect, a huge, hefty man dressed in a white lab coat by the look. There was something familiar though; the way he stood so confident, the glint of his glasses as he shifted his stance, the cigarette in the long holder...

“Oh, shit...”

Jack paled, his arm sagging as a wash of memories came flooding back.

“Jack?” Skull asked, sensing Jack's sudden sag at his back no doubt.

“Jack?” the figure at the opening asked, and Jack Monroe knew there was no doubt as to that man's identity. “Jack, my boy. Is it truly you? It has been a long time.”

“Jack? Who is that?”

Jack Monroe heard his partner's voice, but he could not answer. His heart was hammering madly in his chest, his head pounding as blood raced coldly through his veins. His throat was tight and he could barely breathe let alone speak to answer. The mere sound of the man's voice made his balls shrivel and slink away in hiding. Jack heard the clatter of his gun as it slipped from his limp fingers.

“Allow me to introduce myself, sir,” the man continued and Jack felt sweat pouring from every pore in his skin. “My name is Faustus, and Jack and I are old, old friends.”

Jack Monroe stared vacantly as the man gestured with his cigarette and the six brutes leapt to the floor, totally uncaring of who they landed on. Seemingly unhurt for the most part (one was dragging a shattered ankle behind) they started forward. Jack saw scars on the men, long pink slashes about their temples. Their eyes were cold and full of hate.

“As I said, these are but a few of my lesser achievements,” Faustus continued clinically, as though this were just part of a large, ongoing experiment. “I believe that you will be far more impressed with the conditioning of the whole than the simplistic removal of nerve endings of the more massive of my children. The ‘Large' feel no pain, gentlemen, though as you may have surmised, kill the brain and you kill the body. Otherwise they will fight on until death. But the others... There lay the true glory of my work. It has been hard, mind, but past defeat has opened new and exciting doors in my field of medicine. Observe...”

Jack heard Faustus clear his throat, and the crazies all seemed to stop and look his way at once, as one. They stared, drooling with wide-open mouths and vacant eyes, waiting...

“Töten!”

Jack almost wet himself as the crowd of lunatics shuffled and set, all eyes staring at him and Skully. The murmuring and wailing had stopped, and for a heartbeat the room was deathly silent. Then they all started forward, shambling, groping...

“Aw, shit...” he heard Skull say, and that about summed it up.

The inmates were apparently running the asylum.

Amusement had quickly turned to annoyance at the situation. Dracula had slain five casually as he descended through the hospital from the upper floors. The lunatics were wandering the halls aimlessly for the most part, though he had passed several cells, rooms he imagined that held others trapped and/or bound in some fashion. Those that crossed his path or got too close to his magnificence deserved little more than a swift slap from the back of his hand in passing.

He had better things to do than slay the insane. He felt Drake, closer now, the sickening bond that he shared with his descendant growing stronger with every step. His pathetic nephew was in agony, he could feel, and that made the Dark Lord slow his pace, almost enjoying the rippling effects of the bond that sought him out. Still, the mere thought of eliminating Drake spurred him on, so he pressed forward.

Finally he paused beside a door. The hallway was dark, just the slightest glow of a single lamp at the far end illuminating the decrepit surroundings. As elsewhere the paint was peeling, the paneling stained and the carpeting worn and threadbare. Antique furniture sat broken along the walls, and a planter stood near the lone, shattered window at the end of the dead end hall. There was a scent in the air of death and decay.

The lone light flickered briefly, and Dracula heard the buzz of electricity followed by the muffled sound of agony. He felt Drake's screams in his mind as pain overwhelmed them both. He was too close, and the bond was letting him feel what Frank Drake felt, and that was sharp, intense pain. He heard a woman's laughter.

Time to end this...

Frank Drake screamed though no sound escaped his lips.

His throat was raw from repeated, endless screaming. So raw that he could not speak above a hoarse whisper let alone shriek out his agony. And even if he could, the huge ball gag that Nurse Victoria had shoved into his mouth after first packing it with a freshly soiled pair of knickers stifled any noise that he might make.

He strained at the leather cords that bound him to the ‘ice water bath', a wooden stall contraption that held the prisoner in place and doused him with pressurized freezing water from the many and various pipes sprouting from the top of the stall. She had doused him time and again, and he was shivering from the shock of the sudden icy blasts that he had received. He was crying, and could barely breathe from the snot that clogged his nose. Sitting in the chill bath, he watched as his nurse strutted and strolled about him, her soft touch making his hard on spring to life.

