Department 19, The Rising, and Battle Lines

by Will Hill

  The doctor reached into his pockets again, withdrew a piece of paper and handed it to Jamie. On it, written in a beautiful cursive handwriting, were two short lines of text.

  Level E

  Room 19

  Jamie took it from the doctor’s hand without a word. The man hovered for a moment, as if slightly unsure of what to do next, then favoured Jamie with a smile and a brief nod of his head and walked back out of the infirmary.

  Jamie lay still for a few minutes, then sat back up, grunting at the pain in his neck and arm, and pushed himself off the bed. He wobbled, his legs unsteady beneath him, and reached out and gripped the top of the white cabinet. As his equilibrium returned, he looked around and saw his clothes, neatly folded on a low shelf on the other side of the infirmary. He walked gingerly over to them and dressed himself, slowly, searching for the memories of the previous night. Then he looked around the infirmary, and gasped as his faltering memory was jolted into life.

  A man was lying in one of the beds on the other side of the room, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling slowly. Jamie walked over and stood beside him, watching the man breathe. His skin was brighter than it had been the previous night, but it was still pale. His right arm was swathed in bandages, and blood ran steadily from an IV hung above his bed. Jamie watched, fascinated, as the crimson liquid crawled down the plastic tube and slid into the man’s vein.

  There was someone else. There was a boy.

  The memory hit him hard, and he looked over at the door marked THEATRE. A dark shape lay beyond the frosted glass, and he walked towards it. He hesitated, standing in front of the door, then pushed it slowly open.

  The teenager lay in a single bed in the middle of the room. Beside him, a tall array of equipment beeped and flashed steadily, and a green line spiked slowly, over and over. Wires ran from the machines and were attached to the boy’s chest and arms. His eyes were closed, and his skin was ghostly white. Jamie stood by the door, frozen, staring at him.

  He’s my age. He’s just a kid.

  Slowly, he crossed the room and stood beside the starched white bed.

  “What happened to you?” he whispered.

  “He was bitten,” replied a voice from behind him, and Jamie’s heart leapt in his chest. He spun around, and saw the doctor who had examined him standing in the open doorway. “What are you doing in here?” the man asked.

  “I remembered seeing him in the hangar,” replied Jamie. “Is he going to be all right?”

  “Did you touch anything?” asked the doctor, ignoring Jamie’s question.

  He shook his head. “Is he going to be all right?” he repeated, his voice rising ever so slightly.

  The doctor walked to the end of the bed, pulled a metal chart from a clip, scanned it quickly, and replaced it. Then he rubbed his eyes, and looked at Jamie.

  “It’s too early to say,” he said, softly. “He lost an enormous amount of blood, and his heart stopped as we were transfusing. We resuscitated him, but his brain may have been damaged by the lack of oxygen. We induced a coma, to give him the best chance. Now we just have to wait.”

  Jamie stared blankly at the doctor.

  His heart stopped. We induced a coma. His heart stopped.

  “How long?” he managed. “How long until you know if he’s all right?”

  The doctor shrugged.

  “A few days, maybe longer. Once the swelling on his brain has gone down, we’ll wake him up. And then we’ll see.”

  The man shook his head quickly, and when he looked at Jamie again he was all business.

  “Go on, get out of here,” he said. “Go and find Colonel Frankenstein. And don’t come in here again without permission. This boy is in a very delicate condition, and the next twenty-four hours are vital.”

  Jamie backed towards the door, unable to tear his gaze from the teenager’s blank, pale face. There were no lines on his skin, no wrinkles or blemishes; he looked like a mannequin.

  “What’s his name?” he asked, as he reached the open door.

  “Matt,” said the doctor, who was consulting the chart for a second time. He didn’t look up as he answered. “Matt Browning.”

  Jamie walked down the corridor outside the infirmary, keeping his eyes on the grey walls, looking for a lift. Just before the corridor ended in a flat black screen that stretched from floor to ceiling, he saw a button marked CALL outlined on the wall to his right. He pressed his thumb to the button and waited.

