DRACULAS
a novel of terror by
Blake Crouch
Jack Kilborn
Jeff Strand
F. Paul Wilson
Draculas copyright (c) 2010 by Blake Crouch, Joe Konrath, Jeff Strand, and F. Paul Wilson
Cover art copyright (c) 2010 by Carl Graves
"A Sound of Blunder" by J.A. Konrath and F. Paul Wilson copyright (c) 2008 Pocket Books, originally published in Blood Lite, edited by Kevin J. Anderson
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors' imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Blake Crouch, Joe Konrath, Jeff Strand, and F. Paul Wilson.
For more information about the authors, please visit their websites:
www.blakecrouch.com
www.jakonrath.com
www.jeffstrand.com
www.repairmanjack.com
For more information about the book, please visit:
www.draculasthebook.com
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction by J.A. Konrath
Dedication
Draculas -- A Novel of Terror
Bonus Material
Interview with Crouch, Konrath, Strand and Wilson
"Cub Scout Gore Feast" by Konrath and Strand
"Serial" by Crouch and Kilborn
"A Sound of Blunder" by Konrath and Wilson
Draculas Deleted and Alternate Scenes
Excerpt of Crouch's Desert Places
Excerpt of Strand's Dweller
Excerpt of Wilson's The Keep
Excerpt of Konrath's Shaken
Biographies of Crouch, Konrath, Strand and Wilson
Bibliographies of Crouch, Konrath, Strand and Wilson
Exclusive Behind-the-Scenes Making of Draculas
Acknowledgments
Coming in 2011
INTRODUCTION
I grew up reading books where vampires were scary.
This novel is an attempt to make them scary again.
When I thought of the premise that became DRACULAS, I knew it needed to be a group project. Take four well-known horror authors, let them each create their own unique characters, and have them fight for their lives during a vampire outbreak at a secluded, rural hospital.
This is NOT a collection of short stories. It's a single, complete novel.
And it's going to freak you out.
If you're easily disturbed, have a weak stomach, or are prone to nightmares, stop reading right now. There are no sexy teen heartthrobs herein.
You have been warned.
Joe Konrath
October, 2010
For Bram Stoker, with deepest apologies
DRACULAS
DRACULA'S SKULL UNEARTHED IN TRANSYLVANIA! A Romanian farmer discovered a skull with unusual properties while plowing his field near the town of Brasov. The relic, which appears to be ancient and human, has thirty-two elongated, razor-sharp teeth.
--NATIONAL TATTLER
VAMPIRE SKULL A HOAX? Discovered in Transylvania, the humanoid skull with sharp fangs is considered by many to be a fake. Fueling this speculation is the owner's refusal to let scientists analyze the discovery, claiming it embodies an ancient curse.
--THE INQUISITOR STAR
MILLIONAIRE BUYS DRAC'S HEAD! Eccentric recluse Mortimer Moorecook of Durango, Colorado, has apparently purchased the so-called "Dracula skull" for an undisclosed sum, from the Transylvanian farmer who unearthed it a week ago. It isn't known what Moorecook, who made his fortune on Wall Street during the late 80s, plans to do with the skull, though many are hoping it will be turned over to scientists for study. Moorecook, who was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, couldn't be reached for comment.
--THE DRUDGE REPORT
Moorecook
MORTIMER Moorecook opened the massive oak door of his hilltop mansion just as the FedEx deliveryman was reaching for the doorbell.
"Hi, Mr. Moorecook, I have--"
"You have my package."
"Yeah. Must be special. Only thing on my truck. Never been called out on a Sunday evening before."
Mortimer looked at the cardboard box, covered in FRAGILE HANDLE WITH CARE stickers and some Romanian customs scrawl. His mouth went dry, and his already bowed knees threatened to stop supporting him.
Finally.
"Mr. Moorecook?"
The old man glanced up at the buff FedEx driver, thinking how he'd once been that young and vital. Never could've imagined how quickly and completely that sense of immortality deserts you. So much taken for granted.
"What?"
"Just need you to sign for it so I can keep my job."
Taking the pen in his trembling grasp, Mortimer scribbled in the window of the electronic tracker. Then the box was in his hands. It barely weighed three pounds, but the magnitude of its contents made his arms shake.
"Shanna! It's here! It's here!"
Mortimer limped through the atrium as quickly as his thin, frail legs could manage, breathless by the time he reached the study. He set the box down on the coffee table in front of the hearth and eased back onto the leather couch just as his legs were about to give out.
His hospice nurse--a zaftig, forty-something woman named Jenny--rolled his IV bag into the study and plugged the line into his arm.
"Oh, stop it!" He swatted air in her general direction. "I ought to get a restraining order against you people. Everywhere I go, you're always stalking me with that thing!"
But even as he spoke, he could feel the morphine-push flooding his system like a good, wet dream.
"Mr. Moorecook, you know what happens if we have any lapses between dosages."
"Yeah, I might actually feel something."
"Is writhing around on the ground in unimaginable pain the kind of feeling you want?"
Of course not, he thought. That's the reason I...
"Mortimer!" Shanna appeared in the doorway of the study. "It's really here?"
He nodded, eyes twinkling, then turning cold again as he glanced toward Jenny. "Leave us."
Shanna walked past the nurse and came around the sofa. Mortimer could smell whatever body wash she'd used in the shower that morning as she sat down beside him, her brown curls bouncing off her shoulders like an honest-to-god shampoo commercial. She was thirty-five, had been single when she moved out to Durango at Mortimer's request, but in the eight weeks she'd been here, she'd met a sheriff's deputy and inexplicably fallen for him. It remained beyond Mortimer's comprehension how this gorgeous biological anthropologist had seen anything in that redneck, who, as far as Mortimer could tell, was the epitome of what made the world throw-up in its mouth when it thought of Red State America.