Blood Eaters

A LETTER FROM PROFESSOR VICTOR PAULESCU TO THE DEAN OF

HUMANITIES AT VOLGOTH UNIVERSITY

DATED MONDAY 9/14/20--

Dear Professor Hartwell,

I must write to inform you that I must be excused from my teaching duties for a length of time which I do not anticipate will last beyond two weeks, beginning immediately. Call it a research expedition if you will.

I know you are aware of my hotly contended scholarship on the subject of the classic work Dracula. Whether it ought, in the final analysis, be classified as a novel or, as I contend, as a work of non-fiction assembled exactly as described within the text, is not a question I expect will be settled soon.

What you may not be familiar with is that I have for a number of years been collecting data on a phenomenon which I believe has great bearing on the veracity of my claims and, ultimately therefor, on my credibility as a scholar of literature. I have long been in the habit of scouring newspapers around the world for evidence of this phenomenon, and have come up with quite a collection of data. However, it is something of a Fortean phenomenon, and every individual instance of it is rejected as being too outlandish to be true, and so each datum is believed to be an unreliable outlier and discarded to rest in the trash beside a thousand other such data points which together paint a fuller picture to anyone willing to examine it. The phenomenon to which I refer is that of total human exsanguination, the entire removal of the full volume of blood from an otherwise unmarked human specimen.

Such cases being often slow to make their way to my attention, my response is often so delayed as to be pointless, and so I have found it expedient in the wake of such cases to establish contact with agents who are so positioned as to be able to provide me with more immediate information on any recurrences. If cases of total human exsanguination are, as I believe, evidences of vampiric activity, and if as well such vampiric activity is likely to recur in an area, then I believe that having such agents in place will allow me to respond more quickly to such incidences. I am confident that my tactics will eventually yield more positive proofs of the existence of such sanguivorous beings.

I have been, in effect, over many years constructing a worldwide net within which I intend to snatch up my prey. If you are receiving this letter, then I have caught something in my net, and I can allow no delay in racing to close it.

If I need anything more from you, or if I will be away longer than two weeks, I will be in touch.

FROM THE DIARY OF VICTOR PAULESCU

DATED WEDNESDAY 9/16/20--

Arrived in the airport at KK stiff as an old man waking up in an unreclined chair, or as a young man waking up anywhere. No checked baggage as I travel light. Taxi to the docks where the riverboats pick up tourists for jungle tours. I struggled to arrange transportation to the Emsley Biological Research Station upriver. The locals speak good English, so communication wasn't the issue. They seemed to have concerns about the wind, contrary winds or something, which I didn't think would matter in the low wide-bodied canoes they use. Perhaps they expect a storm. I for one would welcome it. Whole country is a sauna. Still, wave enough cash around and you find a willing man. Departing soon, just waiting on my agent to arrive with the latest information, some essential supplies, and a revolver. He won't be late, there's a great sack of cash waiting for him.

Picking up from the Research Station. Hell of a day. Spent most of it travelling upriver. My guide was knowledgable about the local wildlife, which was a welcome diversion on a long river journey. Kingfishers zipping past, hornbills soaring overhead, troops of macacques gamboling through the uncountable variety of trees which hang out over the banks of the river. My guide pointed out where elephants nest, although we saw none. He saw several crocodiles, I may perhaps have seen some ripples. We stopped at one point so that he could point out a distant orangutan topping a tree. It took me some minutes to follow his finger to the creature, and in that time we were devoured by the mosquitos which attacked anytime we stopped for more than a moment. It would have been a wonderful trip, if I were here for the wildlife and not to hunt down a paranormal menace.

Once reaching the Emsley Biological Research Station, I hurried out of the boat with my bag. Before I had even made my way up to the cabin, for that was all the station really was, my driver was away down the river, always wanting to keep the boat moving. Introductions were awkward, especially as my boat was gone and as I was not expected whatsoever. The occupants of the cabin looked at me as though they'd gone deep into the remotest jungles on earth specifically to avoid mysterious drop-ins from unknown professors of literature.