  Seconds later the wall in front of him slid open, revealing a metal lift, He stepped inside, and examined the fluorescent yellow buttons set into a black panel at waist height; they were marked 0, A, B, C, D, E, F, G and H, and the C button was glowing red.

  Well at least I know where I am. That’s a start.

  He looked at the piece of paper the doctor had given him.

  Level E. Two more floors down.

  He was suddenly overcome with the desire for sunlight and fresh air. He didn’t want to go further into the depths of this strange place.

  He pressed the 0 button. The door slid closed silently behind him and the lift started to rise with a soft whirring noise and a gentle rattling of metal. When the doors opened again Jamie found himself looking down yet another grey corridor. However, at the end of this new passage were a pair of double doors striped with yellow and black, and he had a feeling that these led back into the hangar where he had been attacked.

  He walked towards the doors, noticing as he did so a thin digital ticker set into the wall above them, yellow-green capital letters scrolling right to left, over and over.

  0652 / 22.10.09 / SHIFT PATTERN: NORMAL /

  THREAT LEVEL: 3

  Ten to seven. My alarm wouldn’t even go off for another fifty-five minutes if I was at home.

  He crept up to the double doors and inched one of them open. The huge sliding doors that opened on to the runway were now shut, and the hangar was deserted. Jamie walked out into the middle of the huge room, painfully aware of the quiet slapping noise his trainers made on the concrete floor.

  He walked across to a door at the right-hand edge of the giant double doors and tried its handle. It turned, and he stepped through it into the cool bright morning air.

  Jamie Carpenter jogged across the wide concrete landing area in front of the hangar, then cut on to the grass, heading towards the long runway that sliced through the centre of the vast circular base. He sprinted across it, his feet pounding the tarmac, his arms pumping, his mother’s face looming large in his mind, his heart heavy with worry.

  He bore right and darted between two of the long metal huts that lined this side of the runway, hit open grass and accelerated, running towards the high wire fence in the distance and the bright red laser net beyond it, the giant projection rippling above him, hanging in the clear sky like a painted cloud.

  But as he approached the fence he saw something that seemed totally out of place. About fifty yards inside the high wire wall a circular section of the grass, perhaps twenty feet in diameter, had been dug up and replaced by a rose garden.

  A waist-high red brick wall ran around the edge, with an opening facing away from the fence and back towards the base. Inside, a thin path of wooden boards widened into a semi-circular area against the back wall, flanked on both sides by roses of every conceivable colour: red, white, pink, yellow, even a purple so dark it was almost black.

  Jamie slowed his pace and walked through the gap in the wall. He was immediately overcome by the scent of the flowers, the subtly different aromas of the many varieties mingling into a heady, pungent smell so rich and luxurious that it took his breath away. He wandered down the narrow wooden path, intoxicated by the garden’s incongruous beauty. At the back of the garden Jamie could see a small bronze plaque set into the brick wall. He crouched down in front of it, and read the words that had been engraved on it, in simple, elegant lettering.

  IN REMEMBRANCE OF

  JOHN AND GEORGE HARKER

  WHO DIED AS THEY LIVED:r />
  TOGETHER

  Jamie sat down next to the plaque, his back to the wall, and closed his eyes. He sat there for a long time, the scent of roses in the air, feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his life, wondering where his mother was, wondering whether she was even still alive.

  Some time later, he could not have said how long, he heard the soft crunch of footsteps coming across the grass. From his low vantage point he couldn’t see beyond the walls of the garden, and so he waited for whoever was approaching to present themselves.

  The head that appeared above the low brick wall was greyish-green, with a shock of black hair combed comically neatly into a side parting, and two thick metal blots emerging from the neck below. Frankenstein stepped through the entrance to the garden, turning his enormous frame sideways so he would fit through the gap, and walked along the wooden path, the thump of his feet against the boards deafeningly loud, an ominous sound at odds with the gentle smile that regarded Jamie as the monster approached.

