The Strain:Another Season
Episode 1

Night Hero Part One
Chapter Two


Eichhorst's Stoneheart Apartment

The young Adonis kneeling at Eichhorst's feet finishes his work and removes the face protector. Now the noise has stopped he can hear the television and twists around on his haunches to look. He watches the Well Dressed Man appeal for a second or two and, pointedly not looking at his client, begins packing away his equipment.

The silence is painful and there is no movement from Eichhorst. Finally, the poor man is unable to resist a glance any longer. He raises his eyes for a moment and they meet Eichhorst's looking down. The manicurist stands up and the unblinking gaze follows him as he straightens and walks quickly to the door. His shoulders relax as he turns the handle but it's too soon.

'Wait,' says Eichhorst.


Zagros Mountains (Modern Day Iran-Iraq Border) - 1508

A European merchant caravan of about thirty men is camped for the night. There's a fire with something skinned cooking on a spit. About half are patrolling the perimeter with swords, hand cannons and arquebuses. The horse-drawn wagons and camels loaded with chests and bundles of silk are in the centre. There are no tents – the sleepers just lie wrapped in their fur cloaks.

One young man is edgy and, indicating the security detail, says in Italian 'It's still not enough. Remember what the seer said. They need silver shot.'

An older, fatter, better-dressed man sneers 'I'm not wasting my profits just because you believe an old woman's ghost stories, Paolo. Now go and get some sleep - you're on third watch.'

Paolo stomps sulkily off and packs some small silver coins down his hand cannon's barrel before cuddling it to sleep.

Paolo wakes to explosions, screams, neighs and camel gurgling. He sits up as his boss falls across him, eyes staring, pale with exsanguination. There are two puncture wounds on his throat and a worm is wiggling out of one towards Paolo. He screams. Horrified, he pushes the body off and scarpers taking a point blank face shot at one of the 'bandits'. The silver coins embed in a strigoiface melting it horrifically.

Paolo flees in the moonlight. A terrified horse overtakes him and he grabs its harness. It is a hairy-legged packhorse, not a sleek thoroughbred but it's obviously still faster than him. It doesn't neigh or whinny or nicker. We hear only its breathing and hoofbeats. Paolo mounts untidily and gallops, legs and arms flailing, until he and the horse run up against a wall of rock. There is still no whinnying or rearing although there is an equine grunt. Paolo leans forward and dismounts correctly. He urgently feels along the wall for any exit. With the sounds of strigoi pursuit getting closer, he enters a cave via a tiny slit. It is way too small for the horse and now there is some terrified neighing as Paolo goes right to the back and cowers. The cave and opening have metallic ore in the walls. Outside, the strigoi gather and scent that he's inside but won't enter.

Their leader arrives. It is Vaun but less scarred than the vampire we know.

Telepathically, he orders the others, Silver! Stay for as long as you can. We can always track him later.

Paolo finds a clay urn, almost completely buried at the back of the cave. It's as big as he is. He kicks it open and discovers a stash of tablets covered with Sumerian script and bound back and edges with silver.


Boerum Hill, Brooklyn Present Day

A red-haired Irish American is at home trying to persuade his African American wife and adorable mixed race children to pack and leave.

The man says, 'Come on Loretta, honey, I can't do this unless I know that you and the kids are safe in Jersey.'

Loretta replies, 'What I can't figure is why you gotta do this at all.'Then she pleads, 'Why won't you come to Alisha's with us?'

Her husband is determined, 'I want to take back my city from the thugs and looters.'He starts to enthuse, 'No badges, no copcams, no Internal Affairs just guilt-free punk bashing. The whole precinct is doing the same.'

Loretta begins to get suspicious. 'Mmm-hmm – does that include Lena Bartoli?'

The man tries to be nonchalant. 'Well, yes I think the Captain said she would be leading us…'

Loretta is suddenly lit up. 'He-y-ell No! You're just jealous of this Bruce Wayne character aren't you?'She indicates the image of Eichhorst the Well Dressed Man currently being shown on FinchTV and continues, 'Stephen James Collins. You are too old for this shit! And good luck fighting evil without your gun.'

She grabs Steve's sidearm and storms out to pack it.

5-year-old Michael runs towards her asking 'Is Daddy going to be Judge Dredd or Batman?'

'Neither baby. Daddy's coming to Auntie Alisha's with us,' replies Loretta.

Steve turns away and whispers, 'Nope. Daddy's gonna be Jim Gordon.'

Unfortunately for him 8-year-old Katie is just coming in and overhears.

