Department 19: Zero Hour

by Will Hill

Larissa frowned. “Yes, it’s allowed,” she said. “They’re on public land. And I suspect they think they’re protesting the killing of vampires.”

  “I can see that,” snapped Jack. “Why, though? I bet none of them has ever seen a vamp.”

  “Most of the people who marched against the Iraq war had never met an Iraqi,” said Larissa.

  “You think this is the same as that?” asked Jack, his face reddening. “Really? Those people waving signs are the people we risk our lives every night to protect. I can’t believe this.”

  She knew, whispered a voice in the back of Jamie’s head. He was staring up at the screen, his stomach churning. Larissa saw this coming a long time ago, how what Blacklight does would be perceived. She knew it would look like murder.

  “We’ve encountered civilians twice this week who didn’t seem surprised to see us,” said Patrick Williams. “They’d read McKenna’s work, and they believed it.”

  The Security Officer nodded. “The tide is turning,” he said. “Those who believe aren’t being laughed at any more, and there are more of them every day. The first protesters arrived overnight, and eight more have joined them in the last three hours. We have every reason to expect that rate to increase as the day goes on.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about the phone footage,” said Andrew Jarvis, the Zero Hour representative of the Surveillance Division. “It’s everywhere. Unbelievably stupid for one of our own to get caught like that, but not fatal, as Major Turner said. The MOD is maintaining a refusal to comment, and it’s holding for now. As far as the email goes, no newspaper is going to run it, not yet at least. But I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do. We’re issuing takedowns as fast as we can, but we can’t make either story go away, not completely. Eventually, we’re going to reach a tipping point, and it’s going to be open season on us when we do.”

  “Everyone in this room understands that Surveillance is doing all that can be done,” said Holmwood. “In the short term, the SOP remains the same, especially where civilians are concerned. It may need revising as this information continues to spread, but you will be advised of any changes as and when. As I said, our focus, our priority, remains the same. And it is in relation to Dracula that I am finally able to bring you something that is at least close to good news.”

  Jamie sat forward in his seat, his curiosity piqued; by the Interim Director’s standards, this almost qualified as hyperbole.

  Holmwood pulled his radio from his belt and spoke into the microphone. “Bring him in.”

  Jamie felt excitement flutter in his stomach.

  Valentin, he told himself. It has to be. Valentin’s back.

  But he was wrong.

  The Ops Room door opened and a Security Division Operator stepped through it, leading a dark figure by the arm. Larissa instantly hissed, a loud, threatening noise, and Jamie glanced at his girlfriend; her eyes had turned the colour of molten lava, and her face was twisted with bright, shining hatred. He frowned, taken aback by her response to the new arrival.

  Then realisation struck him like a bolt of lightning.

  “Grey,” he said, out loud.

  The old vampire raised his head and peered out from beneath a mane of almost-white hair. His gaze came to rest on Jamie, and a smile rose on to his lined face.

  “Mr Carpenter,” he said, causing several of the Task Force to gasp at the booming rumble of his voice. “It’s good to see you again. And Miss Kinley, of course, and Colonel Frankenstein. Where is Mr Morris?”

  “Dead,” growled Frankenstein. “In Hell, with any luck.”

  Grey’s face fell. “Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry. I have not been keeping up with current events.”

  “Operators,” said Cal Holmwood. “This is Mr Grey, the founder of the Valhalla commune in Scotland. He has information that I believe you will want to hear.”

  “Quite so,” said Grey, forcing levity back into his voice. “Quite so, Mr Holmwood. And I thank you for the opportunity to relay my information in person. Who I am is not strictly relevant to what I am about to tell you, but suffice it to say that I have been a vampire for a long time, and I have no wish to see Dracula rise.”

  “Right,” growled Larissa. “It might interfere with you murdering teenage girls.”

  Grey grimaced. “I highly doubt that it would,” he said. “But I cannot blame you for your anger. I do not expect your forgiveness.”