In the main room of the cabin I introduced myself to three research assisstants, graduate students there on a grant to study pygmy elephants in the wild. There was also a medical doctor who had come down from KK to inspect the body of the man I understood to be exsanguinated. They were wholly unimpressed with my credentials, but that was where the similarities to my parents ended.

I noted that the research assistants were all young, as might be expected, and were not bearing the strain of the moment with the greatest of grace. I soon understood why. The man lying dead - in the adjoining closet, as it happened - was the lead researcher in charge of their project. They were now facing the present crisis of the man's sickness and death deprived of his leadership. They looked tired, stressed, and irritable. A fourth researcher had not even bothered to come out of his room to meet me. The doctor, the only one there besides myself above the age of twenty-five, bore a mask of imperturbability.

They related in turn the following story: A few days ago, the lead researcher began exhibiting signs of sickness. At first they ascribed his symptoms to heat stroke, an affliction which threatened each of them every day in that equatorial climate. He was weak, lethargic, moody, dizzy, short of breath. He rested all day, and under his specific guidance they gave him no more care than large quantities of cool water and moderate meals.This went on for a few days until, over a single night, he weakened and died, leaving a shrivelled corpse to be discovered in the morning. The students radioed back to KK for help, and they were instructed to keep the body cool until a doctor could arrive to inspect it. They were told that, legally, they could get into some trouble if they buried the body before it was inspected, and that they had to hold on to it. Whether that was true or not, they believed it, and speculating wildly about the possible repurcussions of a manslaughter charge in a nation under sharia law, they moved the body into a storage closet where they also moved the cabin's lone air conditioner. These precautions were all the more necessary as the doctor who was to do the inspection and pronounce the patient dead was a practicing doctor who, feeling a lesser obligation to the dead than to living, took several days to wrap up some important work with his patients before undertaking the journey. So it was that, to my astonishment, he had arrived only this day and had yet to conduct his examination of the body.

As the students continued with their story, I gained a greater appreciation for their tetchiness. The day after the death they waited impatiently, their air conditioning repurposed, the future of their research uncertain, and their capacity to forestall the rotting of their friend and leader's body in the equatorial heat unclear. Then that evening, some locals from the nearby kampung came to visit. They brought with them their bobollion, which is a kind of witch doctor. That this mysterious individual had made a definite impression on each of them was unquestionable. The bobollion wore nothing unusual, flip-flops, denim shorts, and a faded pink t-shirt. This individual was androgynous to the point that none of the students were able to apprehend the sex of the witch. This characteristic was notably enhanced by a peculiarity of the local language, by which I mean that they use a single word for either he or she, and so while the typical level of English spoken is of a very high quality, they have a tendency to use 'he' and 'she' interchangeably when speaking quickly or casually. Thus when the several men who accompanied the bobollion explained that person's actions they might say “He's doing this. Now she's doing that.” It seems to have created quite an effect on the already perturbed students. Even more distressing was the behavior of the witch. That person was literally sniffing around the cabin, occassionally creating an ethereal rattling in their throat which none of the students would venture to reproduce for me. Then, at random intervals, the bobollion would briefly give the appearance of channeling the dead man, with chilling effect on the students. They described it as though the bobollion were scanning the dial on a radio and every so often picking up on snatches of conversation that, to the students who had for some time been intimates of the dead man, were an uncanny match to the rhythms and mannerisms of the deceased. Stranger still, the bobollion did not speak a word of English except when perfectly replicating the South African accent which the lead researcher apparently possessed.

Remarkable stuff, but nothing to what came next. The bobollion bounded to the door of the closet, broke in, and slashed the arm of the dead man in front of one and all. The next detail I pressed the students to be very clear on: that not a drop of blood came from the opened vein of a man dead less than a day.

The bobollion spoke rapidly, his speech punctuated by belches and groans, and the others there translated. They said that the man had been attacked by something called, 'pem accan dah rah', although I don't have a clue on the spelling. Apparently this is some kind of spirit called up with the shifting of the wind to the east. I surmise this must have been what the boat people had feared when they spoke of the winds being bad. These events raised any number of questions for which I still have no answer because the students, stricken by the outlandishness of all that they had witnessed, asked none on that night, and the villagers left promptly, the bobollion still burping and coughing.

