Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Only a small percentage of the evil that was now in control of much of Gotham's underworld paid attention to the media coverage the city was receiving. Their apparent indifference had nothing to do with a lack of interest in the world's reaction to the terrible slaughter they were delivering to the city. It was that they, like the crime-fighters of Gotham, needed to regroup and decide out how to proceed next. Even though they were limited in where they could be in Gotham, there were certain things that had to be done before they could proceed any further.

There were problems in their chain of command. Nicholae had not shown his face in Gotham last night but his captains-- including Kotaski and the Scarecrow-- had been keeping him completely appraised of what was going on in the city. The problem was simple, and annoying. Batman, Spike and their associates had not managed to kill any of the consigliore, but they had done a pretty good job of getting rid of the 'middle management'. Thor had not been the only lieutenant that met an explosive end during the night.

As a result of that, a series of 'battlefield promotions' had taken place over the course of the day, but it had still taken them some time to determine who was reporting to whom.

Then there had come the problems of the gang members who had been turned during the last night. Most of the 'new breed' had been thrilled to learn that they were now 'damn near immortal' and 'indestructible'. Several were also happy that the men they had reported to while they were alive were no longer in the picture. They had been as happy as little children… but the 'problem' had made itself clear only a short time later.

The reaction of the 'new breed' when they discovered who they were taking orders from had not been positive. Between the arrogance that most of them had possessed during life (made greater now by their newly discovered 'abilities') and the hostility they bore some of their comrades who had now turned undead, there were a lot of fights taking place. In fact, had Batman and Co. known of the infighting that was going on, they might have taken advantage of the situation to retake the city. As it was, nearly a fifth of the troops sired had been dusted before order had been restored.

Finally, there had been the more than the requisite amount of maneuvering in order to seize control of the criminal underworlds that were now in chaos. Nicholae knew that there was no way they would immediately control the various syndicates of Gotham-- Rome was not built in a day, after all-- but several of his associates were far more ambitious than he was in this situation. This, too, led to a certain amount of bloodshed between the various vampires.

So, while the media had been arriving en-masse reporting the chaos and violence that had befallen Gotham City on New Year's Day, they were missing a significant amount of far more insidious and serious behind-the-scenes maneuvering. By nightfall, half of the Gotham syndicates were now completely in the hands of the undead.

Furthermore, many of the remaining criminals that had survived the New Years slaughter and the purge of the next day had, like many civilians, fled the city for parts unknown. A majority of the members of the rest of Gotham's criminal organizations (not under Nicholae's control) were in hiding, scrambling to come up with a plan to protect themselves from the new enemy they now faced. Most of those, however, were not as intelligent as those who had died, and none of Nicholae's troops considered them to really be a threat. They would still be dealt with, of course, and several of the newly turned would descend upon their former associates that night… in short, phase one had succeeded.

Since they had managed to ring out the old in the first, the next phase would be, naturally, for them to ring in the new. To that end, the arrival of the media had been a big boost to Nicholae's plan. Much of the country now knew something rotten was going on in Gotham City, and today they would see it live.

Until yesterday, all of Nicholae's troops had been following a specific instruction from Nicholae himself: the number of civilians attacked (and fed on) was to be kept small, and any attacks that took place were to be undertaken out-of-sight of the public eye. His Excellency had made it clear that he wanted as little attention drawn to the situation as could be managed. The rest of the world knew something bad was happening in Gotham, and now it was time to reveal how serious and committed the enemy facing them was.

Robson, like half of the lieutenants in Nicholae's organization, wasn't wild about the plan in general. Having lived in the States his entire un-life, he always believed the Americans under Nicholae's command were a lot stronger and more adaptable than many of the higher-ups (most of whom were old-school Europeans) who followed Nicholae. As well, he did not believe that the citizens in Gotham were going to meekly submit when faced with the horror that now confronted them.

Yes, many of the citizens of Gotham had fled after the previous night's attacks, but many more had stayed. A quarter of the homeless population had been eaten, and the homeless still weren't deserting the streets or their friends. Perhaps it was simply that they were incredibly naïve or foolhardy about what they were facing, but Robson didn't think that was the case for all of them. Experience had taught him that even the meekest American would fight when driven into a corner. He also believed that there was going to be a lot of guerilla style warfare in the next stage of the plan, and though he knew that they would ultimately win, if the cameras got one picture of a man nobly fighting a vampire it would galvanize the entire population of Gotham.

There had been several unsettling signs during the night. When Robson had heard Commissioner Gordon had been hospitalized, he, like almost everyone else in Gotham (human and vampire), had thought that had meant the Gotham police had been neutralized. This was quickly proven not to be the case. Despite that there had been chaos in the streets from midnight unto dawn, despite the fact that they had been spread about as densely as they possibly could, the Gotham City police hadn't surrendered.