“There's a good boy, Johnny,” she cooed, her long nails scratching lightly behind his ears. He bucked and struggled to her amusement. “That's right, luv. Give mum a show.”

Frank Drake raged in his bonds as electricity washed through him again. His nipples burned with intense pain as his penis and groin screamed in agony. His back arched as he exploded again to the gentle laughter of the wicked nurse.

Nurse Victoria sauntered about in front of him again, her left hand brushing her own enraged nipples as she held up the small remote that controlled his state of being. He whimpered silently as she smiled, licking her lips in excitement as she played her thumb over the button that would send a gazillion volts of electricity running through his nipples, cock, balls and toes. She giggled...

“Dance for me, Johnny...”

Frank writhed. He felt his heart on the verge of bursting as he thrashed about. He heard the nurses' cruel laughter as she depressed the stud, not letting up. He smelled urine and knew that he had pissed himself again. This was it. He was going to die this time...

Frank Drake sighed as the pain subsided. His head drooped as much as it was able, the leather cord holding it mostly upright to the back of the wooden stall. He felt Victoria's hand slap across his face and as he foolishly looked to her freezing water gushed over him causing a new form of agony. Victoria laughed...

“Nnnn...” Frank groaned as the water flow died off.

“You do say the sweetest things, luv,” Victoria giggled as she shot electricity through him again. Frank Drake screamed soundlessly again at her torture, his world fading away. This was it. Death at last...

He sagged as it stopped. Still alive again.

Frank Drake looked up as he heard a deep, rumbling chuckle. He had thought that he could sink no lower, but as he stared at the familiar form that had joined his nurse in the room he felt his bowels empty in sheer terror. He was helpless before his greatest enemy, not a thing that he could do. He was done.

Dracula stood before him. He held Nurse Victoria at arm's length easily supporting her weight as she dangled, kicking and trying to scream in his grip suspended above the floor. The Lord of the Vampires seemed to ignore her as he studied the remote control that he now held in hand.

“I must confess that the technology of this age has ever remained a mystery to me. My mind is set in days past, and it has seemed to me that the old ways are generally the best. This however intrigues me.”

Drake watched as Dracula extended his arm and the remote towards his helpless form. His ancestor pressed the button that sent lightning through Frank's body, and Drake was writhing again, screaming silently.

Jack tossed the Magnum aside, emptied and now useless. He had killed five of the six brutes as they shambled forward, his aim off due to the terror that made his arm shake like a Mexican jumping bean. He had speed loaded twice, now out of bullets as number six lumbered closer. He drew the Glock.

It took four shots to bring the brute down, and still he was moving. The Glock did not have the stopping power of the Magnum, but it was more accurate, less of a kick. Jack held his breath and sent a bullet into the back of the brute's head and finally it stilled. About time.

Jack turned towards Skull and fired, emptying the clip into the mindless zombies that were gathering. He dropped three and tossed the Glock aside with a clatter. Neither gun had ever touched his bare flesh, no connection back to him so he did not care. He surged forward, trying to suppress the terror still racing through his veins, turning his blood to ice.

Skull the Slayer was being true to his name as he waded into the encroaching crowd of lunatics. Jack was certain that Skully had his reservations over killing the inmates, but it was down to them or us. Granted they were not in their right minds and corrupted even more by Faustus, but it was still wrong. Not their fault. Damn England for letting it come to this.

Skull fought on, simply batting aside those that got too close. He killed a few, Jack could tell, but it was self-defense. They were trying to kill Skull and him without reservation at Faustus' command. And Faustus had not even waited around to see the outcome. His mistake. He had underestimated Jack Monroe once before. Now he would pay, if they could survive the pit that is.

Luckily it was only the brutes that had been surgically altered to not feel pain. The rest were simply mesmerized and trying to kill the pair, but they were otherwise normal. Most fell with a tap of the battle staves or brass knuckles. A few got too close, and the enhanced strength of both Jack and Jim was enough to kill, but he could not regret. He could not hold back. It was all that he could do not to collapse in terror of his bad memories.

“C'mon!” Skull shouted, grabbing Jack by the arm and charging through a gap of insanity. Skull led them to the wall, his fists slamming aside, clearing the way. “We gotta get outta here. This is pointless.”