  Frankenstein wore a dark grey suit, the white shirt open at the collar, the huge metal tube that he had fired in Jamie’s living room again hanging from his right hip. He sat down next to Jamie without a word, seemingly perfectly content to enjoy the garden and the morning sun that was bathing it in warm yellow light.

  “How did you find me?” Jamie asked quietly, his gaze focused on the roses in front of him, rather than on the man beside him.

  “Infrared sensors in the ground,” Frankenstein replied, his voice irritatingly cheerful. “You left a nice red heat trail on the monitors. Wasn’t hard to follow.”

  Jamie grunted.

  “So you found me. What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to you, Jamie. There are things you need to know. Things that are going to be hard for you to accept.”

  “Like what?”

  The monster looked away, and when he spoke, it was in a soft voice.

  “A long time ago I made a promise to protect the Carpenter family. One of your ancestors saved me, and in his memory I’ve kept my word for more than half a century.”

  “Saved your life?”

  “Yes,” Frankenstein replied, then looked at Jamie. “But that’s not the story I want to tell you now. That one’s for another time.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t ask me. I’m not going to tell you, so let’s not waste our time.”

  Jamie looked at the monster. Frankenstein was regarding the teenager with something that seemed close to love, and he wondered what had happened to provoke such loyalty. Suddenly Frankenstein’s fury in the hangar made sense; he had let Jamie get away from him, in a place where anything could have happened to him.

  “OK,” he said. “So is that it? I’m guessing it isn’t.”

  “I’ve concluded that the best way for me to continue to honour that promise is to tell you what I think you need to know. I think it’s too late for your life to ever go back to being normal, if it ever was. Would you agree?”

  “Yes,” said Jamie, simply.

  Frankenstein nodded, and began to talk.

  “My suspicion would be that your father never really told you very much about your family. Am I correct?”

  “He told me I had an uncle who died when he was very young. And that my granddad was a pilot in World War Two. That’s about it.”

  “Both those things are true. Your Uncle Christopher died at birth, when your father was six years old. And John, your grandfather, was a highly decorated pilot. He flew a Hurricane during the Battle Of Britain. Did you know that?”

  Jamie shook his head.

  “He was a fine man. By 1939 he’d been out of the RAF for nine years. But he re-enlisted the day Britain declared war on Hitler’s Germany, against the wishes of your great-grandfather, who is the man with whom this story really begins.”

  “I don’t know anything about him,” said Jamie. “I don’t even know his name.”

  “His name was Henry Carpenter. He was a good man as well, at least the equal of his son. And everything that has happened to your family for the last one hundred and twenty years, everything that happened to you and your mother yesterday, can be traced back to the fact that he worked for a truly great man, a legend whose name I suspect you will know. Professor Abraham Van Helsing.”

  Jamie laughed; a short, derisory noise, like a dog’s bark. He didn’t mean to, and the monster swung him a look of deep annoyance, but he couldn’t help it.

  Come on. Seriously.

  “Van Helsing wasn’t real,” he said, smiling at the monster. “I’ve read Dracula.”

  Frankenstein returned Jamie’s smile.

  “Believe it or not,” he said, “that will make this considerably easier.”

  “I’ve read Frankenstein too,” said Jamie quickly, before he lost his nerve.

  “Good for you,” said the monster. “Might I be allowed to continue?”

  “OK,” said Jamie, disappointed. It had taken all his courage to mention Mary Shelley’s novel.

  “Thank you. Now, there are certain truths that you are simply going to have to come to terms with, and the quicker the better. Professor Van Helsing was real. The Dracula story, and all the people in it, is real; it happened almost exactly as that lazy drunk Stoker wrote it down. The vampire seductresses who distract Harker from his escape plans are fictional; the wishful thinking of their author. As is the Count’s ability to turn into a bat, or a wolf, or anything else for that matter, and the happy ending that Stoker attached. None of the men who survived ever returned to Transylvania, for reasons I’m sure are understandable. But the rest is close enough. All of which means, in case you need it spelling out for you, that vampires are real. Although that shouldn’t be too hard for you to believe; you met two yesterday.”