What was more, almost overnight, it appeared that they had come equipped to fight the undead. The police had been involved in several skirmishes, and while several officers were killed, several more had managed to fight their opponents to a draw or better. Utilizing equipment that had to have been special issue-- super-soaker water guns filled with holy water, billy-clubs with theirs ends shaven to a point-- they had fought messily, but effectively.

Combined with the damage that Batman and his troops had brought to the ranks of the vampires they had suffered many more casualties than even die-hards like Kotaski had predicted. Robson had no way of knowing that a special brigade of police officers had been trained jointly by Faith and Oracle on how to fight the undead or that they had been armed by a branch of WayneTech. All he and Nicholae's other officers knew was that the Gotham City PD had not been the easy prey that they had predicted it would be, initially.

And of course, there had been events that night that Nicholae wasn't dealing with. His entire approach to Spike had been one that Kotaski hadn't been able to trust. Robson had known about Spike's reputation from the previous century. He also had heard a few stories over the last few years that had convinced him, and more than a few of the rank-and-file, that Spike was not to be trusted. Even everything Spike had supposedly done for them over the past few weeks did nothing to build up Robson's confidence. However, Robson had been overruled by Kotaski, who had made it very clear that his Excellency 'had important plans for him' (Spike).

Robson, therefore, had not been surprised when the situation literally blew up in their faces last night, but he wasn't happy about it, either. Losing Thor and Wallace —both of whom had been very valuable to him over the last few months—didn't improve his mood, either. Now the punk was loose on the city and he was going to be an extraordinary pain in the ass to bring down. The one supposed bonus that Robson had hoped to obtain-- the identity of the Batman-- was presumably false. Not that Robson would have known-- Kotaski had refused to reveal it to anyone below the rank of captain, another reason that the Carpathian had so hugely pissed him off.

So, despite the fact that three-quarters of Gotham's criminal empire was now either destroyed or in their hands, that all of the major supervillains were no longer a factor, and that the news was effectively broadcasting the city was a war zone, Robson still felt dissatisfied as he looked over Gotham from his balcony. Admittedly, he was in a minority among Nicholae's troops and it was possible that he was seeing shadows where there were none. Then again, he had been in the shadows himself for most of his (un)life, so there was a good chance he knew what he was talking about.

Perhaps his concerns would have been less disturbing if he had just seen Nicholae at one of the bases they had established. Supposedly the time for secrecy had passed, and he could now appear on the street, even he still did not reveal his home base. All Robson had gotten, however, was a telephone call from his Excellency telling him that it was time to begin the second phase. Even then he might have raised some objections, but the voice on the other end exuded a tone that would brook no disagreement.

So Robson had given the order to seven of his soldiers: get out on the street and start making a scene. A scene made as violent and bloody as possible, under the circumstances. Not surprisingly, he had little trouble finding volunteers -- his men had been on the leash for so long that they gladly welcomed a chance to raise hell. What bothered him about his Excellency's order was that Robson had learned that he had given the same order to every lieutenant within an hour.

So the inevitable had happened. By eleven p.m. there were at least forty (likely closer to sixty) vampires out on the street, breaking shop windows, smashing up cars and killing people, when they could. And, as Nicholae had planned, every major television network in the area had footage of the rampage. By midnight, the entire nation knew that Gotham was under siege.

Robson had expected to be delighted by this, but for some reason, as he had watched the news, he still felt unsatisfied. The prize that they had sought was won. Why couldn't he revel in it?

His mind came back, unwillingly, to the obvious problems that waited to be dealt with. For one, compared to the night past, there were far fewer fatalities. Why? He realized they had almost been too successful yesterday. The citizens of Gotham had been using the streets less and less as Nicholae's grip on the city had tightened.

After New Year's Day and the film footage, almost no one was on the street after dark. Even the homeless were nowhere to be found. The television crews were filming, but none of the reporters or photojournalists was (or ever would be) brave enough to risk their own lives, recording was, therefore, being done in secure locations.

And, because of the rule against vampires entering a house without an invitation, they could not carry out their destruction in the homes of Gotham City. So, for all the devastation so far, there were less than a dozen people dead. Also, as even a novice like him knew, dead bodies made far better imagery than the destruction of property.

Secondly, there was the obstinate blindness of the reporters involved. Robson just wasn't sure how many people in Gotham knew that there were actual vampires in the city. The homeless population did, of course, and much of the Gotham PD knew as well. So did the contingent of vampire hunters in the city.

