Department 19: Zero Hour

by Will Hill

  He had leapt clear of the flying remains of his third kill, then grabbed a vampire who had been about to sink his fangs into the throat of one of the South African Operators and raised him into the air. He hurled the squirming man to the gravel, heard his bones break with a satisfying series of crunches, and was moving again before the Operator had time to thank him. He scanned the battlefield with his supernatural eyes, searching for bigger game.

  Valentin knew that it would ultimately make no difference how many of his brother’s followers they destroyed; there would always be more, men and women desperate and unhappy enough to voluntarily enslave themselves to the whims of monsters. If he and the Operators destroyed every single one, but Valeri and Dracula survived, then it would all have been for nothing; the men and women lying dead and dying on the gravel would have given their lives for no reason.

  He saw no sign yet of his former master on the battlefield, although this was no surprise; until the last frantic months of his final reign as the Prince of Wallachia, Dracula had overseen his battles from astride his horse, surrounded by his royal guard. Valentin knew that the first vampire would be itching to spill blood, but he also knew that he would resist the urge unless his involvement became necessary; Dracula was a General, not a soldier.

  Valeri, on the other hand, had never had any such reservations.

  Valentin’s eyes darkened and a grin rose on to his face as he saw his brother tear off an Operator’s arm and throw it almost casually into the distant trees. Valeri kicked the howling man to the ground and pinned his shoulders with his knees, his hands balled into fists, his huge shoulders hunched, his face a mask of grim determination.

  Valentin slid left until he was directly behind his preoccupied brother, then flew silently towards him, his fangs gleaming in the bright light of the full moon.

  Jamie leapt into the air, his stake in his hand, and collided with a snarling female vampire; the metal point punctured her torso just below her ribs, and he pushed it up, blood pouring out over his wrist and down his arm, until it pierced her heart. Her eyes flew wide, the red light in them fading away, and then she burst, showering him with steaming blood. Jamie hung in the air, his eyes glowing, his fangs huge and gleaming, and surveyed the carnage being unleashed around him.

  The air was thick with the smoke of gunfire and the coppery smell of freshly spilled blood. The fighting had spread out across the wide courtyard, pockets of black-clad Operators standing their ground against a horde of vampires who swooped through the air, growling and snarling and trailing red light.

  Screams of pain and fear punctured the heavy rattle of guns and T-Bones, and patches of the gravel were soaked almost black with blood. Frankenstein was charging through the chaos in his wolf form like a missile, tearing and clawing and biting as vampires hurled themselves out of his reach. In the distance, Jamie saw Jack Williams fire his T-Bone, spearing a vamp out of the air and hauling her to the ground, where she popped like a balloon full of blood. He could not, even with his supernatural eyesight, identify any of the fallen Operators; in almost every case, their visors covered their faces.

  Jamie looked round and saw Valentin Rusmanov approaching his brother from behind; Valeri seemed oblivious, his attention fixed on the Operator he was pummelling into soup with his huge, pale fists. He was about to fly to Valentin’s side, to help him move on the operation’s second highest priority, when something incredibly strong grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him round. Jamie reared back, cursing himself for losing focus, for staying still for too long, then saw who had taken hold of him.

  “Jesus, Larissa,” he said. “You scared me half to death.”

  His girlfriend grinned, her mouth and chin smeared with blood, her eyes boiling crimson-black. There was no sign of her helmet; she had presumably cast it aside at some point after the fighting had begun.

  She could have shouted, he thought, as he looked into her eyes. She could have said my name. But she wanted to scare me. Her vampire side is completely in charge.

  “Go and find Henry,” said Larissa. “Now, while we’ve got them on the ropes.”

  “Find him?” said Jamie, and motioned towards the ruined château. “In there?”

  Larissa nodded. “He’s still alive,” she said. “I can smell him. Can’t you?”

  Jamie tipped back his head and inhaled deeply. “No,” he said. “I can’t.”

  “I can,” she growled.

  “All right,” said Jamie. “Then come with me.”

  Larissa shook her head. “It doesn’t need both of us,” she said. “I’m more useful out here.”

  Jamie glanced down at the gloved hands that were holding him; they looked like they had been painted red.

  If I run into Dracula inside the château, I might need you, he thought. But that wasn’t what you really meant, was it? You don’t want to come with me because you’re having too much fun out here.

  “Fine,” he said. “Stay here.”

  She grinned, then rocketed away without another word. Jamie watched her go, wondering how many times already her twisted grin had been the last thing a vampire saw.

  “Jamie,” shouted a familiar voice from the ground below him. He looked down and saw Angela Darcy looking up at him, her visor pushed back, her face pale.

  “Angela,” said Jamie. “Are you OK?”

  “Surviving,” she said. “Are you going for Admiral Seward?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

  Angela smiled, an expression that contained far more anger than humour. “Good,” she said. “Then let’s go.”

  Paul Turner threw himself to the ground as the wolf bounded past him, its yellow eyes locked on the shape of a fleeing vampire. The animal, growling with what seemed to Turner like utter delight, swung a huge paw at him as it passed, but he didn’t take it personally; he didn’t think it wanted to hurt him, but rather that its instinct to chase and hunt was now simply too powerful to overcome.

