by Will Hill
All their money and their guns aren’t going to help them now, she thought, her mind so flooded with the bittersweet desire to commit violence that she could barely form the words.
Nothing can help them now.
* * *
They went silently, taking the stairs one at a time, and emerged into a wood-paneled corridor.
The long wall to their left was covered in framed posters of old Hollywood films: Tarzan, The Adventures of Robin Hood, King Kong, The Magnificent Seven. To their right, the wall was covered with black-and-white photographs of film stars, politicians, musicians, and models. A handsome man sporting a thick moustache and wearing a military uniform smiled out from the middle of every frame; the man who was no longer a man, the vampire the special operations squad was there to destroy.
“Flaherty,” said Tim, across their comms network. “Do we still have overlook?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
“Talk us through the layout of this level.”
“One room to our left,” said Flaherty, pointing at a door set in between two of the posters. “To the right, there’s one large room on the other side of this wall. Small rooms along the edges, but the central space is open. The vamps are gathered at the far end.”
“Okay,” said Tim. “Stay on it. Let me know if they move.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Flaherty.
The squad leader raised his hand and pointed at the door set into the left-hand wall. Rios and Rushton moved silently along the corridor until they were standing on either side of it. Tim and Flaherty moved up behind them, their T-Bones raised to their shoulders, Larissa watching their backs. There was a moment of silence before Rios reached down, gripped the handle, and threw the door open. Tim led them in, Flaherty behind him, Rios, Rushton, and Larissa bringing up the rear.
The room was long and wide, full of metal benches beside which stood a number of stools. On the bench tops sat plastic tubs full of white powder, along with metal spoons, wooden sticks, and a pair of ancient-looking scales. A set of shelves contained rows of rectangular parcels, wrapped in brown paper and layers of clear plastic. A digital radio was plugged into a wall socket in the corner, the single concession to levity in this severe, businesslike room.
“This is where those women worked,” said Larissa. “The cutters.”
Tim nodded. “Set a UV grenade on that bench,” he said. “Motion sensitive. I don’t want any surprises down here.”
“Yes, sir,” said Larissa. She pulled a UV grenade from her belt, placed it in the middle of one of the piles of powder, and twisted its dial three clicks to the right. It began to flash steadily as the squad made their exit. Larissa cast a final glance into the room as she pulled the door closed and felt the fury in her chest, hot and sharp and comforting.
Time’s almost up, General, she thought. I’m going to carve Olivia’s name into your heart before I crush it with my bare hands.
They regrouped in the corridor, their weapons raised.
“Overlook?” asked Tim.
“No change,” said Flaherty.
“Okay. Once we go around this wall, is there anything between us and them?”
“Structural pillars,” said Flaherty. “Furniture. Tables and sofas, by the look of it.”
“All right. I want an even spacing as we move up. Once we engage, Jill and Larissa break right, Pete and José to the left with me. Clear?”
Rushton and Rios nodded.
“Let’s do this quick and clean,” said Tim. “Remember that these are not the same vampires we’re used to dealing with: They’re stronger, and faster, and most of them have military experience. Get them in your sights and put them down. Don’t let yourself get cut off, and fall back if you find yourself in a changing situation. This is no time for heroics. Are you listening to me, Larissa?”
She grunted and nodded her head. Fire was coursing through her veins, demanding violence, urging her to spill blood and tear flesh.
“All right then,” said Tim. “Let’s move out.”
* * *
Larissa followed her squad mates around the corner at the end of the wooden corridor, bracing herself for the rattle of gunfire, her MP5 resting easily in her hands.
Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.
