by Will Hill
Hands grabbed his arms and he began to scream, thrashing wildly in the grips of the men who held him. He screamed for his brother, for his father, screamed that he was sorry, screamed for another chance, one last, final chance. But Robert and David merely watched, their expressions calm, as Albert was dragged out of the room.
He fought them all the way to the front door, kicking and bucking and howling his head off, and when one of the hands released its grip on his arm, he redoubled his efforts. Then something huge and heavy crashed into his lower back and all the fight went out of him. The pain was monstrous, indescribable, and he vomited helplessly as his suddenly limp body was dragged from the house and towards the idling car.
The man in the sunglasses was waiting for him, leaning against the wide black boot with something in his hand. As they approached, Albert saw that it was a hypodermic needle, half full of a clear liquid. He tried to force his reeling limbs to move, to propel him away from the man and the syringe, but nothing happened; the combination of the blows to his face and kidneys had rendered his body unresponsive. He was hauled upright as the man in the sunglasses stepped forward, the faintest flicker of a smile on his face.
“Don’t…” managed Albert, his voice little more than a plaintive croak. “Please… don’t…”
The man didn’t respond and, as the needle slid into his neck, a single thought filled Albert’s mind.
This isn’t real. None of this is real.
His eyes closed and his body went limp as he was bundled into the back of the car.
When he awoke, it was dark outside.
As his eyes fluttered open, Albert tried to lift his arms and found that nothing happened. His mind was thick and fuzzy, a state of being he knew very well from years of heroin addiction, but this was something else. Something unfamiliar. He concentrated hard and managed to slowly bring his shaking hands up to his face. His mouth was swollen and covered with blood that had dried to powder. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and looked around. He was alone in the back of the car, which was stationary. In the front, the driver stared rigidly forward; beside him, the passenger seat was empty. Albert shuffled across the seat to his left and peered through the windscreen.
A large building loomed in the distance, lit by circles of yellow light set into brick walls. In front of the car, the man with the sunglasses was standing beside a chain-link gate, talking to a woman in a white coat. As Albert watched, the woman gestured animatedly, waving her hands and shaking her head vehemently back and forth. The man in the sunglasses appeared to let her finish, then leant in close and talked for almost a minute. When he pulled away, the woman looked utterly deflated, her face pale, her shoulders slumped. The man pulled a sheaf of paper from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to her; she gave it a cursory scan, took a pen from one of the pockets of her white coat, and signed each page. She handed them back, turned, and walked away without a backward glance. The man in the sunglasses watched her leave, then walked briskly back towards the car. He opened the passenger door, slid in next to Albert, and gave him a wide smile.
“Welcome to your new home, Mr Harker,” he said, his tone smooth and oily. “Driver, carry on.”
They crept forward and, as Albert watched, the chain-link gate slid open. The big car passed through the widening gap and, as it did so, Albert saw a white rectangle moving slowly past his window. He slid away from the man in the sunglasses, fear and misery clawing at his drifting, reeling mind, pressed his face against the glass, and read the two words that were printed on the sign in bold blue letters.
BROADMOOR HOSPITAL
12
READY TO ROLL
As Jamie expected, Morton and Ellison were waiting for him in the hangar.
On time, he thought. That’s a good start, at least.
The two freshly commissioned Operators were standing at the rear of the black van that had been assigned to Operational Squad M-3. He walked over to them, his boots thudding on the concrete floor, readying himself to say what he needed to say. He had spent the journey up to the hangar trying to decide whether to tell his rookies what had happened to Angela Darcy’s squad; he was far from sure that the extra pressure would be helpful, but was also reluctant for them to start their first mission in the dark about what they were really facing.
“Operators,” said Jamie, stopping in front of them.
“Lieutenant,” they replied.
“Weapons and kit prep complete?” asked Jamie, eyeing their uniforms. He could already see that they were perfect, the result, no doubt, of dozens of checks and re-checks in the dormitory on Level C, but there were protocols to be followed.
“Yes, sir.”
“Intelligence analysis complete?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Operational parameters clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Operator Morton, who is our target?”
“Eric Bingham, sir.”
“Operator Ellison,” said Jamie, turning to face her. “What intelligence has the target’s identification provided?”
“A long history of violence, sir,” replied Ellison. “Paranoid schizophrenia, diagnosed more than ten years ago. One conviction for attempted murder, numerous previous incidences of assault.”
“All of which means?”
“Shoot first, sir. And keep shooting.”
“That’s exactly right. Listen to me, do what I tell you, don’t waste time trying to talk to him or bring him in alive. We track him down, destroy him, and move on. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now listen carefully. An experienced squad, led by one of the finest Operators in this Department, returned to the Loop this morning with two seriously injured members. They were both hurt by a single vampire, one of the escapees from Broadmoor. The squad in question were not in possession of the full facts and paid the price. We will not make the same mistake. Is that clear?”
Neither Ellison nor Morton replied. Their faces had paled slightly and their mouths were set in thin lines.
This is it, thought Jamie. They can handle this or they can’t. They’re ready or they’re not. Time to find out.