  He scrambled back to his feet, his MP7 in his hands, and sent a volley of fire into a vampire that was flying towards him with a hungry look on her blood-streaked face. The bullets punched a patchwork of holes in her stomach, and her expression changed to one of agony as she turned and fled, trailing blood and purple guts behind her as she broke for the trees. Turner smiled narrowly as she disappeared from view, then surveyed the battle, regaining his bearings.

  A single thought was pounding through his mind, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

  We might win this. We might actually win this thing.

  Casualties on both sides were already appalling, but crucially, at least as far as he could tell with the naked eye and through the filters of his visor, they were worse for the vamps than for the Combined Operational Force. The release of Frankenstein in his wolf form had caused panic among Valeri’s followers, perfectly understandably; they had not expected to be confronted with a wild animal the size of a small car as well as Operators with all their weapons and training. Frankenstein had been the second, and last, of the tricks Cal Holmwood had been able to put up his sleeve at such short notice, and while it had not been as loud or explosive as the surprise that Bob Allen had arranged, it was proving highly effective; now it would come down to the men and women who were fighting so fiercely for each other, and for the future of the world.

  Across the courtyard, he saw Cal Holmwood raise an arm, and sweep it forward. The Operators of Blue Team swarmed out from among the transport helicopters and joined the fight, their weapons thundering.

  The thought appeared in Turner’s mind again, unbidden but even more insistent.

  We might win this. Damn it, we really might.

  Jamie raced towards the ruins of Château Dauncy, Angela Darcy sprinting at his side.

  Smoking rubble piled up before them, teetering unsteadily as flames from a hundred small fires licked at it, the smoke and dust almost obscuring the remains of a door frame in the corner of the shattered space, and the stairs that led down from beneat
h it. Jamie pointed, but Angela was already moving, clambering over fallen stone and shattered wood and descending the stairs, her T-Bone resting easily against her shoulder. He grinned, and followed her.

  At the bottom of the stairs stood a stone passage, leading away to the left and right. Pieces of the vampires who had been too close to the entrance when the Apaches turned on their ultraviolet beams were spread across the walls and floor, charred lumps that smoked in the cold air. The smell was nauseating, sweet and rotten.

  “Which way?” asked Angela.

  Jamie tilted back his head and stretched his newly improved senses, searching past the aroma of burning meat for some sign of Henry Seward: the sound of his voice, a mention of his name, the essential scent of the Blacklight Director. He could smell blood, and fire, the sweet heady perfume of wine, and somewhere in the distance he could hear a woman’s steady, terrified weeping. He pushed harder, concentrating until his head felt like it was going to burst, and was rewarded; from somewhere in the distance, his nose picked up a familiar smell.

  “This way,” he said, and flew quickly down the passage to the left. Angela followed him, her feet thudding on the stone floor. They passed a fallen vampire, crushed beneath a section of wall that had collapsed under the impact of the bomb, but still alive. He clawed weakly at them as they passed, his flickering red eyes seeming to focus on nothing; Angela skidded to a halt, and drew her stake from her belt.

  “Leave him,” said Jamie, his eyes flaring. “He’s not what we’re here for.”

  Angela nodded, replaced the stake, and followed him deeper into the cellars. They passed stone archways that opened on to square rooms full of wine racks that would have kept even the most discerning of oenophiles in raptures until their dying day. Several had been tipped over, covering the floors with broken glass and liquid that looked like blood, and smelt almost as sweet.

  “Left or right?” asked Angela, as they reached the end of the passage.

  Jamie closed his eyes for a long moment, searching for the scent; it was the accumulation of Henry Seward, the smell of his skin and sweat, of his very essence leaking from his pores. He found it, stronger now than before, and pointed down the left-hand corridor.

  Angela nodded. Then her eyes widened with warning, and Jamie was moving before she had time to make a sound.

  He dropped into a crouch, and felt the air ripple as a huge wooden club was swung through the space where his head had been less than a second earlier. He spun back to his feet and saw a middle-aged vampire struggling for balance with a look of enormous surprise on his face; he had almost swung himself off his feet. Jamie didn’t give the man a chance to recover; he launched himself forward, slamming his attacker into the wall with a deafening crash.

  The stone cracked under the impact, covering them with dust. Jamie grabbed the vampire by the throat and flew straight upwards, driving the man’s head into the ceiling. His eyes rolled and his arms went limp as Jamie spun in the air and threw him to the ground on his back. He had time to let out a single low moan before Angela darted forward and staked him. She leapt back as the vampire exploded, spraying the floor and ceiling with blood, then smiled at Jamie.

  “Nice moves,” she said. “Vampirism seems to suit you.”

  Jamie grinned. “Maybe,” he said. “It makes some things easier, I’ll say that much for it.”

  “Come on,” said Angela. “Let’s find Henry.”

  Jamie nodded, and flew down the corridor. More arches revealed more rooms, but it took only a cursory glance to ascertain that Seward was not in any of them; they were filled with bunk beds and fold-up mattresses, giving them the appearance of dormitories, or barracks.