The room they found themselves at the edge of was long and wide, as Flaherty had suggested. Wood paneling covered the walls, polished floorboards the ground. Pillars that presumably held the basement ceiling up stood at wide intervals, with tables, sofas, and chairs arranged between them. All the surfaces had a dull dusting of white powder. Beer bottles and wine glasses were everywhere, beside ashtrays overflowing with the discarded ends of cigarettes and cigars. The smell of tobacco and whiskey mingled in the air with something acidic, something that smelled almost like gasoline. At the far end of the room, where Flaherty had told them General Rejon and his soldiers would be waiting for them, there was a long wooden bar full of glass bottles, and a semicircle of empty sofas facing a huge wall-screen TV. On top of the bar stood a small fridge, which Larissa was willing to bet was full of blood.
“What the hell?” asked Tim. “Flaherty?”
“I don’t know, sir,” she replied. “The satellite’s showing eleven subterranean vampire heat signatures. They should be right in front of us.”
“Can you see any vamps?” asked Tim. “Because I can’t.”
“No, sir,” replied Flaherty. Her tone was ice-cold.
“Good,” said Tim. “I’m glad it’s not just me. Move up.”
The special operations squad stepped silently into the wide-open area at the end of the room. A large rug covered much of the floor, woven with an intricate pattern of loops and zigzag stripes. On the wooden surface of the bar, three glasses sat half-full of clear liquid, beads of condensation rolling slowly down their sides. Smoke rose lazily from an ashtray, the crushed remnants of a cigar still glowing inside it.
“They were here,” said Larissa. “Recently.”
Tim pushed back his visor and glared at her. “That’s helpful,” he said, color rising in his cheeks. “Do you have any other observations?”
Larissa didn’t reply. She merely lifted her visor and fixed the squad leader with a long, flat stare. After a second or two, he looked away.
“All right,” said Flaherty, pushing back her own visor. “Let’s just try to—”
The deafening clatter of automatic gunfire filled the air, thundering against the wooden walls and crashing into the operators’ ears. The wide rug bucked and twisted as a hail of bullets pounded through it, filling the air with flying pieces of hot, deadly lead. One slammed against the side of Larissa’s helmet, sending her stumbling backward as her squad mates dived for cover. She shoved her visor down, feeling her fangs sliding down from her gums, her eyes filling with blazing heat.
“Back against the walls,” yelled Tim.
Larissa flung herself up into the air, the smell of gunpowder threatening to overwhelm her, then swooped forward, ignoring Tim’s order completely. She skimmed the ground, moving at dizzying speed, and dragged the rug up and away. Beneath it, now almost obliterated by gunfire, was a wide trapdoor.
“They’re under the floor,” she yelled, her voice booming directly into the ears of her squad mates. She spun upward, hovering in the thick, smoky air, and threw the rug aside. Then she drew her MP5 from her belt and emptied the submachine gun into what was left of the wooden floor. The rest of the squad followed suit. The gunfire howled and bellowed for what felt like an eternity, then stopped, leaving only silence in the acrid, smoke-filled room.
“Hello, my friends,” shouted a deep, distant voice. “I am General Garcia Rejon, and you are most welcome in my home. Why don’t you come down here and introduce yourselves?”
Larissa growled, the noise rumbling up through her throat. “Why the hell didn’t we know there was a sub-b
asement down here?” she asked.
“It’s not on the plans,” said Flaherty. “I’m sorry.”
“I can see you, my friends,” shouted General Rejon. “But I cannot hear you. Don’t you want to talk to me? Is that not why you are here?”
Tim twisted the dial on his belt. “I’ll talk to you, General,” he said, his voice echoing through the basement. “What do you want to talk about?” As he spoke, he pulled a pair of UV grenades from his belt.
“How about trespassing?” shouted General Rejon. “Or unlawful entry? Or murder?”
“You want to talk about murder?” asked Tim. “Fine. Let’s talk about that.”
He crouched down and pitched the two UV grenades toward the trapdoor. They rattled across the uneven, shattered surface, then dropped out of sight. There was a moment of absolute stillness before the grenades exploded in a silent, blinding burst of purple light that blazed up through hundreds of jagged bullet holes.
A chorus of deafening agony immediately filled the air, as the basement floor erupted upward in an explosion of flying wood and burning, screaming vampires. The purple light died away, and a smile burst across Larissa’s face as she threw herself into the battle.