“OK,” he said, hauling open the rear door of the van. “Let’s move out.”
The van sped through the thick forest that lay beyond the perimeter of the Loop, its powerful engine humming beneath its passengers’ feet.
Operational Squad M-3 were strapped into three of the moulded seats in the vehicle’s rear, their weapons and kit stowed safely in the slots between them. Jamie sat upright in his seat, his feet flat on the floor; he had been in this position dozens of times, and under normal circumstances his faith in the van’s tracking and weapon systems meant that he was almost able to relax. But these were far from normal circumstances; he found himself concentrating on projecting calm to his new squad mates, even though his mind was still reeling at what had been done to Alex Jacobs and John Carlisle.
He had tried several times to start a conversation with his rookies, but had received only one-word answers; he had eventually given up, leaving them to their thoughts. As a result, the atmosphere inside the van was tense, dangerously so for the early stages of an operation; his new squad mates were obviously wound too tight, but Jamie thought drawing attention to the fact was only likely to make it worse. Instead, he had lowered the van’s control screen and called up a map of eastern England, marked with two moving dots. The black dot was them as they accelerated south.
The red dot was Eric Bingham, their target.
He was still in Peterborough and appeared to have gone to ground in the hours since his escape from Broadmoor. He was moving, but within an exceedingly small range, and the Surveillance Division had pinned his location down to a warehouse on a long-derelict industrial estate on the edge of town, a warehouse that he had now not left for more than six hours. This was the first bit of genuinely good news that Jamie had heard all day; a disused warehouse meant no civilians, no potenti
al hostages, and almost no risk of collateral damage. As squad leader, he had been given a clearance of five for the mission at hand, a concept that he would never, ever get used to.
If we get the vampires on our list and no more than five innocent people die, then everything’s cool. That’s the equation. One of ours for every one of them. Maths, written in blood and human lives.
The collateral damage allowance was one thing Jamie had felt no guilt about keeping from his rookies; he figured they had more than enough to worry about. Instead, he watched the screen, feeling an unsettling sensation of inevitability as they approached their target.
An hour later their driver’s voice emerged from the intercom that linked the cab to the body of the vehicle.
“We’re a mile out, sir. Do you want me to proceed?”
“Roger that,” replied Jamie. “Go silent and get us one hundred metres out.”
“Roger,” replied the driver.
The rumble of the van’s engine died away, leaving silence behind. It sounded as though the vehicle’s power had been cut, but the lights and the screen remained bright, and it continued to move steadily forward.
“Weapons prep,” said Jamie, looking at his squad mates. Calm appeared to have settled over them both, a state of being that he wanted to believe was genuine. Away from the Loop, in the real world with weapons to fire, a mission to carry out and a target to destroy, he was hopeful that Morton and Ellison had reverted to what they were: highly trained men and women who had been in situations where their lives were in danger dozens of times before. This was the moment of truth, where training and experience would hopefully overwhelm trepidation, where they would realise that they could do what was being asked of them.
As one, Morton and Ellison began to clip their weapons and kit into place. Jamie did the same, keeping his gaze fixed on them; there were cold looks in both of their eyes that he liked. When the squad was fully equipped, he forced a smile.
“This is it,” he said. “We stay calm, we do our job, and we go home. It’s as simple as that. Clear?”
“Clear, sir,” they replied.
Operational Squad M-3 ran across the cracked tarmac in a five-metre spread with Jamie in the middle.
The van had pulled away as soon as their boots hit the ground; even in a place as desolate as this, the vehicle was likely to draw unwanted attention, so their driver would move it to a less visible location until he was called back to collect them.
They were on their own.
The industrial estate was as bleak and lifeless as the surface of the moon. The roads and pavements were strewn with litter, and empty offices, factories and warehouses stood dark and brooding on all sides. There was broken glass in several of the windows, but the buildings were not falling down; they simply looked abandoned. Jamie wondered what had brought about the exodus that had clearly taken place here; had the companies that had once inhabited these buildings gone out of business? Downsized? Sent their operations abroad? The place felt sad and pointless, built for a purpose that was now gone and would likely never return.
Looming before the squad was the two-storey factory that was their destination; the sign on the approach to the building announced it as the home of MCM FROZEN FOODS. The front doors, through which workers had presumably once streamed in and out in the mornings and evenings, had been locked with a sturdy length of chain and a shiny steel padlock, both of which were now lying on the ground, bent and twisted. The doors themselves were standing slightly open as the three Operators reached them.
“Christ,” breathed Morton. “Takes a lot of strength to do that.”
“That’s right,” said Jamie. “It does. Stay calm.”
“Not too subtle,” said Ellison. “Doesn’t look like he cares if he gets caught.”
“I doubt he’s thinking that clearly,” said Jamie. “If he didn’t feed in time, the hunger has probably driven him mad. If he did, if he’s still himself, he has a long history of mental instability. I’m not expecting predictable behaviour from any of our targets, and you shouldn’t either.”
“So what’s the plan?” asked Morton.
“We find him,” said Jamie. “Which shouldn’t be hard. Thermal imaging will make him look like a firework. Then we destroy him.”
