They Eat Billionaires, Don't They?
by Invisible Ranger (2018)
Disclaimer: The Strain and its characters are the creation of Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan.
Dedicated: To Ellie and Katherine, my Strain pals, and everyone who wonders what the show would have been like as a comedy.
Stoneheart Tower, Manhattan: 2 Weeks Before Night Zero
"Sir, you don't look so well."
"I don't feel so well." More often than not, it was the case for Eldritch Palmer. Today it felt as if someone had filled his joints with shards of glass.
"Shall I call a specialist? The physical therapist, perhaps?" offered Fitzwilliam.
Palmer shook his head. Even that hurt. "At this hour? No. A hot cup of tea will be all."
"Very well."
He was gone as if he'd never been there. If only the pain could be such. Palmer groaned lightly. There were not many things to do while prone on one's back. He could only watch so much of the constant stream of news on the wall-mounted television, and reading was out because of the way it cramped his hands and neck. So, he waited. And admired the view.
There were millions of people in this city, in its towering skyscrapers, who lived their happy lives without a second thought, who had never contended with such pain. Palmer envied them.
"Here you are, sir. Careful, it's hot." Fitzwilliam reappeared at his side, a steaming china cup of Earl Grey in his hand.
Palmer sipped delicately, trying not to burn his tongue while savoring the warmth. "You always know exactly what I need, Fitzwilliam. What would I do without you?"
"I suppose you'll never have to know, sir."
Richards Street, Red Hook, Brooklyn
Vasiliy Fet stretched his long frame out after he pulled off his boots. He was sore all over; it had been a long, cold day and he was ready to relax for the evening. A spread of his favorites had been laid out on the coffee table: fresh pieroschki, potato salad, a bottle of bourbon he'd been saving specifically for this night. A chocolate mousse in the freezer for dessert. Within the cavernous loft all was dark; the only light came when he turned on his big-screen TV and it flickered to life.
"Perfect," he said, a lopsided grin on his lips.
The orchestra had begun the warmups for the new Bolshoi production of La Bayadere. Fet popped one of the little dumplings into his mouth and savored.
118th Street, Spanish Harlem
A shadow watched from among the shadows. This part of the city intrigued him. Humanity as a whole filled him with a curious mixture of revulsion and desire, and this place attracted the worst of them. On one corner several of them openly conducted a drug deal; on another, two scantily clad women plied their trade despite the bitter cold. Bands of young men roamed like packs of jackals. No one noticed him. If they had, they might have thought he was a Wall Street banker who'd taken a wrong turn, or perhaps an undercover agent from one of the many alphabet soup bureaus. They didn't. They went right on at their pathetically human, sordid lives.
He smiled, a wicked blade in the dim light. This was where he would find what…who… he needed.
"On second thought, I feel like a hot bath this evening," Palmer said. The tea had enervated him, as it always seemed to. He'd rarely used the walk-in tub since it had been installed a few months ago; getting in and out was a challenge unto itself.
"Of course. Would you like to choose the settings?"
"Help me up." He must have a second wind indeed, he thought, as Fitzwilliam, carefully used his strong arms to pull Palmer out of the bed and into an upright position. The sudden rush of blood felt invigorating.
The bathroom had been built with his limited mobility in mind, and it wasn't a long walk. It was as expensive as the rest of the penthouse, its marble and chrome surfaces reflecting the skylights. The tub itself could have easily seated four adults comfortably, and featured multiple nozzles and jets. As with everything else in Palmer's living quarters, no expense had been spared. He was slightly embarrassed to admit he didn't know what any of the features were.
"Hot but not too hot. Some essential oils, I think," Palmer said, thinking out loud. "And another cup of tea," he added.
"If you'll give me a minute, sir."
Satisfied, Palmer limped to the tub. As he opened the door, however, he stumbled backward, nearly collapsing. His heart raced. The cry that escaped his lips didn't sound human.
"What's wrong?" Fitzwilliam was back, all thoughts of tea forgotten. "Sir, are you all right?"
"There's…" Palmer panted, struggling to find his voice. "Something in there."
His valet steadied him, then cautiously peered into the bath. "What was it? Whatever it is, it's gone now…"
"There was something there. I…only caught a glimpse of it." He didn't want Fitzwilliam to think he was having hallucinations, but it seemed impossible that the immaculately clean bathroom could have been host to, well, whatever it was. "Have an exterminator called at once." That's one of the nicest things about being rich…you simply ask, and it is done.