General Rejon and his men fled in every direction, purple flames billowing from their bodies, their faces twisted in expressions of pain and surprise.
Didn’t expect that, did you? thought Larissa, savagely.
Two of the burning shapes made for the exit, weaving through the basement in shambling, stumbling steps. Larissa slipped easily through the smoke and carnage as her squad mates engaged the reeling, terrified vampires, drawing her T-Bone as she flew through the thick, bitter air. She sighted down the barrel of the weapon and fired it into the back of one of the fleeing vampires. The metal stake struck him between his shoulder blades and exited through his breastplate, whistling away toward the far wall. The vampire staggered, clutching at his chest, then exploded in a burst of black and crimson.
The second escaping figure cried out as blood sprayed across his face. Larissa saw panic in the man’s eyes, saw his tongue flick out involuntarily and lick his friend’s blood from his lips. He turned to face her, his face a mask of utter terror. She swooped lazily down toward him, drawing her stake from her belt. The vampire raised a burning, ruined arm in a futile gesture of resistance. She knocked it aside and buried the stake in his heart. The vampire’s eyes bulged momentarily, before he burst across her helmet and uniform.
Larissa felt the satisfying thud as her T-Bone’s stake wound back into the barrel, and turned back toward the bar. Her squad mates were engaging the rest of the vampires, keeping their distance and picking them apart with bullets and T-Bone stakes. Her smile widened: The escapee vampires might well be stronger and faster than most of the newly turned, but with their bodies burned and ravaged by ultraviolet fire, they were no match for the special operations squad.
As she flew back to help, Flaherty staked a vampire that had been driven back against the wall by a careful volley of fire from Tim’s HK416. He exploded, leaving a huge dripping splash of blood on the wall. The scent of burning flesh and boiling blood filled Larissa’s nostrils, intoxicating her, calling her forward. She was about to join the fight when water exploded from the ceiling of the room, spraying out of the building’s sprinkler system. The last of the purple flames disappeared, and great clouds of steam rose from the roasted flesh of the vampires.
“Hold,” said Tim, his voice appearing in her ear. “This is over.”
The steam cleared, billowing away to reveal a scene of horror, as the seven remaining vampires hauled their devastated bodies across the shattered wood of the floorboards. Their bodies were burned black, and they seemed to crawl aimlessly, their eyes gone, their limbs continuing to move on instinct alone. Some were on their hands and knees, the rest dragging themselves along with their elbows. They swiveled their heads at the sound of the approaching operators, but made no noise apart from the occasional guttural grunt.
Larissa could not bring herself to feel any sympathy for them; if anything, she felt that they had gotten off lightly. She floated to the ground beside Tim Albertsson, who drew his stake and plunged it quickly in and out of the chests of the two nearest vampires; they exploded with pitifully small sprays of blood. Larissa watched, feeling nothing. Rios staked two on the far side of the room, then joined the rest of the squad in the center, where the trapdoor had been. On the floor, the last three vampires crawled in aimless circles.
“Clear,” said Flaherty. “Good job, everyone.”
“Finish them,” said Tim, nodding down at the vampires. Rushton darted forward and staked them in quick succession. They burst, splattering the shredded floorboards with gore. Larissa let out a deep breath, then removed her helmet and checked it as her squad mates looked at each other, smiles rising on their faces. There was a long groove where the bullet had hit it.
Lucky, she thought.
Then, as Tim opened his mouth to speak, Larissa heard a soft click beneath them.
She moved in the same moment that Garcia Rejon burst up through what was left of the floor, a huge black shotgun in his hands. His eyes glowed a furious red, and his mouth was twisted into a terrible grin as he pulled the trigger. There was a deafening blast, and Larissa felt a bolt of white-hot fire stream past the side of her head. Pain bloomed there instantly, and she twisted away, grabbing for the site of the agony with her hand. Her fingers touched the side of her head, and she recoiled: Her ear was missing. She brought her gloved hand in front of her face; it was slick with blood.