'MOM! Guess what Dad just said….'


Midtown Manhattan - Present

In a skyscraper, the roof and sides of which are bristling with communications masts, satellite dishes, solar panels and wind turbines, there is a windowless, well-appointed office with a bank of TV screens showing various news channels around the world.

A stunning blonde woman sits there wearing a beautifully tailored trouser suit with polo neck and high heels. She looks almost exactly like Charlize Theron. Her hair is in a smart up-do but not too much time has been spent on it. She is wearing white gloves like the Queen. There's a silver-coloured metal locket around her throat resting on the polo neck. The locket is a flattened oval shape and about the size of a man's thumb print.

She is rewinding, fast-forwarding, pausing and generally scrutinising the footage of Well Dressed Man and especially the people fighting him. She's alone. There's a digital photo frame on her desk currently showing a smiling blonde girl who looks about five years old.

Her tablet chirps – the text of the email is not seen but she smiles and dashes off a reply.

Now the photo frame is showing a family group – no one looks like our blonde. There's an elderly lady, a man in his sixties, a middle aged woman and two young men in their twenties or early thirties – the older one looks exactly like Tom Hiddleston, the younger more like a blond Ben Whishaw. They are all blond or white-haired and all good-looking and smiling. In front of the older man there is a cake with candles showing the number "70". The woman's eye is caught by this shot and she picks up the frame and taps the side to hold the current image. Close up, a date stamp of "25.08.89" is visible. And, along with the blond, there are piercing blue eyes all round. The woman smiles wistfully as she gazes at the picture and absently rolls the locket around in her gloved fingers.

She remembers...


Hoek van Holland 1989

A huge car ferry is in the background as a much younger version of the suited lady (looking not dissimilar to Amber Heard) is wearing jeans, DMs, backpack and a ponytail. She disembarks looking for someone to pick her up. It is a blazingly sunny day.

The Tom Hiddleston lookalike from the photograph is similarly attired and holding a board saying 'Sandra Edwards'. He smiles as he spots the young woman. He approaches and it is obviously a first but cordial meeting.

They giggle a bit and get their greetings mixed up. Sandra has a cut glass English accent. Her new friend has a slight Dutch accent.

Eventually the young man is the first to regain composure and he extends a hand. 'Hi. I'm Cornelius Henke – Corey if you can't stifle a laugh otherwise…'

Sandra smiles as she shakes it, 'Sandra Edwards - as you know,' indicating his placard.

They're a bit shy and awkward with each other.

Corey asks, 'Did you have a good crossing?'

'Yes, thank you – great weather, really calm seas. Thanks for coming all this way to pick me up, by the way. I could easily have got the train to Maastricht.'

'It's my pleasure. You'd rather sail, or train, than fly then, I take it.'

'Yes – much rather. I do fly - I mean you can't get the ferry to places like Australia…but I'd prefer to avoid all that airport stress and waiting and baggage restrictions and stuff, if I can.'

Corey says, 'You must be looking forward to the Tunnel opening, then?'

Sandra replies enthusiastically, 'Oh absolutely! Can you imagine it – lunch in London and dinner in Paris? My ex is a vet and he's totally against it - says it's gonna let rabies and all kinds of nasty diseases into the country…'

Corey grins, 'And, let me guess, you like the idea of it all the more cos he hates it?'

Sandra grins up at him, 'Yeah – something like that.'

'And thanks for speaking English. I speak a little Dutch and German but nothing like as well as you.' she adds.

'Don't mention it. Can I take your luggage?'

Sandra hands it over with a gracious "Thank you" rather than the usual "I can manage".

They walk side by side in silence for a while.

'You're a lot younger than I imagined for a reporter.' Corey comments.

'Oh – er yes.' She cringes with embarrassment. 'Yeah, sorry about that – look, I'm not really a journalist yet. I didn't think you'd let me come along if you knew I was only eighteen. I'm on a gap year before going to Boston to study journalism next autumn. But I do have a special interest in Eastern European folklore, and I can't wait to talk to your contact.' There's a pause. 'You're a lot younger, as well, and blonder, than I imagined for a Mossad agent,' she says.

'Well, I'm not directly employed – I'm just trained by and affiliated with them for this type of case.' Corey explains candidly. 'I am Jewish by ancestry and tradition but I guess lots of blue-eyed Dutch has got in there over the centuries. It helps sometimes when getting closer to the marks.' He shrugs and pauses. 'And this assignment is very important to me too. Nazis killed my great grandfather and tried to rape my great grandmother.'