Since then the students have passed two more harrowing days of heat and anxiety. No wonder they look so terrible.

By the time all of this information was exchanged, it was evening, and the students prepared fried rice for us all to eat. I was famished by this point, not having eaten since immediately after deboarding the plane. I noticed that nobody paid any mind to the bonus proteins that wandered in and out of the food, so I did my best to ignore it.

The students had been doing their best to husband the cool air from the AC unit, and so they had been opening the closet door only after the heat abates at night. This we respected, and the doctor waited until well after dark to conduct his examination. It was only by referencing the very long way I had come that I convinced Doctor Alexius (that being his name) to allow me to accompany him. The students gave us a bucket of ice which they had been making all day. They had filled their small freezer with makeshift ice trays made from lids and pill bottles and anything that fit the bill, generating as much ice as they could to then add to their morgue at night.

The doctor and I opened the door to the closet, stepping through with as little exchange of air as possible between the two chambers. Once inside, we were so cramped that the two of us were sweating on each other looking down at the long bundle wrapped in a tarp and resting on a cot. When Dr Alexius unravelled the tarp we were faced with what I will describe as a slurry pouring out at us. The ice of previous nights had melted over the body, leaving a boggy residual that, unfortunately splashed over both of us as we jumped in alarm. I do not wish to speak of the smell.

Our task was not a pleasant one. Dr Alexius needed to examine the entirety of the body, which was still dressed in damp clothes. Using scissors, we cut him out of his clothes. The good doctor then minutely examined the corpse, yielding not at all to any temptation to hurry in light of the less than ideal circumstances. Not wishing to interfere in any way with the doctor's efforts, I could only stand over the body. I would have enjoyed the cool air emanating from the AC unit were it not wafting over the sticky mess of the corpse.

Dr Alexius gestured to indicate the cut made by the bobollion, but otherwise did not communicate whatsoever. The cut was a remarkable thing. The razor had followed a vein up the forearm, spilling not a drop of blood.

When the doctor signalled that he had concluded his examination, I dumped the bucket of ice over the body and we wrapped the tarp around it again.

Ah, to breathe clean air again!

Our reemergence from the closet breathed some life into the otherwise morose research assisstants. I could understand their eagerness to know the doctor's conclusions about why the lead researcher had died, and about whether they could get on with burying him. The doctor did not rush his analysis, but took some time to ponder the matter.

For my part, I felt that my suspicions were all but confirmed. Here lay the body of a man, bare of all premortem marks, totally drained of all blood in his system. The relevant facts were all confirmed by witnesses with scientific or medical qualifications. I already considered this adventure to be a success, and was making plans to make contact with the bobollion. I felt that he or she or it must certainly have some knowledge of these 'spirits' that had caused this man's death, and that the bobollion must surely be in a position to make a substantial contribution to our knowledge of the vampiric phenomenon.

Such were my thoughts when Dr Alexius at last announced his conclusion: that the researcher had died of a congenital clotting disorder. To say I was astounded would be too mild a characterization of my reaction. I protested that surely a clotting disorder would more commonly be indicated by the presence of clotted blood than by the absence of blood. Surely, I expressed to the doctor, the salient point is not whether the blood, wherever it might be, were clotted, but rather how that blood whatever its viscosity might have vanished from a human body.

The calmness which had otherwise governed the visage of the doctor even in the pungent presence of the recently pronounced, then gave way a little to a controlled, haughty anger. He explained in stern tones that he had in fact seen residue of clotted blood, that the body having been kept in icemelt for days naturally washed away the bulk of the residue, and that more to the point, I was by no stretch medically qualified and my presence at his examination had been as a courtesy only. We exchanged some words on the matter, but I knew the point was forlorn. He was the expert, and besides, the research assisstants all felt a natural relief to hear that it had been a congenital disorder rather than some tropical ailment to which any of them might succumb. I believe also that they were relieved to hear no mention of any suspicion of foul play. They did not appreciate in the slightest my aspersions on the doctor's theory and I detected that I was trying my hosts' patience. So I let the matter fall.