  “What?” asked Jack Williams, frowning deeply and looking around the room. “Can someone please tell me what is going on here?”

  “He turned me,” said Larissa, without taking her smouldering eyes from the old vampire. “Valhalla is supposed to be a place for vampires to live in peace, but every year for God knows how long he’s been going out into the world and feeding and killing. The rest of Valhalla threw him out last year when they found out.”

  Every pair of eyes in the room settled on Grey.

  “Everything she says is the truth,” said the old vampire. “I was cast out, and rightly so. I have been on a journey, in the hope that I might find some way to atone for the things I have done. That journey is why I am here with you now.”

  “Tell us what you know,” said Paul Turner. “Out with it.”

  Grey nodded. “There are legends,” he said. “When you live a life as long as mine, you hear a great many of them, and you realise that the vast majority are of no substance whatsoever, passed down for nothing more than entertainment. But occasionally one takes root, and endures. You are no doubt aware that the circumstances of Dracula’s own turning have never been known, that how he became the first of my kind remains a mystery. And in truth, the details do not matter. What does matter is a legend that tells of that time, and suggests a way to defeat him.”

  Grey paused, smiling.

  “And?” said Turner, eventually.

  “The legend states,” said Grey, “that the first victim of Dracula holds the key to his destruction.”

  Silence descended over the Ops Room.

  “Valeri?” said Jamie, frowning. “Valeri is the key to destroying Dracula?”

  “How does that help us?” asked Frankenstein. “Valeri has been loyal to his master for more than four centuries.”

  Grey’s smile widened. “Valeri may not have been Dracula’s first victim,” he said.

  There was a clamour of voices, until Grey raised his hand and continued. “For decades, even centuries, rumours have persisted of another vampire, a victim who pre-dates Valeri, perhaps only by as much as a day or two. The first victim, a man Dracula fed on after his turn was complete, and who would be almost as old, almost as powerful as the first vampire himself.”

  “We need to find out if he’s still alive,” said Jack Williams, his eyes wide. “We need to go and—”

  “No need,” said Grey. “I have already found him.”

  This time, after several seconds of stunned silence, it was Angela Darcy who found her voice first.

  “I’m sorry?” she said. “You found him?”

  Grey nodded. “I found him. He’s still alive.”

  “Where?” asked Paul Turner.

  “In Romania,” said Grey, turning to face the Security Officer. “The legend of Vlad Tepes, the Wallachian prince who became Dracula, ends in 1476 when his army was routed near Bucharest and his final reign came to an end. I followed the legend back, to a place called the Teleorman Forest, where Vlad allegedly fled when the battle was lost. There, in villages and farms, I was told stories of a man who lived in the forest, who had lived there forever. The tales had been passed down through the generations, but nobody I talked to believed they were fiction. There are places in the forest that they will not go, places that children are forbidden from even approaching. They do not believe that what lives in the forest means them harm, but they know to leave it alone.

  “I doubted their stories, but at the heart of the forest, something came for me, something old and incredibly powerful. Two days later, two days I have no memory of, I aw
oke at the edge of the forest with a freshly slaughtered deer at my side and this in my pocket.”

  Grey held out a hand, and the Operator who had escorted him into the Ops Room handed him a plastic evidence bag. The old vampire held it up; sealed inside was a piece of paper marked with three words in heavy capital letters.

  “At which point, I must confess, my nerve failed me,” said Grey. “I returned home, and attempted to make contact with Henry Seward. I am deeply sorry for his loss.”

  Larissa grunted with laughter, a harsh sound without any humour in it. Jamie glanced at her; the red in her eyes still blazed fiercely, and he could see the tips of her fangs below her upper lip. He fought back thoughts that had no place in the Ops Room and returned his gaze to Grey.

  “So you found him,” he said. “And the legend claims he can stop Dracula, if he is who you think he is. But how, exactly? You said ‘the first victim of Dracula holds the key to his destruction’, but what does that actually mean? That only he can kill him, like some kind of prophecy? Or that he can show us some weakness we can use? Or there’s something in his blood or … what?”

