Battle Lines

by Will Hill

  “Outside.”

  “Excellent. Where is the door?”

  “In the hall.”

  “Mr. Clarke,” said the stranger. “I want you to go and open the door. Then nice and quietly, nice and peacefully, we’re going to lock your family in the cellar. Then you and I are going to talk. Is that all clear?”

  “Yes,” replied Tom. “It’s clear.” His heart was racing and his stomach was churning, but the thought of putting his wife and sons in the cellar, putting at least some distance between them and the stranger, ignited a flickering flame of hope.

  Maybe they’ll get out of this, he thought. Even if I don’t.

  “Good,” replied the stranger. “Before we go, I’d like you and your wife to empty your pockets. Just in case you happen to have any cell phones you forgot to tell me about. I’d like you to do that now, please.”

  Tom immediately fished his phone from the inner pocket of his jacket and threw it down onto the cream leather sofa. He dug into the pockets of his trousers, pulled out his wallet and the entry card for his office, and tossed them down beside the phone, praying that the single remaining item wouldn’t be visible through the material of his suit.

  “Thank you,” said the stranger, before turning his attention to Bonnie. “Mrs. Clarke?”

  Tom watched as his wife, who was now weeping steadily, emptied the pockets of her jeans. They contained her cell phone, chewing gum, and nothing else.

  “Good,” said the stranger. “Lead the way then, Mr. Clarke. And please, for your family’s sake, don’t do anything stupid.”

  Tom nodded, then walked slowly out of the living room, casting a final desperate glance at his sons as he did so. The cellar door stood near the end of the hall, just before the kitchen; it was plain wood, locked by a single sliding bolt. He slid it back, hauled open the door, and stood stiffly beside it. A moment later Bonnie emerged from the living room and came toward him, her face wearing the look of a woman who is trapped in a nightmare from which she has no idea how to wake up. She walked unsteadily down the first few steps, then turned, waiting for her boys. The stranger carried them down the hallway as though they were weightless and put them down before their father.

  “Go with your mother, boys,” said Tom, in a strangled tone. “Go on now.”

  James and Alec ran through the cellar door and flung themselves against their mother. She almost overbalanced, but managed to right herself. Then the three of them were sobbing, clutching at each other and whispering incoherently.

  “Close the door, Mr. Clarke,” said the stranger. “If you told me the truth, then they will be quite safe down there.”

  Tom pushed the door slowly closed. The last things he saw before it clicked into place were the faces of his family, staring pleadingly up at him from the darkness.

  * * *

  “Do you mind if I sit?” asked the stranger. Tom had led them back into the living room as soon as the cellar door was bolted and taken a seat on the sofa, as instructed.

  “No,” he said, slowly. “That’s fine.”

  “Thank you,” said the stranger, settling himself into the armchair that Bonnie spent the majority of her evenings in. Tom hoped he might get to see his wife sitting there again. But as he looked at the stranger’s pale, smiling face, he didn’t think the chances were good.

  “Now,” said the stranger, casually crossing one leg over the other, “I am very interested, Mr. Clarke, in the death of a man who went publicly by the name of Johnny Supernova. Particularly the circumstances of his death and any will he may have left behind. Would you kindly tell me everything you know about these matters?”

  Tom stared blankly at the stranger. This was why he had broken into his home? Not for money, or jewels, or even for the information that actually was valuable, on oil futures and offshore cash dumps? But to ask about Johnny Supernova?

  “It was a heroin overdose,” he replied. “He died in a flat in Clerkenwell.”

  “What a waste,” said the stranger, shaking his head sadly. “Although I can’t say I’m entirely surprised. What about family? Did anyone survive him?”

  “There’s a sister,” replied Tom. “She didn’t want anything to do with him. The last piece he wrote was about her. It wasn’t flattering, to say the least. Apparently, she refused to lend him money shortly before he died.”

  “What about his possessions? His personal effects?”