I must admit that I do take some vindication in the hastiness of Dr Alexius' response to my counterarguments. An expert on solid ground takes confidence in his knowledge of the facts, whereas a man insecure in his conclusions resorts more quickly to anger and falling back on his authority. Such a reaction from a man I judge to be ordinarily of a placid temperament, I feel indicates that he harbors his own doubts about his mysterious blood-vanishing clotting disorder.

Such was my day. The students with their minds much eased by the doctor's pronouncements scrounged a pair of cots for the doctor and myself to spend the night. As exhausted as I am, I felt it of paramount importance to record my observations before turning in.

FROM THE DIARY OF VICTOR PAULESCU

DATED THURSDAY 9/17/20--

Woke up early this morning. In this part of the world it is important to get up early so as to get as much done before the midday heat as possible. And today, there was much to do. Now having authority from the doctor to do so, the students were eager to bury their lead researcher. It turns out that this is also a part of the world in which it is important to dig six feet down, where the body won't be unburied by scavengers. I volunteered my efforts in the digging, despite the heat and despite the unbelievable quantity of creepy crawlies that came up with each scoop of the shovel - one in five species of land animals on earth lives in this rainforest which is almost unbelievable until you start digging into the earth. It's a good thing I did, too, because the students, in their sorrows, did not seem much capable of physical work. They were lethargic, inactive, and quiet. The one young man who had chosen not to meet me the day before stayed in his hammock again, and the doctor spent the morning with him. Once the hole was dug, the researchers and I hauled his cot out into the grave, the students each said some words over him, and the body was quickly sealed away in the earth.

May he rest.

To have such a thing done and over relieves a mind of a heavy burden, and the students won back some of the liveliness that must once have characterized this remote outpost. They warmed to me as they had not before, a not unexpected consequence of my having buried their dead fellow. Once we got the A/C unit moved back to it's proper place in the lab, we spent the rest of the day resting from our labors and hiding from the heat, splayed out before fans, occassionally dumping ice-water down our shirts, doing our best to stay hydrated.

Doctor Alexius announced that he would be staying on another day so as to watch over the researcher who remained in his hammock. His pulse was weak, his blood pressure low. He was dizzy, lightheaded, fatigued, and pallid. I also requested my hosts' forebearance in allowing me to stay one more night, although I had no real excuse. I believe the doctor was not happy about my plans to stay, although he did not express himself on the matter. However, it was up to the researchers who after my having served as both gravedigger and pallbearer, genuinely seem to welcome my presence.

We've moved quarters. The doctor wanted to be closer to the patient and I wanted to watch over him through the night. I strongly suspect that this man is under vampiric attack, and although nobody else here gives any credence to my hypothesis, it would be a grave moral failure on my part not to give the man all the protection I can give. So, now Dr Alexius and I are sharing a room with the patient. We haven't spoken much, by mutual agreement. I wouldn't say there is bad blood, but there is definitely a clear divergence of strongly held professional opinions, which can approach the same thing.

At this moment, the doctor sleeps, the patient rests, and I write to stay awake, aware that if I drop off even for a moment that would sufficient space for the evil I fear and intend to ward off, to strike. The man's life may depend on it, and despite the doctor's silent reproaches, I will do my duty to him, as I trust the doctor will do his duty to his patient as he understands it.My revolver is clean and ready, and I am, so to speak, girded for battle against the vampire.

FROM THE DIARY OF VICTOR PAULESCU

DATED FRIDAY 9/18/20--

The events of this day have brought this affair to a critical stage, a fact on which both Dr Alexius and I agree. I will summarize, sticking to what I find to be most relevant.

Dr Alexius awakened this morning evidently surprised to find that I was still at my post, having maintained my vigil through the night. I got the sense that he was reassessing my character. There is sometimes a satisfaction in being underestimated. He immediately checked the patients' vitals, finding them unchanged. Neither of us passed comment on that fact, each supposing that our efforts had been responsible in some way for halting the decline of the patient's condition.