  “I have no idea,” said Grey. “I have told you everything I know, the legend, and the location.”

  “So we need to go to Romania,” said Jack Williams.

  “I would say so,” said Grey. “But before you get too excited, before you all saddle up and head for the forest, I must make sure that you truly understand, for the sake of my conscience. It is an old place, dark and forgotten. What lives there, what I encountered, was a force of nature, nothing less. It shook the ground and the trees. I flatter myself more powerful than most creatures that walk the earth, and I am grateful to have escaped with my life. The fact that I did shows that he is capable of mercy. But if you search him out, which I have no doubt you will, it would not be wise to expect it.”

  “Noted,” said Cal Holmwood. “Thank you, Mr Grey. You will be escorted back to Valhalla.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr Holmwood,” said Grey, nodding towards the Interim Director. “Good luck to you all.”

  The old vampire walked out of the Ops Room, his security escort close behind him. When the door swung shut, Cal Holmwood faced the Zero Hour Task Force.

  “I have spoken to the other Directors,” he said. “We are in the process of assembling a multinational team to investigate the information you have just heard, an operation that will be Priority Level 1 and Zero Hour classified. It will likely be extremely dangerous, given Grey’s description of the power of the first victim, and its objectives will be uncertain, given how little information we have to work with. But it represents a chance, no matter how small, that things can still be turned back in our favour.”

  “I volunteer, sir,” said Jamie, his heart pounding at the prospect of such an immediate chance to make up for his mistakes in the graveyard.

  “So do I,” said Larissa.

  Holmwood shook his head. “Inclusion in the team will be by selection only. If anyone from Blacklight is selected, they will be notified by 0900 tomorrow. Today’s orders will be posted as usual, and I expect them carried out to the best of your abilities. Is there anything else?”

  “What about Brennan, sir?” asked Jack Williams, instantly.

  Holmwood looked over at his Security Officer. “Paul?”

  Turner nodded. “Richard Brennan was ID’d disembarking a cross-channel ferry at Calais,” he said. “Local police were informed, and we despatched a Security team, but he was gone.”

  “How the hell did he get on the ferry?” asked Jack. “I thought we had the borders locked down?”

  “You know as well as I do that there’s no such thing as a sealed border, Lieutenant,” said Turner. “Brennan removed his chip, so we have been reliant on mugshots and known aliases and border-control awareness. Don’t you think an experienced Operator would be able to get through that, if he was determined? Couldn’t you, if you had to?”

  “Jesus,” said Jack. “So that’s it then? If Brennan’s gone, Valentin Rusmanov is our only shot at finding Dracula before Zero Hour.”

  Turner shook his head. “It’s a lead,” he said. “We know that Brennan sailed from England to France, and given that he set off a bomb in the Loop and wrote HE RISES before he fled, we can make a reasonable assumption about where he’s going.”

  “To Dracula,” said Angela Darcy.

  “Precisely,” said Turner. “Which means we know that Dracula is not in this country, and is likely somewhere on the continental land mass.”

  “Great,” said Jack. “That narrows it down.”

  Turner narrowed his eyes. “I said it was a lead, Lieutenant. I didn’t say it was a good one, but we work with what we have. Would you rather I’d kept the information to myself?” He stared coldly at Jamie’s friend until Jack dropped his gaze.

  “All right then,” said Holmwood, frowning briefly at his Security Officer. “Be careful out there, and remember what you’ve heard this morning, particularly with regard to civilians. It’s not just the vampires who are hostile now. Dismissed.”

  Henry Seward raised his wine glass to his lips with a trembling hand, trying to ignore the pain that boiled in the hole where his left eye had been. He had not tried to resist as it was plucked from its socket, not even when Dracula had swallowed the glistening orb like it was a delicious petit four, for a simple reason.

  There was no fight left in him.