  Which is exactly what they are, thought Jamie. Sleeping quarters for Valeri’s army.

  Valeri realised Valentin was behind him a millisecond before the punch landed on the back of his neck.

  The impact was devastating; it drove all thought momentarily from his mind as he crashed to the gravel, his vision filled with fireworks of white and red. Acting on nothing more than animal instinct, he threw himself forward across the ground and rolled over in time to see a foot slam down where his head had been. He summoned up reserves of strength, climbed to his feet, and faced his brother.

  Valentin was smiling at him, his eyes glowing pale red. He was wearing the all-black uniform of the enemy; the sight of it turned Valeri’s stomach, and sent fury boiling through him.

  “There are no depths to which you will not sink, are there?” he growled. “No betrayal too great. Mother should have drowned you when you were born.”

  Valentin rolled his eyes, his smile widening. “Shall we get this over with, brother?” he said. “We both know that you can’t beat me, so if you surrender I’ll make it quick.”

  “Surrender?” said Valeri, his eyes narrowing with disgust. “To you? I would die a thousand times first.”

  “A thousand times seems excessive,” said Valentin. “Once will be fine.”

  The youngest Rusmanov’s smile twisted into a snarl of pure violence. He took a quick step to one side, then shot forward, his speed shocking even to Valeri’s heightened senses. The elder Rusmanov leapt backwards and swung a haymaker towards where he believed Valentin’s face was about to be, but connected with nothing. Valentin ducked the punch as though Valeri had thrown it in slow motion, and slammed a fist into his throat with a sound like breaking crockery.

  And suddenly Valeri couldn’t breathe.

  His eyes bulged as he slid to his knees, his hands clutching at his damaged neck, his body shaking. Valentin circled away with a look of pity on his face, a look that filled Valeri with fear.

  Dear God, he doesn’t even intend to finish me. He’s just going to watch me choke.

  Valeri ran his fingers over his throat, forcing himself to stay calm. The flesh was already beginning to swell, but he could feel his compacted trachea beneath it, the tube that should be carrying air into lungs that were already screaming for relief. Horror flooded through him as he realised what he needed to do, mixing with the furious shame of having been bested again, so easily, by his brother.

  He tipped his head back, pain pulsing through his head and chest, and ripped open a hole in the side of his neck with his bare fingers. Blood gushed down his arm as new agony roared through him, but he ignored it; he pushed his fingers into the hole, past the muscles and tendons, and took hold of his bent and swollen trachea. With panic rising through him, he began to massage the sides of the wounded pipe with his forefinger and thumb, trying to persuade it to reopen.

  For a long moment, nothing happened.

  Then, with a sound like a newborn’s first breath, air whistled down his damaged throat and into his lungs.

  Relief flooded through him as he took a deep, rattling breath. He felt some of his strength return, along with a terror beyond anything he had ever experienced. He staggered to his feet, his hand and neck and chest soaked with his own blood, and faced his brother again.

  Valentin smiled. “I’m impressed, brother,” he said. “Nothing quite like conducting surgery on yourself.”

  Valeri swayed on unsteady legs. He needed to buy time, to feed and recover; his brother, his hateful, wet little brother who had always been his mother’s favourite, was so fast, so unbelievably fast and strong. His terror threatened to overwhelm him as he stared at Valentin. Then he turned and leapt into the air, searching the battlefield with wide, panicked eyes for a way to regroup.

  Valentin’s hand closed round his ankle.

  For a single, seemingly endless moment, Valeri hung stationary in the air, as his power and his brother’s cancelled each other out. Then Valentin jerked his arm down, whipping Valeri towards the gravel, his arms flailing helplessly.

  He hit the ground face first.

  Valeri’s nose exploded as his front teeth shattered, sending fresh pain barrelling through his head; it was overwhelming, but he fought against it with all the strength he had left, desperate to keep moving. He crawled forw
ard, staggered to his feet and spun round, lashing out blindly with his fists. As his vision cleared, he found his brother staring at him coldly.

  “Men don’t run,” said Valentin. “You taught me that, brother. Men stand and fight.”

  Rage thundered through Valeri, momentarily drowning out the pain and fear. He growled, and spread his arms wide. “Come to me then, brother,” he said. “Let us finish this.”

  Valentin smiled. “Your wish is my—”

  The words stopped abruptly as Valentin’s face changed. His eyes darkened black, and his mouth fell open, as though his power had suddenly been cut. His head rolled slowly backwards, until he was staring up at the sky, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

  Valeri wasted no time wondering what was happening. He launched himself forward with everything he had and landed an uppercut on his brother’s chin that would have knocked over a building. Valentin hurtled into the air, trailing a torrent of blood, and disappeared over the dark expanse of the forest.

  Dracula felt a rush of irritation spread through him as Valeri slumped to the ground, clutching his throat as his brother circled him. The eldest Rusmanov was a disappointment in so many ways, and would likely not survive the night, whatever the outcome of the battle, but removing him from the field at this point would tip the scales in favour of his enemies, and that could not be allowed.

  It’s time to end this, he thought, and felt familiar excitement dance up his spine. It has gone on long enough.