I was at that time eager for bed, however, my situation was at that time still unclear. I did not know if I was headed back upriver or if they might indulge me to stay another night as I wished. Not wanting to fall asleep in my cot without a firm answer, I decided to join the others for breakfast in the lab, as I was beginning to understand was the morning tradition. Dr Alexius and I were disconcerted to find that each of the others had overslept. I passed a remark acknowledging the physical and emotional toll associated with burying a man. Between us, however, there passed a silent recognition of our common anxiety.

When at last one of the researchers emerged into the lab Dr Alexius asked how she was feeling. Tired, she said. Just tired. As a matter of thoroughness, the doctor had taken vitals on all the researchers to form a baseline for comparison. His recheck of that student confirmed our fears. Her blood pressure was low, pulse notably weaker. Having seen this, the doctore intruded on the other two students to check them as well, with identical results.

I reproach myself. I should have checked on the others in the night. It was foolish of me to direct all my resources to guarding one already ailing victim when it meant leaving the others exposed to predation by whatever foulness lurks in the jungle.

Afterwards, Dr Alexius checked my vitals as well. I felt fine, for a man who hadn't slept all night, but it was important to establish a baseline. During this examination, the doctor and I spoke for the first time, as it were, man-to-man. He laid out in plain language, his professional view of the situation.

Firstly, the patient over whom we'd watched last night was not in good condition, and assuming his condition was of the same kind as the lead researcher's had been, there was every chance of his dying. In fact, in his medical opinion the man would not survive a boat trip back to KK. The sun alone would kill him. As such, he, the doctor, would be staying here with that patient at the Biological Research Station to care for him.

He said that he might be able to arrange transportation back to KK for myself and for the other researchers, but that it would have to be arrange through the Ministry of Health. An unidentified blood disorder emerging from the remote depths of the rainforest had killed one and sickened four more. That was the situation as the MOH would see it, and they would take whatever precautions they saw fit to take.

Once apprised of the doctor's perspective on the situation, I couldn't help but to feel relieved that we had moved past this nonsense of a congenital clotting disorder. The mysterious-jungle-disease hypothesis, though equally incorrect in my view, at least had the proper sense of urgency about it.

I informed the doctor that I intended to stay with the patients and that in view of the seriousness of the medical situation and in deferrence to his medical expertise, I would place myself at his disposal. Vampires or no, these were sick people.

Dr Alexius cautioned me that whatever had sickened these researchers was likely something to which we had been exposed as well, although having more recently arrived on station our exposure was likely to be significantly less. I acknowledged the risks in the position.

Then he said something that caught me off-guard. He said it was ironic that the bobollion and I were both looking for blood eaters. I asked him to explain that remark. He said that that's what the bobollion was blaming - pemakan darah, blood eaters. I need to find this bobollion and find out what he knows. There's so much I could learn from this person. Dr Alexius then explained that it was ironic because most tropical diseases are transmitted by mosquitos, which are a kind of blood eater. I appreciate that it would be ironic if I came all this way hunting blood-suckers just to be killed by mosquitos. I am uncomfortably aware that I was never vaccinated against the Japanese Encephalitis.

I slept through the heat of the day, waking shortly before dark. I volunteered to cook dinner tonight, and in so doing have dosed everyone with an appalling amount of garlic, which I had collected from my agent and brought up the river. I find I am well armed myself for the possible combat before me. I informed the doctor that I intended to maintain my vigil until the dawn as I had the night before, but that this night I would be moving between the four patients throughout the night. He gave me some instructions of things to watch for, signs that I would need to summon him. He told me not to hesitate to wake him at any time for any reason. The man may be an embarassment in the matter of congenital clotting disorders, but I do credit him for his commitment to his patients.

I believe I've recorded all that needed to be said, and before the fading of the light. I feel that I am prepared to meet my foe tonight, if that should be my fate.

FROM THE DIARY OF VICTOR PAULESCU

ENTRY UNDATED

Now that I have a moment to catch my breath, I feel a special obligation to record what has transpired. Later on, if time allows, I will try to record my memories in greater detail.