The rest of Gotham, however? Perhaps they thought this was merely an extreme of urban decay, an acceleration of the crime that existed in other large cities in their own. Maybe they were going through the extreme denial that most people went through when confronted with the supernatural. Whatever it was, the people of Gotham were keeping it do themselves—in all the interviews that had been on television, no one questioned (or asking the questions) had said the word vampire.

So it was that because the people weren't saying the word, the media wasn't, either. How they could avoid using it after seeing countless numbers of Nicholae's troops with their other faces on was another mystery that Robson didn't think he'd ever be able to figure out… but it was still happening. One person being drained of blood in front of a camera would have done it, but somehow none of the media had been lucky enough to get a money shot.

In other words, Gotham City was a war zone… but nobody knew who the enemy was. In the media's eyes, that was enough. As far as Nicholae's plan went, however, it might not be sufficient.

What concerned Robson most was that at the moment there were more vampires on the street then people at the moment. It was a golden opportunity for the Slayer or for the Bat-- but neither was taking advantage of it. Nightwing and Robin had both been seen on the street killing a few random soldiers each, but the fighting had been sporadic and not focused. Of the greater threats, neither hide nor hair had been seen. Robson knew the patterns of both well enough that the disappearing act had to be deliberate, and there was some kind of larger plan at work on their part. What they were planning he didn't know, but he instinctively knew that it would not end well.

With a groan, Robson turned off the television that he had half-heartedly been paying attention to. There was no new news, and he was no longer certain whether that was bad or good.

He knew that he should probably check the progress of the remainder of his men in their efforts to assume control of the Thorne syndicate. There had been no immediate changes in the past six hours, and Robson suspected that there would be none now, but he knew that he had to be thorough. Nicholae demanded no less.

He had just taken out his cellphone when it began to ring. No surprises there, he thought to himself. Probably that asshole Carpathian come to tell me I'm behind schedule…

Except it wasn't the Carpathian. It was Stevenson, a mid-level grunt. "He's up to something," Stevenson said with no preamble.

"Which he are you talking about?" Robson said wearily.

"You know damn well who I'm talking about." Stevenson was never this impolite normally; something had his blood up. "It's that caped freak."

"What's he doing that's got your panties in a twist?"

"That's just it… He ain't doing a thing."

Robson sighed wearily. Some hoodlums-- dead or alive-- could be like puppies sometimes; you had to lead them by the nose. "Stevenson, time is money. Start making sense."

"Alright. That BatPlane he's got. He's circling the city."

"That all he's doing?"

Pause. "Yeah."

"Then I don't see why you called me to tell me something I could have found out if I looked out the window."

"You don't get it." Stevenson paused. "He's making noise."

Robson shook his head. Stevenson had been in Gotham City longer than he had (for that matter Stevenson had been around the city longer then most of Nicholae's troops) and thought that, by extension, he was more keyed in to the methods of Batman than most of the others. This was, of course, a mere illusion but he kept it up anyway. "Alright. Why does the fact that he's making noise….?"

"The Batplane has some of the most advanced technology anybody here has ever seen. I'm pretty sure it has stealth capability, and I know for damn sure it can run silently." Stevenson paused. "The only reason that it makes a sound is if he wants it to make a sound."

Robson was about to object when he realized that was a valid point. "Okay, I'll bite: why does he want us to hear him?"

"Don't know, but whatever it is, it can't be for a good reason."

Thank you, Captain Obvious, Robson nearly said, but he held it back. Getting snarky was much less inviting than it had been before. "Is he doing anything else with his big black plane?" he asked instead.

"Right now I can't tell, but I doubt he'd just be joyriding--"

Mid-sentence Stevenson cut off. Robson frowned. "Stevenson, you alright?"

Robson could hear him hesitating for a moment. "I don't know," he said slowly. I…I just—something got in my eye for a minute."

"Well, blink it out." Robson said impatiently.

"I'm trying; it's just—" Suddenly, his voice turned jagged. "What-- oh-- ahh-- oh-- my chest, my chest."

To say that this gave Robson the creeps was a severe understatement. "Stevenson, what's the fuck is going on?"

"Don't—know-- my skin's-- burning-- my-- chest-- is—- on fire-- What-- what-- the-- hell--"

Stevenson's voice cut out. "What's happening? " There was no response. "Goddamn you, Stevenson, pick up!!"

Robson's phone chose that minute start beeping, alerting him to another call on the line. He had an intuition that it was going to be related to Stevenson's.

"What the hell is happening!?" said the voice without preamble. The voice was so choked up that it took him a moment to place it-- Vazquez, one of the Latino gang members who'd been turned to give Nicholae an in with the Hispanics.