  “Everything is being held in trust,” replied Tom. “It’s being sold next month to pay off his credit cards and settle a number of unresolved advances. There was only a single specified bequest, delivered through me to an old friend of his.”

  “What was the bequest?” asked the stranger, suddenly sitting forward.

  “An envelope,” replied Tom. “A tape of an interview, a transcript, and a folder of notes.”

  “Did you read them?”

  “I did.”

  “What were they?”

  “Nonsense,” said Tom. “Kid’s stuff, about vampires and secret agencies.”

  “Who was the interview with?”

  “I don’t remember,” replied Tom.

  “Was it Harker?” asked the stranger. “Albert Harker?”

  Tom stared, as his memory jogged into life. “How do you know that?” he asked, slowly.

  The stranger smiled. “It was the only interview I’ve ever given, Mr. Clarke. It sticks in the mind.”

  “My God,” said Tom, his eyes widening. “Oh my—”

  Albert Harker’s eyes bloomed a terrible glowing crimson, and he slid out of his seat with a speed that defied reason. He gripped Tom Clarke by the throat, cutting off his words, then lifted the squirming, struggling lawyer into the air as though it was the easiest thing in the world.

  “Who did he leave the envelope to?” asked the vampire, drawing Tom forward until their faces were only millimeters apart. “Who has the tape now?”

  “McKenna,” spluttered Tom. His head was starting to pound as Harker’s fingers cut off the oxygen supply to his brain. “Kevin . . . McKenna . . . He’s a . . . journalist . . . for the . . . Globe.” Panic swept through his body, filling him with a terror like nothing he’d ever known, and he dug his hand into his trouser pocket, his eyes wide and frantic.

  * * *

  “Thank you,” said Albert Harker, breathing out heavily. “Thank you very much, Mr. Clarke. You have been most helpful.”

  He was about to drop the lawyer onto his sofa when Tom Clarke pulled out his car key and buried it in his eye.

  The pain was enormous, bursting through his head like a mushroom cloud. Harker threw back his head, feeling his eyeball rip as the key tore through its soft surface, and howled at the living room ceiling. Half his vision was instantly gone, a dark red cloud in its place. Harker dropped the lawyer and clamped his hands to his face, gripping the skin as if he could somehow squeeze out the pain. His head screamed with hurt and anger. As he tried to clear it, he heard a rough, scrabbling sound and forced himself to open his remaining eye.

  Tom Clarke was crawling out of the living room door, dragging himself determinedly toward the hallway. Harker bellowed with rage and lurched across the room, yellow fluid spilling from his ruined eye and pattering to the carpet as he reached down and took hold of the back of Clarke’s neck. The lawyer screamed, struggling against the vampire’s grip. Harker bore down, lifting the man into the air as he kicked and flailed, and threw him across the room with a roar of effort. Clarke slammed into the wall head first, and there was a terrible snapping noise as his neck broke; he slid to the ground in a tangled heap, blood spurting from a wide gash that had opened up across his forehead, his eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling.

  Harker strode across the living room, his chest heaving up and down, and looked down at the man he had killed. Panic, bright and sharp, was pounding through his head, alongside a desire that f
illed him with shame; the desire to taste the blood that was rapidly pooling on the carpet. He knelt down beside the lawyer, dipped his fingers into the crimson liquid, and raised them to his mouth. A pleasure so great it was overwhelming barreled through his body, filling him with a burning, electric sensation, as though his flesh was being consumed by glorious fire. He felt his eyeball refill and heal, his vision returning in a moment of shocking brightness, like a window being opened on a dark room, and he dipped both his hands back into the blood.

  When he was sated, he threw back his head, his throat convulsing, his body trembling uncontrollably, and waited for the rush to pass. After several minutes, it began to: His heart started to slow, and sensation began to return to his fingers. He breathed deeply, in and out, like a man on the verge of a panic attack, as understanding rushed through him.

  That was why vampires killed: that rapturous, Godlike ecstasy.