  He believed, deep down in the part of himself that still remembered the world beyond the stone walls of the château, that he had resisted as hard as he could, for as long as he could. He knew this was where his life would end, this old building full of monsters, at the whim of perhaps the only true demon to have ever walked the earth, and had made peace with it. He could endure no more pain, no more humiliation, no more days and weeks of sickening impotence.

  All he could do was pray for it to end.

  “How’s the wine?” asked Dracula.

  Seward focused his remaining eye on the vampire sitting at the distant opposite end of the table.

  “It’s good,” he said. “What is it?”

  Dracula smiled. “It’s a 1941 Haut-Brion. Valeri rescued it from the cellar of Hermann Goering at the end of what I understand was known as the Second World War. A conflict I would dearly love to have seen.”

  “I’m sure you would have enjoyed it,” said Seward, and refilled his wine glass.

  “As am I, my dear Admiral. Valeri has told me much, both about that war and the one that preceded it. I must confess that, even as a military man, I cannot conceive of a war so vast that it drew in the entire world, much less two of them barely twenty years apart. Humanity’s appetite for death and destruction clearly did not diminish during the years I lay dormant.”

  Seward laughed, despite the flare of pain in his head. “No,” he said. “It most certainly did not. Advances in technology allowed us to kill each other with ever greater ease, and we used them with huge enthusiasm. We industrialised murder.”

  Dracula’s smile widened. “A fine turn of phrase,” he said. “That is exactly what Valeri described. Death dealt by explosives that fell from the sky, or were fired halfway around the globe on rockets. Gas, and poison, and bombs that destroyed whole cities. Undoubtedly effective, but impersonal, and possibly too easy. There was a time when you had to watch the light leave the eyes of the man you killed, had to feel his warm blood douse your sword hand. It took true resolve. What resolve is needed to press a button and wait for an explosion in some distant land?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Seward. “The machete and the knife are still popular in much of the world. Torture too.”

  “So much has changed,” said Dracula. “There is much that I confess I do not yet understand. But at their core, it seems people remain the same. In the end, it always comes down to spilled blood.”

  Seward drained his glass, and set it unsteadily back down on the table. The wine took the edge off the pain that filled his body, reducing it to a dul
l, persistent throb. It never truly left him; it was there when he woke up in the morning, and, when he managed to fall asleep at night, it infiltrated his dreams.

  “And me?” he asked. “What death do you have planned for me?”

  “You would talk about such an unpleasant matter?” asked Dracula.

  “Not with any great enthusiasm,” said Seward, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face. “But I would rather know than not. I am hoping for an officer’s death, with honour. With dignity. But I can’t convince myself that will be the case.”

  “No,” said Dracula, his tone gentle, almost apologetic. “I’m afraid it will not.”

  Seward’s heart sank in his chest. He had expected it, but expectation did not lessen the pain that came with the extinguishing of his last flickering flame of hope. His stomach churned, and he felt tears rise in the corners of his eyes.

  “What then?” he asked. “Impalement?”

  Dracula rolled his eyes. “You really should not believe everything you read. My enemies were impaled as warnings to their comrades, to break their morale and their spirit. I do not think such a thing would prove effective against your Blacklight colleagues.”

  “No,” said Seward, his voice momentarily full of fierce conviction. “It wouldn’t.”

  Dracula sat back in his chair. “What good can come of this, my dear Admiral?”

  “I don’t like surprises,” said Seward.

  “I really recommend that you do not know.”

  “Tell me,” said Seward.

  “Are you sure? Some things cannot be un-known.”

  “Tell me.”

  Dracula took a long sip of his wine, and told him.

  Seward stared with his remaining eye, grey sweeping into his vision from all sides. His stomach revolved and he realised, with helpless certainty, that he was going to vomit.

  His mouth yawned open, and the contents of his stomach, including the pale pink slivers of veal he had eaten only minutes earlier, were ejected on to the white tablecloth and delicate porcelain plate that would shortly have held his dessert. His head swam, and he fought for breath as his gag reflex triggered over and over, forcing air and saliva up and down his gullet, until he began to cough and splutter like a drowning man.