For several hours this night, I patroled the Emsley Biological Research Station, keeping watch over the weakened research assistants. This was a daunting task at night, especially as the bedrooms can only be entered from the exterior of the building. The Research Station is a big cabin with additions built onto it. The main structure contains the lab with a kitchen and a bathroom and is a proper building with windows that can be sealed off and the structure air conditioned. Abutting the main building are several additions each with their own exterior entrance. These are the bedrooms, and as they are not well sealed, they each need to have their own mosquito netting which hangs from hooks installed in the walls and ceiling. So in order to keep tabs on each of the research assisstants I had to go outside and circle the building, entering each bedroom by opening the door and then fumbling through either a zipper or velcro opening in the mosquito netting.

It was perhaps on the fourth or fifth round of my patrol that I became aware that something was not right. I approached the next bedroom with a largely unconscious hesitancy. I felt an apprehension about the energy of that room, as though it were humming with a malignant energy.

I heard the sound the moment I opened the door. It was something like a hive of bees. I knew I had to get into that bedroom without the least delay, and yet my hands fumbled idiotically. In that moment of clumsy ineffectuallity, I felt certain that a man's life was slipping away second by second. At last my composure returned somewhat, so that I realized that while I was trying to pull the netting apart as if it were sealed with velcro, it was in fact zippered. More precious seconds were lost in navigating that innocuous seeming obstacle. By the time I made my way inside, half tearing down the netting in my haste, I feared the worst.

I feared the worst - but I never thought to fear that. Thousands of mosquitos, clouds of them, heavy with plundered blood, swirled through the beam of my flashlight. So many lined the wretched man's flesh, that it gave the appearance of a thick coat of body hair. The man would have looked furry were they not alive and moving. I must have stood there dumbly for several seconds, absorbing the particular details of that chamber of horrors. The man's skin looked shrivelled, deflated. Upon his arm I swear I could trace the branching of the man's veins in the settling of the mosquitos. Across his body, I perceived the corpses of countless mosquitos killed by the vain struggles of a man too weakened by bloodloss to protect himself.

I am sure that some hoarse cry of fright and repugnance escaped my lips then. I recall stepping forward to swat at the swarm carpeting the man's glistening chest. From the moment my hand thudded onto the man's torso I understood him to be dead.

As one habitually does after swatting an insect with an open palm, I turned my hand to inspect it in the beam of my light. A number of the creatures lay dead or dying in the sweat of my palm, some writhing in their death agonies. They were of a size which I can't recall ever seeing in a mosquito, and all the larger for having bloated themselves on the man's blood. Such a number of these bloated creature had burst upon my hand that drops of my comrade's red blood flowed down the creases of my palm.

Never have I known such a moment of wretchedness as when, having taken upon myself the duty of defending this man against all nocturnal foes, I discovered him lying dead and his blood running down my hand.

Then I felt my skin crawl. So often I have felt that sensation of having something alive and moving attached to my flesh and found it to be no more than a hallucination. This time I could be sure that I was covered in the monsters. They were on my face, my neck, moving up my sleeves and into my shorts. With a scream that must surely have woken the kampungs, I ran away. I fled back to the bedroom I was still sharing with the doctor and the sickest patient.

My screams had awoken him and he met me at the door, undoing the netting. I recall seeing a flash of fear in his eyes as he beheld me, then his ordinary calm settled over him. For my part I gibbered insensibly until his own demeanor settled the panic in me somewhat.

“I need you to tell me what happened,” he said. And somehow those words, spoken so matter of factly, restored my equilibrium. I took a few deep breaths, searching for the words.

“Come see,” I said. And in that moment I also thought to grab our Sunhouse. It's a device I've never seen in the States, where presumably it's considered a fire hazard, but it's essentially an electrified badminton racquet for killing flying bugs. It's wonderful fun under ordinary circumstances - the bugs spark and explode on contact, leaving no remains - and in these climates it's an essential tool.

At a run I led him back to the dead man's bedroom. The scene no less terrible than when I had fled moments before. If my descriptions have left any space to doubt the frightfulness of what we witnessed then let it be confirmed by knowing that the eminent skeptic by my side, that devotee of medicine and science, upon seeing the numbers, size, and activity of those insects thought first upon regaining his nerves to check whether the man lying still under such assualt were yet living or dead.