“Right,” Jack agreed but had no idea what to do. Skull pointed up.

Jack followed his friend's direction and saw a collapsible ladder folded some thirty feet overhead and connected to the catwalk. Way out of reach. He couldn't leap that high on his best day. He looked to Skull, saw the man planting an elbow into a woman's face. She fell, her nose gushing blood.

“Sorry Jack,” Skull said as he grabbed Monroe at the belt and collar, hefting him easily. He spun twice to build momentum, then heaved as he arched into the third turn. Jack flailed as he ascended, his hands and arms groping as he slammed into the undercarriage of the old catwalk. Somehow he found a grip and dangled there for a moment, trying to get his bearings.

“Wake up, Monroe!”

Jack blinked, shaking his head at Skully's shout. He saw that the floor of the great hall was littered with the dead in their wake, but still mobbed with the insane shambling closer. Beneath him, Skull was fighting for his life. Jack hoisted himself up, swinging onto the catwalk. He looked at the ladder and a moment later unhooked the lock that sent it shooting downward. He heard the sickening crunch of flesh and bone as it smashed through one of the inmates, and a heartbeat later Skully was scrambling up towards him. Once up and safe, they heaved and drew the old metal ladder up again, securing it and finally sighing with some relief.

“Did you see him?” Skull asked after a moment's pause, and Jack stared at him.

“What?” he asked in confusion. “Who?”

“Drake,” Skull asked again. “Did you see him down there?”

“I wasn't looking, Skully. Geez, we're done here. Fuck Drake!”

Skull the Slayer ignored Jack as he made his way towards the open panel in the wall. “He's somewhere else then. I didn't see him. C'mon.”

Jack stared in disbelief as Skully stepped through the opening and disappeared. Was he nuts? Jack glanced back down into the pit, shivering to see the insane massing below, groping for him and clawing at the walls. They were climbing atop one another in their desire to get at him, to kill him.

“Fuck this noise,” Jack said and hurried to catch up to his partner...

Dracula enjoyed watching Drake writhe.

There was a bit of psychic pain from the bond they shared, but it was minimal compared to the satisfaction. His pathetic descendant deserved every bit of agony that he might endure for the years of abuse that the Dark Lord had suffered at his inept hands. Revenge was sweet.

Dracula pressed the stud again, turning as electricity shot through Drake as he studied the woman he held at arm's length. A comely wench, and a wicked one by what he had seen. She was still struggling as he held her, fighting to get away and stay conscious. That showed her spirit. This one he might use.

Dracula drew her close, allowing Drake a moment's respite as he depressed the stud that controlled his agony. He tossed the remote aside to better grope his latest victim. She was alluring in her uniform, a vision of darkness in form-fitting, starched white. Dracula stared, his gaze catching hers until she relaxed, enthralled.

He leaned in without further pause, his fangs sinking into her throat. He tasted the salty bitter iron of her blood and started lapping with a fury. He heard her initial gasp and felt her struggles cease, her form going limp to his caress and kiss. He drank deeply, ignoring the plaintive mewling of Drake as the woman succumbed to her master. He brought her right to the edge...

Dracula held her upright as she threatened to swoon. He kept his left hand affixed to her throat as he raised his right, slashing a jagged nail across his flesh. He watched in fascination as his life's blood oozed out, puddling on his wrist before he jammed his hand to her face and lips.

“Drink...” he commanded, and a moment later the nurse was suckling at his wrist. She would turn, and her deep-set wickedness would be an asset in his new regime. It would take time of course, but he had that aplenty. He turned to Drake as the woman lapped at his dead skin.

Dracula grinned to see Frank Drake staring wide-eyed and helpless. He knew what was happening but as always was impotent to stop it. Pathetic bitch that he was, he clamped his eyelids shut and started to cry. Dracula laughed.

“Can I help you?”

Dracula turned, surprised to be caught unawares. He saw a fat man standing in the doorway, bald and wearing thin wire-rimmed spectacles, smoking a cigarette from a long, thing holder. He wore a white lab coat, denoting himself as a doctor. He seemed unafraid, and slightly amused.

“Away with you, human,” Dracula commanded, his eyes flaring as he imparted his control. The man wavered for a moment, but did not leave.