  Trembling, Harker walked across the living room, stepping around the worst of the mess, and out into the hallway. His legs seemed to move on autopilot, and his eyes burned a terrible, lustful red as he slid back the bolt that locked the cellar door. He stared down the dark staircase, his supernatural hearing picking up heavy breathing and whimpering from the underground room, his breath coming deep and slow. He took a step forward, then paused as he heard a female voice whisper below him.

  “Don’t be scared,” it said. “I won’t let him hurt you. I promise.”

  Oh God. Oh dear God.

  The glow died in Albert Harker’s eyes as he realized what he had been about to do. His stomach lurched and his head swam. He shoved the cellar bolt back into place, ran down the hallway on suddenly unsteady legs, smashed the front door open, and fled out into the night.

  18

  THE MOST IMPORTANT MEAL OF THE DAY

  Kate Randall stared at the day’s ISAT schedule and tried to ignore the tension swirling in her stomach.

  You knew this was coming, she told herself. Everyone is going to end up here eventually. It’s just the same as any of the others.

  After a bad start, the first day’s interviews had been entirely successful: They had uncovered no evidence of any treason against the Department, and no significant incidents of an operator attempting to lie to them. Stephen Marshall’s admission that he had used his position in the Surveillance Division to eavesdrop on his girlfriend had been reported to his superior for appropriate disciplinary action, but was not ultimately what ISAT was concerned with. What they were concerned with, they had so far failed to uncover.

  Kate read the first line of the schedule again and felt her stomach churn.

  0800. Browning, Matt.

  Behind her, the ISAT lounge door clicked open.

  “Morning,” she said, swinging her chair around.

  Paul Turner, looking visibly invigorated by the extra hours of sleep that she had insisted he take, smiled at her. “Morning,” he said. “Are you ready for this?”

  “Absolutely,” Kate replied. “If we don’t treat everyone the same way, then there’s no point in doing this. Right?”

  “That’s right,” replied Turner. He was looking at her with an expression so obviously full of pride that she felt herself begin to blush. “Exactly right.”

  “I know,” said Kate. “That’s why I said it.”

  There was a long moment of comfortable silence, punctured only when Turner’s radio buzzed into life. He plucked it from his belt and lifted it to his ear. After a second or two, he said, “Understood,” and placed the handset back in its loop.

  “He’s here,” said Turner. “I’ll get him wired in, you get yourself up to speed on his file, then meet me inside in five minutes. Okay?”

  “Got it,” replied Kate.

  Turner nodded and left the lounge. Kate watched him go, then went to the filing cabinet that stood against the wall beside the desk. The cabinet contained the personnel files of every single operator in the Department, from the rookies that were currently undergoing training to Interim Director Holmwood himself. She placed her hand on a black panel on the front of the cabinet, and a lens rose out of the top on a plastic stilt. Kate lowered her eye to the level of the sensor and let the red laser beam slide across her eyeball. There were a series of clicks as the cabinet’s locks disengaged, before Kate hauled open the second drawer and flicked through the files. She found Matt’s, and settled on the sofa to read it.

  Four minutes later she set the file down and made her way to the interview room. She was smiling as she walked; the story of how Matt had ended up working for the Lazarus Project was one she knew very well, having lived through most of it, but she still wanted to laugh at its sheer reckless audaciousness. Matt had put himself in danger, far more danger than she suspected he had actually realized, just for the chance to return to the Loop, to a place where he honestly believed he could be useful. He was never going to be half the operator that she or Jamie were, nor probably a quarter of the terrifying force of nature that Larissa was becoming, but in his own way, he was every bit as brave and resilient as anybody in the Department, even if he would have protested vehemently at such a suggestion; his modesty was one of the things she loved most about him.

  Kate pushed open the interview room door and saw that the Intelligence Division technicians had finished their prep. Matt was sitting in the chair at the far end of the room, attached to the trolleys of monitoring equipment by a series of sensors that had been placed on the skin of his chest, arms, and neck. She smiled at him as she took her seat beside Paul Turner, and he smiled back without much conviction. Turner glanced over at her, and she nodded.

