Dracula: The Un-Dead. Ian Holt
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God, my friend is home.”
“Jack Seward!” Henri Salmet opened the door of his modest farmhouse. “Where is the rest of you? Mon dieu, what happened to your hand?”
“Bonsoir, Henri,” Seward said. He looked down and saw that the blood had soaked through the handkerchief. “I know the hour is late, but…”
He couldn’t help but notice that Henri had hardly changed. His handlebar moustache is a little longer. This was the last thought to cross the doctor’s mind before he succumbed to his fatigue and passed out.
Daylight forced Seward’s eyes open. He was drenched in sweat. He focused on the fresh bandage wrapped around his hand. He had to get to the theatre. Seward jerked himself out of bed and stumbled out of the room.
“Henri?” he called out. “How long have…?”
Upon entering the kitchen, he found himself in the company of Henri, his wife, Adeline, and three children who had grown much since he had last been there. The children sniggered at the sight of him; Seward was not quite presentable. He could feel the blood rushing to his face.
“Regardez, Adeline,” Henri chuckled. “From death he has finally risen.”
“I need to get to Paris,” Seward stammered through the withdrawal symptoms that were causing his entire body to shake. He prayed Henri would think he was merely tired.
“You wish to fly to Paris?”
“I know that reaching Paris is impossible, but as close to it as your aeroplane can reach…perhaps Lyon…”
“I think you do not know what you ask. But I have always said I would do anything for a friend in need. First, you stay and rest for a few days. You frightened us last night.”
“I appreciate your hospitality, but I need to get to Paris by tonight.”
“Tonight!” cried Henri, trading an incredulous look with Adeline. “You are so worn out, you can barely stand. What could possibly be this important?”
“It’s a matter of life and death, a patient.” The lie sprang all too easily to Seward’s lips. “If she doesn’t receive a special elixir from my medical bag by…seven o’clock tonight…I fear the worst.”
Henri looked at his wife again. She nodded. “Very well,” said Henri. “A life is at stake and it’s our Christian duty to act. Sit and eat, regain your strength. We leave in an hour.”
Seward sat in relief at the table, quickly relenting to Henri’s wisdom. “I cannot thank you enough, my friend.” Adeline shushed him by placing a heaped plate of food before him.
Henri turned to his children. “Come help your papa prepare for his flight.”
One hour later, Seward carried his medical bag into the barn. He had not eaten so much in years. He hoped the food would give him the strength he needed to hold off his intensifying morphine withdrawals.
A mechanic carried metal canisters of petrol out to the field. Henri, bent over his wireless telegraph, glanced up when Seward appeared beside him. “I am wiring a friend to expect us at his field in Vichy,” he explained. “It is the halfway point, and we’ll need to refuel there.”
“May I send a message as well?” asked Seward.
“Of course.”
Seward retrieved a small card from his pocket book. “It needs to reach a person at this private wireless station at the Théâtre de l’Odéon. The post code is on the card.”
Henri tapped the wireless key. “And the message?”
TELEGRAM—Dr. Jack Seward to Basarab,
Théâtre de l’Odéon—Paris
COUNTESS BATHORY IS IN PARIS. BEWARE.
Moments later, they were walking toward Henri’s Bleriot monoplane. From a distance, Seward thought it looked like one of Da Vinci’s designs, pieced together from papier-mâché and string. He could see that the “skin” was fitted plywood. Two bicycle wheels supported the cockpit, and the propeller had only two blades. “There she is,” Henri said, beaming. “Fifty horsepower, and capable of a height of two thousand feet.”
Seward choked on his response as Henri’s son took his medical bag and strapped it into a storage compartment at the back of the cockpit, then helped him into the rear passenger seat. Seward was giddy with delight as he watched Henri kiss his wife and two young daughters and march boldly toward the plane. He could hardly believe that he would be in the air in only a few moments.
“Put on the goggles!” Henri called out, placing his own large goggles over his eyes. Seward copied him. “And keep your mouth closed as we take off. Unless you enjoy eating flies.”
Henri’s son spun the propeller, and the engine grumbled slowly to life. The mechanic held up the tail section as Henri lurched the craft forward. This might have been a very bad idea, Seward thought, watching the machine move ever closer to a dangerous precipice. His jaw clenched in terror. But mere seconds before reaching the edge, the aircraft jolted unceremoniously upward, causing Seward to feel as though all of his internal organs had dropped into his legs. Scanning the coastline, he recognized the familiar shape of the Chateau d’If, the famous prison off the shore of Marseilles. It had taken him several hours to row from Marseilles to Villefranche-sur—Mer. And now, in a matter of minutes, they were soaring above it. He knew that Bathory, like all the un-dead, enjoyed the power of flight. Now he did, too.
Four hours later, they were in a farmer’s field in Vichy, refueling the monoplane. It took all three men to roll the barrel of petrol on its side from the barn out to the field where Henri’s aircraft had landed. After the exertions of standing the barrel up on end, it was Seward’s task to use the hand-pump mechanism to siphon the petrol from the barrel. The farmer held the hand pump’s hose firmly in the aircraft’s tank, monitoring its fuel level carefully. The fumes of petrol mixed with par— affin stung Seward’s eyes. Turning his head away, he caught sight of Henri walking around his aircraft, checking every bolt and the delicate plywood skin for any damage. Seward’s mind wandered, his attention drawn to the creeping shadow cast by the monoplane as the sun moved across the midday sky. The shadow of the aircraft’s wings resembled a large bat gliding low across the ground. It was then that the darkness overtook him again.
“Don’t stop pumping!” Henri called out to Seward. “We need to be airborne before the wind changes direction. We won’t have enough fuel to reach Paris if we’re fighting a headwind. I don’t know about you, mon frère. But I don’t want my destiny to be dying by crashing into some stranger’s barn.”
The petrol overflowed the aircraft’s tank. Henri motioned for Seward to stop pumping and cried out, “C’est tout!”
Seward snapped back from his dark thoughts.
After the plane came to a rolling stop in a horse farm’s grazing pasture, Seward untied himself, tumbled onto the ground, and kissed it.
“I am never going to fly again as long as I live,” he said shakily as the engine cut silent. He glanced up to see Henri Salmet dancing on the fuselage like a child on Christmas morn.
“From our last fuel stop, I have estimated we have flown two hundred and fifty miles,” he cried. “We did it!” Henri began to calculate aloud. “Now, how far would two hundred and fifty miles be from Paris?”
“I believe London,” Seward said somberly, thinking of his home as he retrieved his medical bag.
“Now that I know for certain she can reach the distance, I will fly to London and have the press meet me there to document that I will be the first man to cross the English Channel and fly from London to Paris. It will