"Of course, sir," said Fitzwilliam, no trace of derision in his voice.
"On second thought," said Palmer, "call the mayor's office. Tell them I want the city's best exterminator here at once." He still felt woozy after the brief glimpse he'd stolen of the thing in his bathtub, and he didn't want to take any chances.
Fitzwilliam didn't even blink. "Right away."
Palmer exhaled, and tried to think about things that didn't have long legs and tiny, beady, hungry eyes.
The shadow kept watching. So far he'd seen three drug deals, a dozen hookers of varying ethnicities and genders, teenagers stealing a car, stray dogs fornicating, and absolutely no sign of the police.
He was getting hungry.
"Where do I possibly start? It all looks so good," he said to himself in his genteel German accent. "It's a whole buffet of miscreants."
The prima ballerina hadn't even taken her first leap when Fet's mobile phone…his emergency ringtone…rang.
Shit, he thought before letting it ring twice, that's never a good thing. "Yeah?" he grunted into the receiver in the middle of the third ring.
His boss's voice sounded like it had been woken from either sleep or a bad hangover. "Suit up. We just got an emergency call from downtown," he said, meaning city hall, "and they asked for you specifically."
"Seriously? On a Friday night? I just got done pulling ten hours." Fet's entire body ached, his dinner was getting cold, and there was a ballet to watch. He wasn't in the mood to go anywhere.
"If you want to keep your job, you're doing this, Vasiliy. Now get going, and don't be a jackass when you get there."
Fet groaned. "Fine. Where exactly am I going?" he asked, already envisioning the traffic.
His boss read off the address and hung up, no doubt to get back to recovery from the hangover.
The location was instantly recognizable as midtown Manhattan, but it took Fet a moment to place it. The Stoneheart tower, which he'd only been to once or twice, an Art Deco monolith that he privately thought of as the modern headquarters of Sauron and the Galactic Empire rolled into one, even if they had excellent taste in architecture.
"Great," he muttered, grabbing his boots from beside the recliner.
He was salivating openly. Though he knew better than to eat in public, it was tempting. They might just write it up as some crazed drug addict gone mad…if anyone noticed at all.
Scheisse.
It was then that he saw what he'd been looking for all this time. And he, sadly, was not on the menu tonight.
"I told you, I'm a city exterminator. Your boss called mine. I'm here to get rid of some kind of vermin," Fet explained to the desk guards, who for some reason thought he was there to deliver their sub sandwiches. He gestured to the homemade set of body armor he wore on top of his standard gear, which he only broke out for the nastiest of munchers. "You think I'd be wearing this if I were delivering food?"
It was late…he'd been sitting in heavy traffic over an hour…and the two men at the desk were still skeptical. Fet was starting to think it was all someone's idea of a prank when the taller guard heard his phone ring.
"Oh, yes. I'm sorry, sir. I'll send him right up." Hanging up and turning to Fet, he said, "Penthouse, all the way up. Mr. Palmer's quarters. You need one of us to go with you?"
Fet surmised the two men. He was a head taller than either of them, and dressed as if he were ready to go to war. A three-foot length of rebar was slung across his back. "Nah, I'll be fine. You, uh, get many rats here?"
As he walked toward the elevator, he could have sworn he heard one of the guards saying "Only the two-legged kind."
It was hard not to stare. Fet followed Palmer's valet, who had introduced himself as Mr. Fitzwilliam, into the penthouse. Whoever Eldritch Palmer may have been…and Fet had heard plenty of stories…the man had an eye for art and architecture. A full wall of panoramic windows ahead looked out upon the city. The place was practically a museum. He whistled low under his breath.
"Not bad. Little out of my price range, though," he said, awe in his voice.
"Mr. Palmer was shaken up by whatever he saw in the bathtub. I've calmed him down, but he wanted whatever it was gone."
"No matter what you think, there's rats in every building in this city," Fet said, pulling the rebar from its holster. "Even in a place like this. No offense."
Fitzwilliam blinked. "None taken. Why don't you come this way. And please, try not to be too loud. Mr. Palmer's not in excellent health."