'Oh. I'm so sorry,' says Sandra. A pause.'Your great grandparents? It was my grandparents' war,' she says.

'Yeah. We breed early in my family.' He shrugs and grins. 'Well, 'til my brother and me – as our mother is never shy to point out.'

Sandra goes on. 'My granddad was there at the liberation of Belsen. He never talked about it except for this one time when I was eleven and I made a throwaway comment about one of my school friends. He made me read graphic accounts of the most horrific… He showed me his pictures. I threw up. And I cried and cried that I was part of the same species as the Nazis – never mind the same race. Can you imagine how awful it would be to have been to be born German in our generation and have to deal with that guilt?'

Corey says, 'Not all Germans are Nazis huh?'

'Well, they're not now, are they?' says Sandra.

Corey is thoughtful for a moment, and then pulls something that looks much like the present day older lady's locket from under his T-shirt, removes it and shows it to her.

Their heads get very close – it looks as though he takes a surreptitious sniff of her hair.

An extremely close-up examination of the locket reveals that miniscule Dutch script is engraved on the reverse.

Sandra reads the Dutch,

'Niet alle Duitsers zijn Nazis
Niet alle Amerikanen zijn helden'

Then, still in Dutch, but a different font...
'Niet alle Arabieren zijn terroristen'

Then she hesitantly but correctly translates,

'Not all Germans are Nazis'

She looks up at Corey who nods encouragement.

'Not all Americans are heroes'
'Not all Arabs are terrorists'

Corey nods again approvingly, 'That last one's new, especially for me. It's my great grandmother Sarah's. She got that last bit engraved when I started this work and gave it to me last birthday.'

'Wow. When did she get the first part done?'

'At the end of the war, apparently.'

'That's some biblical forgiveness, right there. And a bit of bitterness over Maastricht's liberators. Makes you wonder.'

Corey is impressed, 'Ah, you know your Dutch history.'

'Just Second World War Maastricht – I brushed up before I left.'

She examines it more closely.

'It's welded shut. Why is that? What's inside?'

Corey says, 'It's a picture of my great grandfather. She says her heart was sealed when Johannes was murdered and she could never love again.'

Sandra has tears in her eyes. 'That's so sad. And so beautiful. She must have adored him.'

He reaches over her and turns the locket. There's a florid, curly letter, possibly a "J", engraved on the front. It's very worn, especially at the bottom.

Corey explains, ' J for Johannes de Bakker.'

They arrive at his car. It is a brand new high-end Mercedes.

'Isn't it funny that we're both interested in meeting this same guy for such different reasons?' says Sandra.

She approaches the left hand side as he unlocks the boot for her rucksack.

Corey chuckles, 'You want to drive?'

Sandra says, 'Wha…? Oh. No. Sorry – force of habit.' She pauses for a moment to admire the gorgeous car. 'What? You'd let me drive this beauty?'

She smiles cheekily at him and says, 'Mossad pay well, huh?'

They swap sides, grin at each other and get in…

'We are both very fortunate that this gentleman is coming from America at this particular time. He is going to arrive in Berlin the day after tomorrow, to collate and curate the evidence that his late friend and fellow camp survivor Dr David Kaplan has collected on certain SS officers,' says Corey. 'And he can't stay too long apparently - he needs to get back to his business in New York or something. We've still got time to visit my family for my grandfather's birthday though.'

He reverses out of the space and drives off.


Upstate New York Present Day

A Cajun-blackened nude and wounded Master is borne aloft on the shoulders of dozens of acolytes (rock star style) in a huge underground chamber and reverentially lowered in front of a cage of humans. The cage is long but not deep. The corralled people are all ages and races. They are screaming, terrified. The Master emits a sub-bass pulsing rumble and the screams fall silent. The Master's stinger thrusts out and he feeds hungrily and with gratuitous mess.


Poland 1873

It is a beautiful day, a hot sun is shining on an enormous, classically "Dracula" castle on a hill above a village. Many men and horses are working the surrounding fields.

In the village, an un-made up Robert Maillet using Setrakian's wolf's-head cane limps into the central square. He towers over the villagers and almost over their cottages.

When the children catch sight of him, they run towards him laughing and calling to their friends in Polish, 'Come! Quickly! Lord Sardu is here.'

They cluster around him and, smiling down at them, he produces wrapped sweetmeats from his sack-sized pockets.

He speaks to them kindly and, singling out a little girl, he crouches with much wincing so he can address her chest to face. 'Rula, my dear, how is your mother?'