For my part, in the brief span of our charge around the building back to the infested bedroom, I had resolved that I would not allow my courage to falter as it had before, that I would combat this menace with equal resolution as the enemy which I had expected to face that night. Hefting my Sunhouse in my hand, feeling that I had armed myself appropriately for the struggle, I charged headlong into that space, using activity and aggression to overcome any hesitation I felt.

Each swing of the racquet caught up a large number of the insects, each of them flashing blue as they exploded. Every stroke created a rolling peal of overlapping pops. I must have killed hundreds in a matter of seconds, for what good that might have done. A certain amount of blood did not disintegrate with the bugs, which meant that myself and the room began to be spattered with fine droplets. The room itself took on a mixed smell of carbon from incinerated insects and the iron of misted blood.

The doctor leapt to the side of the man, felt for a pulse, and in that moment I much admired his focus as he checked the patient while the murderous insects crawled all over his flesh. After the briefest inspection, Dr Alexius called out to me that the man was dead and we fled with all possible speed.

We retreated at a sprint back to our own bedroom. Once inside the doctor sealed the netting against intrusion and we spent some time zapping and slapping at the creatures which had come through on our bodies. Dr Alexius had a roll of duct tape in his medical bag, and with this we conducted an exhaustive search of the room, sealing up the netting with tape wherever we had the least impression of a possible breach.

As soon as we had made secure our own refuge, we mutually agreed that our duty to the others impelled us to sally out once again into the night. With one research assisstant confirmed dead and one safe in our room, there were two more we had to check on. We moved as quickly as we could, entering the rooms and sealing the net behind us. Once inside, the doctor checked on the patient while I destroyed any insects inside the room and sealed with tape any imaginable entrance through the netting.

Having acheived all this, we are now settled back in our own room. Once the adrenaline crashed I felt more than normally tired. Dr Alexius's examination indicates that we are both of us hypovolemic, though perhaps we aren't in so bad a condition yet as our patients.

We are resolved now to wait for the dawn, resting as best we can. Perhaps then we'll be able to safely move everyone into the lab and radio for help. We can hold out there, make our stand against these flying devils until help arrives.

New mischief has arisen. The generator has died, leaving us without any power. The night is cool enough that we will survive without the fans, however we'll have to get it back on tomorrow. Weakened as we are, providing ourselves with A/C, ice, and fans may be critical to surviving the heat of the day tomorrow, and we'll need the radio to call for help. For now, it has detracted materially from the atmosphere of hope. As if losing fans and light isn't enough, without the chug of the generator we can hear the buzzing outside all the clearer as the swarms move past the windows. So we sit in the dark and imagine our fates. The dead man's name is Mario. How long was he conscious and helpless as the monsters devoured him drop by drop?

FROM THE DIARY OF VICTOR PAULESCU

ENTRY UNDATED

There must be a record of what transpired here, for the sakes of a scientific understanding of these creatures, for a definite knowledge of the threats that reside in this jungle, and for the memory of those who battled so courageously against this evil.

Dr Alexius and I were awakened from a numb stupor by the banging of a door followed by footsteps. We ascertained that one of the students had risen from his cot and was making his way to the generator shed. We called out through our windows, trying to get this person to go back to bed. The student called back that nobody had fueled the generator that day, and that it needed to be done.

The doctor fell back on his medical authority, instructing the patient as his doctor that it was necessary to return to bed immediately. The patient responded that without fans, the others might suffer through the night. We heard the generator shed door slam shut, and for a moment perhaps we dared to hope that the student might get the power back on and make it safely back to bed. Foolish hope.

We heard the screams and without a word exchanged between us, the doctor and I rose to meet the moment. We found the student writhing on the floor of the generator shed swatting helplessly at his attackers in their legions. I started in with my Sunhouse, slaughtering the creatures in their multitudes. Focused though I was on this task, another part of my mind detected the smell of gasoline in the air. I suppose I saw the fuel can on the ground and understood that the student, in collapsing to the ground had spilled a quantity of fuel.

A spark from my racquet flashed brighter than the rest, and in an instant the fire was begun. As the student's fuel-soaked clothes ignited, a number of mosquitos were caught in the flames, the moisture in their bodies superheated and they popped with a sound identical to the sound they made when killed by my Sunhouse, though without the accompanying blue flash.