Robson tried to remain calm even though he had a sinking feeling in his gut, now." What makes you think that I know anything about what's going on…?"

"Don't fuck around with me, gringo…" It was hard to tell which was more prevalent in Vazquez's tone, anger or pain. "You and his Excellency have been running this town, and somehow you don't know about the poison in the sky…"

Robson was not brilliant, but he could put two and two together as well as anyone else. "Be smart, Vazquez. Nicholae put a lot of time and effort in to this project; you think he's going to junk it all now that's he about to win?"

"First rule of guys coming out on top, you get rid of the stiffs that got you there."

Suddenly Robson was glad he had gotten this call; calming down Vazquez would be an excellent way to keep his mind off the shit that seemed, literally, to be coming down from on high. "Well, I'm sure all your years of experience have served you well, Ernesto," he said sardonically. "I'm sure that someone who's been around as long as his Excellency, might have a better idea of what the fuck is going on far better than you would. Perhaps you'd like to share your feelings with Master Nicholae?" He paused a moment, letting the question sink in. "I believe I have him on speed-dial."

There was a long pause as the Latino considered what he had been told. Finally, however, Vazquez spoke. "It's that damn Bat, isn't it?"

"What exactly is happening, Ernesto?" Robson tried not to sound as if he didn't see everything they had worked on being shredded.

"Something in the wind. We thought it was some kind of snowfall. Then Chico started turning blue and gagging. Next thing, you know same thing's happening to everybody on the street. Some of them just collapsed." Vazquez was suddenly seized with an audible paroxysm of coughing. "I guess I must-- have-- got some of it-- in me--"

White powder in the air… The Batplane circling the city… Oh shit. "Vazquez, are we dying?" More coughing. "Goddamnit, Vazquez, are we dying?!"

"Not yet," the Latino managed, "…but we're pretty close."

Robson abruptly hung up. "Fuck!" was all he could say. For a long moment the only thought that went through his head was, This is why the Bat always wins.

He considered his options. Running was out, and not just because Nicholae would kill him if he did it. If the air really was full of whatever pesticide the Bat had worked up, there was no way he would be able to make it more than a few blocks before it got him. Staying here was an even worse idea, though-- all of his soldiers were out on the field, which left him open to any attack from Nightwing, the Slayer or whoever else was on the street by now.

That meant he had to find some place safe to regroup, and there was only one vampire who might be immune to Batman's aerial spraying.

He speed-dialed Kotaski.

Unknown to Robson, his building was being watched half a block away by a woman using a pair of high-speed binoculars. It was impressive technology, too. She'd seen better, of course-- Wolfram & Hart was light years ahead of the rest of the country as far as surveillance equipment went-- but Batman's equipment was clearly top of the line.

Once again, Faith pondered the identity of her reluctant colleague of the past months. Who was this man, and how did he have access to such wonderful toys? What great sin was he trying to atone for? What wrong had happened in Gotham to make him protect the city the way he did? She couldn't begin to guess, and she had begun to think that Batman would never tell her.

She had tried not to take it personally-- a lot of people would have trouble confiding in a confessed murderer-- but it did bother Faith that she had revealed so many secrets and he had given no hints as to any of his own. That was a shame, because, when you came right down to it, she and Batman weren't that different, as she saw it.

Her attention was drawn to movement down the fire escape. It could have been what she was waiting for… Someone was on the move. A glance through her binoculars confirmed that Spike's information had been spot on-- it was Robson.

"Faith to Oracle, I have the target in sight." She paused as she watched him dart into a car. "He's getting in what appears to be a blue four-door Mercedes."

"Got it," said the voice in her ear. "Switching to satellite. We expect to have him on –screen... now."

The car pulled away. "Guy's heading east. Tell the man with the cape to get ready to move."

Oracle knew Faith well enough to not take the impertinence seriously. "He's preparing to track them. You ready to do your thing?"

A small smile emerged on Faith's face. "I'm ready to kick ass and chew bubble gum… and I am clean out of bubble gum."

"Nice to know you respect the classics," piped up Andrew.

"Hey, if it's good enough for Roddy, it's good enough for me."

"Could we discuss classic cinema later, maybe?" Oracle's tone was annoyed, now.

"Chill, brothers and sisters. I've got some business to take care of." Faith removed the stake-silver knife that she had made six months ago in L.A. "All right, I'm ready for my close-up."

She spotted a couple of figures on the horizon. She couldn't see their faces, but she could see two things—their skin was blue, and they were holding their sides in pain.

Beautiful.

"Lights, camera, action," said Faith as she got ready to move.