'Very well, my Lord. My baby brother arrived Sunday last. He's going to be called Jusef in your honour after everything you've done for us after Papa was killed by the boar.'

Sardu beams and stands up with even more wincing.

He addresses a liveried servant behind him. 'Mateusz, make sure the Baluch family get a side of bacon and extra milk each week while I'm away.'

The adult villagers have emerged from their homes; it's only women and old or crippled men. They are all pleased to see him and, while they are somewhat more reverential than the children, there is no fear.

One bold young woman asks, 'Did you say you were going away, your lordship?'

'Yes, Magdalena, I am travelling to Romania, the day after tomorrow.'

'Will you be gone long, my Lord?' she asks.

'A few weeks only. My cousins and some friends insist on taking me to hunt wolves.'

The villagers all gasp.

Magdalena seems particularly concerned. 'Oh be careful, my Lord Sardu.'

Sardu gives Magdalena a playful tweak of the cheek. 'Cheer up, Magdalena. They say I shall come back strong and healthy.'

Magdalena's friend gives her a nudge and whispers a bit too loudly, 'You'd like that, wouldn't you Magda?'

Magdalena blushes but she is not too shy to catch Sardu's eye and seeing him wink, she giggles and curtsies.


Palmer's breakfast room, Stoneheart building, Manhattan - Present Day

Eldritch Palmer is rewinding the latest Well Dressed Man appeal for another viewing.

Eichhorst enters from behind him.

Palmer looks round with a nasty smile on his face. 'Oooh those wounds are taking a long time to heal,' he says.

He uses the remote to point to the screen with the "Wanted" image on it. 'It's OK he seems to have got your good side,' he adds.

Eichhorst glances at the TV and comments coldly, 'I don't believe this man can be trusted.'

'Well, not that one, no,' he grins, mischievous in his newfound health. It's still Eichhorst's mug shot up there.

Eichhorst ignores him.

Palmer clicks to the film currently being shown. It's "Zombieland" cut for a PG-13 audience.

'Why does he not agree to meet us? What does he hide?' asks Eichhorst.

'It's just his way. He doesn't meet anyone personally,' says Palmer.

'I don't like these films he shows,' says Eichhorst.

Palmer is dismissive. 'They're just fillers between the newscasts. Which always toe our party line – this morning's little whimsy notwithstanding.'

Eichhorst watches a zombie decapitation and remarks flatly, 'This is an illustrated guide of how to kill us. I want to meet him.'

'Oh, it's just zombies,' says Palmer. 'Look, they never show vampire movies not even that soppy teenage rubbish. I want to meet him too but the best I can do is the senior execs.'

'Invite him to your birthday celebration.' Eichhorst says.

'All right,' says Palmer. 'But if he shows up, try not to make yourself too offensive. You put people's backs up. We don't want him switching sides like Fitzwilliam. And that Velders girl.' He pauses for a second. 'Or your little courier fellow.' Another beat. 'Or your CDC contact.' He turns back to his companion. 'Good grief, Eichhorst, does everyone who meets you end up wanting to kill you?'

Eichhorst just ignores him and watches the TV, head slightly cocked as if trying to work out the Finch puzzle.


Brooklyn Heights

Out on the daytime streets there is a soundtrack of car crashes, screams, shouts, sirens, gunshot, breaking glass, car and building alarms. It's worse than Big Apple business as usual but not yet a total breakdown of society. Oblivious, a casually but fashionably dressed brunette checks her expensive-looking smart phone revealing an even more expensive-looking watch. This is too much temptation for one hoodie who runs up behind her, pulls the watch off and snatches the phone.

The brunette takes off after him. She is fast, very fast and soon overtakes him, leaps on him and bears him to the ground. She gets in a few good solid punches before she gets to her feet, still keeping him on the ground with a trendy boot to the back of the neck.

'Cowardly, woman-attacking punk - you are under my boot for the theft of my cellphone and fake Rolex. You have the right to be kicked in the head…' she snarls.

Thwack!
A scream.

'the guts…'

Thwack!
A groan.

'the ass…'

Thwack!
A squeak.

'and your shrivelled little nut sac.'

There's an unpleasant squashy sound and the loudest scream yet.

She snatches the phone and watch back as two young men run up, followed by the slightly older and slower Steve Collins.

'You OK, Captain?' asks Steve.

The Captain snaps, 'Don't call me that out here.'

She straightens up, ties her hair back with a scrunchie on her wrist and points at a jewellery store being looted by a gang of three hoodies way down the street.

'Quick, there's some more,' she yells. And they run off again.