A guttural roar burst from Larissa’s mouth as her squad mates opened up on the general with their rifles, driving him across the basement, the shotgun spilling from his hands. She ran forward, reached down, and picked up the shotgun as Rejon hurled himself upward and disappeared through the ceiling of the basement with a loud, splintering crunch. She growled again, her vampire side in almost total control, and gave chase, ignoring Tim Albertsson’s shouted demands for her to stop.
* * *
Larissa burst through the hole the general had made like a corpse rising from the grave.
The air around her was thick and hot, and a mixture of scents filled her nostrils: blood, sweat, burned flesh, electricity. She was floating above a wide lawn at the back of the sprawling house, walled on three sides. In front of her stood a dark grove of trees, the trunks widely spaced, the darkness between them absolute. From somewhere among them, a warm, friendly voice floated on the warm air.
“Where are your friends, bitch? Scared to face me in the open?”
Larissa laughed, despite the pain radiating from the side of her head. “They’re scared,” she said. “But not of you.”
Rejon laughed. “What then? Some little girl in a uniform?”
“That’s right. And I don’t think they’re the only ones.”
A growl reverberated through the trees. “You watch your mouth, bitch.”
“I’ll watch nothing,” growled Larissa. “I don’t take orders from someone who sends unarmed girls up to face soldiers while he hides underground.”
“Whores come and go,” said Rejon. The friendly tone was back. “Sometimes they die, and I go out the next day and get new ones. They beg me for jobs. They do anything. Just like you would.”
“You’re scum,” spat Larissa, her eyes flaring. “You’re an animal, hiding from a little girl. You’re pathetic.”
“You think I’m hiding, bitch? I see you where you stand. Do you see me?”
She peered into the darkness. Even with her supernatural eyesight, she saw nothing but columns of wood and dense patches of dark green.
“I’m right here,” said the general, his tone almost gleeful. “Come closer.”
Larissa knew that she should be careful; Garcia Rejon was far more powerful than a new vampire should have been, and had been a violent, sadistic man lon
g before he had been turned. But she simply didn’t care. Her vampire side was pleading for violence, and what remained of rational, human Larissa was desperate to make Rejon pay for what had happened in the house, to a girl whose life had been considered literally worthless. She floated forward to the tree line, waiting for the attack, ready for it, relishing the prospect.
Garcia Rejon didn’t make her wait.
A fist blurred out from behind one of the thick tree trunks and crashed into Larissa’s chin, sending pain bursting through her skull, driving her backward. The smile on her face didn’t falter, even as blood began to pour from her bottom lip, but a cold shiver fluttered up her spine.
Strong, she thought. So strong. I’ve only been hit harder than that twice, by Alexandru and Valeri Rusmanov. Jesus.
Larissa wasn’t scared; she was confident she was more than a match for the general. The raw power the vampire possessed had taken her by surprise, and the thought that there were hundreds like him out there in the world chilled her, but there would be time to worry about that later. The general swooped out from behind the tree and smiled at her. His military tunic was covered in blood, but his arms hung easily at his sides, his boots floated above the lawn, and his eyes blazed dark and bright.
“Looks like you’re missing an ear,” said Rejon, his tone friendly and conversational. “That must hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” said Larissa. “Like you.”
Rejon tilted his head to one side. “Maybe,” he said. “What I’m going to do to you, though? That won’t be nothing.”
Larissa stared at him, the smile on her face broadening, then threw the shotgun down to the grass. She raised a pale, delicate hand, extended a finger, and beckoned him toward her.
Rejon grinned, then flung himself forward, his arms wide. Larissa leaped backward into the air, feeling the air rush around her, and rammed a booted foot into the approaching vampire’s face. His nose crunched, the dry snap echoing around the garden, and his smile disappeared. He tumbled to the ground, his hands cupping his nose, and howled into the night air.