  Let’s get this over with.

  “Lieutenant Browning,” said Paul Turner, his tone warm and polite. “Do you understand why Lieutenant Randall and I are carrying out this process?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Matt. “You’re looking for traitors.”

  Turner smiled. “That’s correct, Lieutenant. Answer our questions truthfully, and you have nothing to worry about.”

  Matt nodded. Kate gave him a moment, then cleared her throat and began.

  “This is ISAT interview 057, conducted by Lieutenant Kate Randall, NS303, 78-J in the presence of Major Paul Turner, NS303, 36-A. State your name, please.”

  “Matt Browning.”

  Kate looked down at the screen set into the table and watched the two gray boxes turn bright green. “Please answer the following question incorrectly,” she said. “State your gender, please.”

  Matt grinned. “Female.”

  The boxes on the screen turned red.

  “All right,” said Kate. “Mr. Browning. Are you a lieutenant in Department 19?”

  “Yes.”

  Green.

  “Are you currently working for the classified section of the Science Division known as the Lazarus Project?”

  “Yes.”

  Green.

  “What does that work entail?”

  “That’s classified,” said Matt.

  Green.

  “Not to us, Lieutenant,” said Paul Turner. “Please answer the question.”

  “Lazarus is classified to everyone, sir,” said Matt, his tone apologetic. “Unless you get Interim Director Holmwood in here to tell me otherwise.”

  Green.

  Kate grinned. She was suddenly very proud of Matt. She knew how intimidating the surroundings of the ISAT interview room were, having been the second person to go through the process herself, and she knew full well that Matt was at least as terrified of Paul Turner as most people in the Loop, possibly more so. But his loyalty to the Lazarus Project, and what it was trying to do, had apparently overwhelmed his nerves. She continued with the interview, which passed without incident.

  * * *

  When the technicians finished unhooking Matt from the monitoring equipment, he stood up, massaging the places where
the sensors had been, and smiled at Kate. They were alone in the interview room; Paul Turner had disappeared into the ISAT lounge, having ordered Kate to go and get breakfast before they resumed their interviews.

  “That wasn’t too bad,” said Matt. “I hope I did okay?”

  “You did fine,” replied Kate, smiling back at him. “I knew you would.”

  “Good,” said Matt, a tiny bit too eagerly. “That’s good. I was really nervous. Even though, you know . . .”

  “Even though you had nothing to hide,” finished Kate. “It’s okay, Matt, really it is. Everyone who comes in here is nervous. That’s sort of the point.”

  Matt nodded. “I suppose it would be.”

  Kate checked her watch, then looked at Matt with a cheerful expression on her face. “I’m starving,” she announced. “I’m going to get breakfast, and you’re coming with me. We haven’t talked in ages.”

  “I should get back to work,” said Matt. “We’re on the verge of isolating—”

  “If they cure vampirism in the next half an hour,” interrupted Kate, smiling broadly, “I’m sure Professor Karlsson will message you. Now come on. I simply must have coffee.”

  Matt broke into a grin. “All right,” he said. “Let’s do it. I haven’t had a breakfast that didn’t come out of a vending machine in weeks.”

  * * *

  Kate put her tray down on one of the tables at the far end of the canteen, away from the line of operators lining up in front of the hotplates and fruit bowls and coffee machines. She had a bowl of grapefruit, a plate containing brown toast and two badly poached eggs, a tall glass of orange juice, and two mugs of steaming coffee. She hadn’t lied to Matt—she was drinking probably a dozen coffees every day at the moment, just to keep her brain firing and her limbs moving. The Shaun-shaped hole at her center was always threatening to pull her backward, to drag her under, and caffeine was one of the ways she stayed beyond its reach.

  Matt’s tray thudded onto the table, and Kate laughed out loud at the sight of it. He smiled with embarrassment and took a seat behind a towering, unstable mountain of bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms, baked beans, and toast. He had a mug of tea and a glass of water, and attacked his breakfast with the urgency of a starving man who has just wandered out of the desert.