While the doctor made every effort to extinguish the flames on his patient, I noticed that one entire wall of the now burning shed was covered by shelving on which cans of fuel were arrayed in rows.

What happened in the moments immediately before and after the explosion I truthfully cannot say. I have a memory of the doctor dragging his patient's burning body by the ankles away from the flaming structure. I suppose I was stricken dumb by the blast, only recovering my senses when I discovered that the fire had spread to the main building. Seeing this, I called out to Dr Alexius.

I saw the hesitation in him, I saw how hard it was to abandon this patient who was almost certainly already dead. Yet his duty to his two remaining patients impelled him to abandon this one already beyond help.

By the time we had gotten our efforts organized, it was too late to attempt any firefighting. It was time to rescue who and what we could from the building. Once more we charged into the bedrooms. This time the doctor carried out the patients while I tore down a mosquito canopy which I estimated would contribute more than anything else to our chances of survival.

I set up the netting in the jungle, suspending it from tree branches while the doctor carried his patients under it's protection. Recognizing that we wouldn't all fit under just one netting, I raced back into the part of the building least touched by flames to rescue another. This I set up just a short distance from the other one, under which the doctor was seeing to his two remaining patients. Whether they had any chance of life by then, I had no notion. It was, I will admit, both humbling and unmanning to see the devotion with which the good doctor cared for his patients, having run twice into a burning building to rescue them.

It must be said that while these events were going on, the heat and smoke which nearly killed us must themselves have been what kept the monstrous insects at bay. In fear of the fire, I had put up the two canopies as far as reasonable from that fire and found that while this perhaps preserved us from burning, it exposed us once again to the predations of the blood eaters.

For hours now, we have withstood their assault, I under my canopy, the doctor and two immobile patients under theirs. Several factors work against us. One is that in bundling up the netting and rushing it out into the jungle, I necessarily introduced deficiencies into the material. In my own canopy, I have been able to make repairs, because as it happened, I was the one who had the duct tape on my person. The other inadequacy in our defenses is that it is not enough to merely drape onesself in the netting, as while it is impervious to the mosquitos themselves, in any place where there is contact between the netting and one's skin, the mosquito's hypodermic proboscis can penetrate both the net and the skin. As I have only myself under my netting, I have been able to arrange the material such that I can sit in the center of it without any direct contact with it.

The doctor, to the contrary, has been attempting for hours now to suspend the netting in such a way that it does not contact either himself or his patients. He's tried rehanging it from the trees in a better way, but in doing so he so he has torn more holes in the netting. These holes he has in most cases been able to seal by tearing strips of clothing with which to tie off bunches of netting. Regrettably, any such activity within the canopy seems to work open the various breaches and admit more mosquitoes, and then in killing these intruders he inevitably pulls at the netting, undoing work he's already done in sealing off the space and creating more chances for the attacking insects.

Sometimes I wish that Alexius would tear down the netting and allow the beasts to devour him and be done with it. Let anyone hold that unworthy thought against me, who has seen a man consumed entirely, one drop of blood at a time. I see him now, his body sticky with sweat and blood, and stuck to him are a hundred corpses or more, many still twitching, and each surrounded by the droplets of blood it managed to steal. He's sitting on a large tear, holding another closed, and where his hand grips the netting it is black with the monsters jostling for their drop of the red.

His body is failing him. His resistance is weakening. He won't last long.

I believe it will be the heat for me. My own strength is fading. I'm certain I've lost a liter of blood. The dawn has come, and the heat will follow soon enough. There's not enough shade to preserve me, no water within reach.

I keep fantasizing that I have only so little a thing as a full roll of tape so that I could wrap my exposed flesh like a mummy and make it to the river, give myself a fighting chance of making it downriver to civilization. What I have instead is my diary, and if by creating a record of these events I can help others to avoid sharing in our cruel fates, then that is what I must do.

I hate the heat. I hate it. But do I hate it more than I fear the buzzing swarms? The doctor lies still, and I confess that I am glad I no longer must witness his pitiful struggles. I should have shot him dead hours ago. It is only a matter of cowardice that I did not. I hate the heat.