  Jamie felt like he had been punched in the stomach.

  “The girl who attacked me...”

  “... was a vampire, that’s correct. As was the man I fired at in your living room. His name is Alexandru. And he is the main reason we’re sitting here now, having this conversation.”

  “Who is he? What will he... what will he do to my mother?”

  “I’ll get to him. The business with Dracula occurred in 1891, two years after your great-grandfather took work in Professor Van Helsing’s house. The men who survived the journey to Transylvania, whose names you no doubt know...”

  “Harker,” said Jamie, distantly. “One of them was called Harker.”

  He turned and looked at the bronze plaque on the garden wall, saw the names engraved on it, and felt things start to click into place in his mind.

  You believe him. Or are starting to, at least. My God.

  “Jonathan Harker,” Frankenstein replied. “That’s right. He, along with Professor Van Helsing, John Seward and Arthur Holmwood, swore an oath when they returned home, a promise they would remain vigilant, and deal with Dracula again if it was ever required.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath from the teenager.

  “It wasn’t,” Frankenstein continued, quickly. “Trust me, he’s dead. Unfortunately, he was not the only vampire in the world; merely the first, and the most powerful. He was a man once, the Prince of a country called Wallachia, named Vlad Tepes. A terrible man, who butchered and murdered thousands of people. In 1475, his army lost its final battle, and he disappeared along with most of his supporters, until he appeared a year later in Transylvania, calling himself Count Dracula. With him were his three most loyal generals from the Wallachian Army. Three brothers; Valeri, Alexandru, who you met yesterday, and Valentin. As a reward for their loyalty, Dracula made them like him, along with their wives. And for four hundred years, they were the only vampires in the world, their power and their immortality jealously guarded by Dracula, who forbade them from turning anyone else. But when Dracula was killed, the rules died with him, and the brothers began to convert a new army of their own. In the last years of the nineteenth century, the condition began to spread. And it’s still spreading.”

>   Frankenstein paused, then cleared his throat, a deep sound like a bulldozer’s engine starting up.

  “This organisation, the base you are in now, the people you met yesterday, it all grew from the promise those men made to be vigilant. They grew exponentially throughout the twentieth century, founding equivalent organisations in Russia, America, India, Germany and Egypt, becoming what you see around you.”

  Frankenstein gave Jamie a sly grin.

  “Which, to all intents and purposes, doesn’t exist. The only people outside the organisation who know about us are the Prime Minister and the Chief of the General Staff. No one can ever acknowledge its existence, or tell anyone they are a member. As your grandfather was. And your father. And as you would have been offered the chance to be, in about five years’ time.”

  Frankenstein stopped talking. Jamie waited to see if he had merely paused, and once it became clear that he was finished, tried to think of a way to respond to what he had just been told.

  “So...” he began. “What you’re telling me is that my dad was a secret agent who fought vampires for a living. Real vampires, who actually exist, in the real world. Is that right? Is that what you’re asking me to believe?”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” Frankenstein replied. “I can’t make you believe it.”

  “You have to realise how crazy this sounds, though. Surely?”

  “I know it is a lot to take in. And I’m sorry you had to hear it like this. But it is the truth.”

  “But... vampires?”

  “Not just vampires,” answered the monster. “Werewolves, mummies, zombies, any number of other monsters.”

  “Werewolves? Come on.”

  “Yes, Jamie, werewolves.”

  “Full moon, silver bullets, all that stuff?”

  “Silver bullets are unnecessary,” said Frankenstein. “Normal bullets will work just fine. But the moon controls them, as it always has.”

  Jamie’s interest was piqued, despite his scepticism. “What are they like?” he asked. “Have you ever seen one?”