The bathroom was no less impressive. Palmer, whom Fet had only seen pictures of on TV, sat upright on a chaise. Whatever he'd seen, the man was still shaking.
"You're late," he snapped, pointing. "I need whatever this…thing…is, gone. I trust you can handle it."
"Well, I'm not here to read it a bedtime story." The big man flashed a lopsided grin.
As Palmer looked on nervously and Fitzwilliam stood by impassively, the exterminator carefully checked for the usual signs of vermin: scat, or if that wasn't there, tracks. There weren't any crumbs of food, so nobody had been eating while in the bath.
"Is it true there are alligators in the sewers?" Palmer said, either trying to make conversation or allay his own fears.
"Nah. Just a myth," said Fet, now examining the caulking, looking for any miniscule breaches. "Trust me, I've been down there plenty of times. Lot of people still believe that one."
Palmer didn't feel quite so foolish. "So, have you found anything yet?"
"Not yet." Fet pulled his miniature UVC lamp from his belt and shone it up and down the surfaces of the bath. Not even a drop of urine. "What did you see, anyway?"
"I'd rather not talk about it. Just find it and get out of here."
Fet shrugged. "Fine." He was beginning to think he had been put on, though neither Palmer nor Fitzwilliam seemed like the prankster type. Was this how the super-rich amused themselves, by dragging working-class guys around like puppets?
It was then that a flash of movement caught his eye. Too small to be a muncher, for certain. Fet thought it might be a rogue roach, but then…
"Heh. Gotcha, little bastard." With a swift movement, the intruder was firmly caught between Fet's gloved thumb and index finger. It writhed and squirmed, but to no avail. "What you've got here is a little Scutigera coleoptrata. Looks mean as hell but it's harmless, really." He moved to show Palmer.
What escaped the older man's lips was a cry which sounded inhuman. "GET THAT THING OUT OF HERE!" Palmer screamed at a volume he hadn't thought himself capable.
"Do you mind?" Fitzwilliam said, moving to his employer's side. "Just get rid of it."
"What? Afraid of a little centipede?" Fet grinned rakishly. "I'd recommend you treat the whole apartment. When you see one, there's dozens you don't see, and…"
"Are you deaf? Out! OUT!"
With a flourish, Fet simply squashed the creature with his right hand. "I'd ask if you want me to bury it at sea, but then his relatives might show up for the funeral, and…"
Palmer was whimpering so loudly that he almost didn't hear the soft, German-accented voice from behind him. "It seems I've chosen a bad time."
A fourth man had entered as if teleported there. Tall, silver-haired, immaculately dressed.
"Herr Eichhorst…you mustn't do that to me. Especially not," Palmer gestured to Fet, "when I've already had a fright."
The German calmly regarded the situation. "Is there some sort of disturbance?"
"Nothing like that. Just that your rich friend here is scared of creepy crawlies. Just pulled a centipede the size of Godzilla out of his bathtub."
"Ah." The man's ice-blue eyes danced with private amusement. "Herr Palmer, courageous as ever."
"There's nothing funny about it. My home…my bathtub…is infested, and you're all amused by this?"
The German looked to Fet, who looked to Fitzwilliam, and all three seemed to shrug in unison.
"I'll have you know, I could have your job for this…insolence," Palmer said to Fet, though it came out more as a whine than a threat.
Shouldering his rebar before pulling off his rubber gloves, the big man sighed. "Like I said, you may have an infestation. Call the office in the morning and we'll get somebody out here ASAP." He produced a card from his belt, trying desperately not to laugh. "You have yourself a good night, eh? Try not to let the bedbugs bite. Ooh…maybe not the best turn of phrase. I've had better."
With that, he was gone, leaving Palmer alone with his valet and Eichhorst. "Fitzwilliam, leave us. I'll need another cup of tea."
"As you wish."
Eichhorst's lips twisted in a wicked grin. "A curious thing to be afraid of, how did the American put it, 'creepy-crawlies?'"
"To be fair, it was a shock to my system." Palmer tried to maintain whatever dignity he had left, which wasn't much. "I'm an old man and my heart is weak. I can't be expected to react the way a younger man would."
"I don't imagine so." Eichhorst laced his long fingers together. "But, on somewhat of the same subject, I have important news for you. There is someone I have found who may be of use to us."
And for the first time that night, Palmer felt optimistic. "Tell me."