“You are the trespasser, sir. I suggest you be the one to ‘away'.”

Dracula could not believe the human's arrogance. Nor could he believe his ability to withstand a simple command. His psyche and will must be strong indeed. The Dark Lord let the nurse fall to the floor, watching as the doctor watched. He seemed momentarily sad by her apparent death. Little did he know.

The human glanced at Drake, and then back to Dracula. A look passed across his face like a shadow and he seemed to relax. “You come uninvited into my home, creature,” he said, and Dracula felt an old sensation wash over him. There was pain, unwritten laws broken and ignored. “I cast you out.”

Dracula quailed as agony ripped through him. How did the man know? Invoking eld and forgotten ritual. He felt his body tense, his muscles starting to spasm. The man produced a cross.

“I believe. Leave. You are not welcome here.”

Dracula screamed as his skin started to sizzle and flay. He turned and dove through the window with a shattering crash of glass. He willed his body to change as he drifted down, and a bat soared off, smoldering...

Frank Drake stared at the doctor as he stepped away from the shattered window. For just a moment he looked down at the body of the nurse and Frank wanted to scream and shout that she had been turned, but the gag kept him still. The doctor seemed to sag a bit as he sighed.

“Poor Victoria. I am sorry. You were a loyal employee.”

Frank Drake stared at the doctor as the fat man looked up, turning his attention back to him. “And just why was a Vampyr after you, my friend? What makes you so special, hmmmn?”

Frank Drake started to squirm as the doctor came closer. Suddenly however he stopped, turning to look towards the door. He sighed again, shrugging.

“The world may never know...”

Frank Drake's eyes bulged as the doctor produced a syringe and without hesitation, jammed it into his throat. The world faded quickly at that point...

“That's him,” Skully said, holding up the photo that he had of Frank Drake. “Geez, what were they doing to him?”

Jack Monroe did not know or care. He stepped over the body of the nurse and started to undo the bonds of the man that they had come to rescue. He was so still and limp, jack figured that the man was dead, but at that point he did not care. He did not care if they got paid. Did not care if Drake was dead or not. He just wanted out. Out of Bedlam.

In the end he shattered the wooden stall, bending the water pipes back, up and away. He hefted the dead weight of Frank Drake over his shoulders in a fireman's carry and turned back to Skully. “We done here?”

“Looks that way ta me, son.”

“Then let's get the fuck outta here.”

Jack Monroe did not wait for a response as he headed for and through the door. Within moments he was heading down the old stair, taking two, three steps at a time, more when he saw the main doors at the landing. He had had enough Bedlam for one night. He would definitely be asking for a vacation after this...

London

Dracula settled into the plush chair situated prominently within the study of the Bentley manor. He stared at the flickering fire, watching the flames dance and leap as though alive. He relaxed, contemplating the night's activities...

Drake had eluded him again, and that burned far more than anything. His damnable descendant seemed to have nine lives and a stable of guardian angels. Something always seemed to save him, even as his comrades withered and died about him. What was it?

He had no idea. Frank Drake was a fool that deserved a foul and horrific death, and if it was well within his means, one day Dracula would hopefully grant it.

And that doctor. Who was he, and how was he able to withstand the commands of the Vampire Lord? It made no sense. Was he a Marvel? He did not seem so, but he had survived. Dracula would learn, and that fat man would pay in the end. As would the two mercenaries. He knew that they were involved somehow. He would learn and they would pay –

“Master?”

Dracula looked up to see Victoria Bentley standing ready before him. Head bowed and submissive, her breasts heaved as she sighed.

“How may I serve my lord?”

“Suck my dick, bitch.”

Dracula settled back as the woman dropped to her knees and started fumbling at the buttons of his trousers. She leaned in even as her cool, soft skin brought his member forth. He felt her lips encircling him, her tongue caressing and quickly dismissed her ministrations. He rarely needed sexual satisfaction, but she was there and willing. He let her have her way.

“Drake...” he whispered, hissing.

He could not get it up...

BEDLAM

Next Issue: With Frank Drake free and clear and in the clutches of Dakota North, what comes next? Oh, wait... there's still that mystery of Rachel Van Helsing, the Black Knight and Eric Arcane trapped in the Dark Dimension. How will they get free? And what about Edith Harker? Isn't she dead?

What's the dilly-o?

Probably not what you think, if you know me.

Be here...