“OK,” said Morton.
“Good,” said Jamie. “Follow me.”
He reached out, pushed open the doors, then slipped through, disappearing into the darkness. Morton and Ellison followed, their T-Bones drawn and resting steadily in their hands.
The reception that had once welcomed visitors to MCM FROZEN FOODS was no longer welcoming. The desk was empty apart from a small cluster of wires that had been left behind, and the fluorescent lights on the ceiling above it were dark. To the right of the desk stood a single door that presumably led into the warehouse itself. It too was standing open.
Jamie moved quietly across the reception and peered through the door. A cavernous black space stretched up and away from him. There was no movement, no sound of any kind. The warehouse, which would have once been piled from floor to ceiling with pallets of food awaiting despatch, appeared to be empty.
“Thermals,” whispered Jamie. “He’s in there somewhere. Ready One.”
The phrase was Blacklight code that authorised the use of weaponry. Morton and Ellison set their T-Bones against their shoulders, as Jamie drew his from his belt and led his squad into the warehouse. In an ideal world, it would not be him that ended Eric Bingham; it was vital that his new squad mates got used to destroying vampires as soon as possible. But this was far from an ideal world, and he was not prepared to take any chances, not after what he had seen in the Zero Hour Task Force briefing; if the opportunity to make the killing shot came his way, he would take it without hesitation.
Jamie turned the dial on his belt that controlled his helmet’s visual modes and watched as the cold concrete walls and floor of the warehouse disappeared in a great wash of dark blue and black. An instant later he saw that he had told Morton the truth.
Eric Bingham wasn’t hard to find.
At the far end of the warehouse, a tight ball of bright yellow and orange was curled into the corner where the walls met the ceiling.
“There,” said Ellison, the word appearing directly into his and Morton’s ears.
“Got him,” confirmed Jamie. “Ellison, take point. Morton, next to me.”
Ellison moved past him and walked slowly towards the vampire. Morton fell into position beside him and they followed their squad mate, stepping quietly through the empty building. When they were still five metres away from their target, a strange noise began to be picked up by the speakers in Jamie’s helmet, a low, rattling sound that he suddenly recognised.
Eric Bingham was growling.
“What the hell?” asked Ellison.
Jamie opened his mouth to answer her, but then the yellow and orange ball moved, bursting out of the corner and rushing down towards them.
“I see you!” screamed Bingham as he hurtled through the air, the heat from his body blinding them. Jamie recoiled, fumbling for the dial on his belt, shouting for his squad to open fire.
“Jesus,” yelled Ellison, and fired her T-Bone. The projectile rocketed past the onrushing vampire and hit the wall with a metallic crunch. Morton did nothing; Jamie could hear his panting breath over their comms link and knew he had frozen.
Jamie yanked the barrel of his T-Bone round to where the vampire should have been and pulled the trigger. The metal stake burst from the barrel, but disappeared away into the darkness. Jamie swore, reached up and shoved his visor out of the way. The darkness of the warehouse pressed in on him, and his vision filled with expanding dots of grey and black. With a loud whir and a heavy thud, the metal stake flew back into the barrel of his T-Bone and locked into place.
“Where is he?” yelled Ellison. “I’ve lost him.”
“Regroup,” shouted Jamie, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to clear them. “On me, now.”
&
nbsp; The ghostly faces of his squad mates seemed to materialise as they pushed their own visors clear. They arrived beside him, their eyes wide, their skin pale.
“Where is he?” repeated Ellison, her voice low. “I can’t see him.”
“Quiet,” whispered Jamie. “Both of you.” He flicked his visor down and swore again; the blazing heat that had been emanating from Bingham had blown out his helmet’s sensors. His visor was clearing, but slowly, ever so slowly; he shoved it back out of the way and drew his torch from its loop on his belt. A wide beam of white light burst from the LED; he swept it quickly across the wide dark space of the warehouse.
Nothing moved.
Ellison and Morton turned on their torches and two more beams appeared; they swooped and crossed, illuminating small circles of the huge room. Jamie could hear both his squad mates, the fear in their breathing, the rapid in and out.
“Easy,” he whispered. “Take it easy.”
“Is he still here?” asked Morton. He swung his torch as he spoke, aiming it into the distant corners.
“I don’t know,” hissed Jamie. “I can’t see any better than you can.” He flicked down his visor, desperate for it to be clear, then pushed it back up. His torch picked out a flash of something that skittered away from the beam, a long pink tail trailing behind it. He circled slowly, trying to keep his torch steady, trying not to let his hand shake.
“What do we do?” whispered Ellison. “Sir? What do we—”
Jamie felt the air shift behind him, a millisecond before Eric Bingham thundered through the middle of his squad, sending the three of them crashing to the ground; he hit the concrete hard and saw the vampire disappear away into the darkness. He leapt back to his feet, ignoring the pain that was shooting through his shoulders, and shone his torch in the direction Bingham had flown, heart pounding in his chest, blood roaring in his head. He saw something move, tried to follow it with his beam of light, but lost it.
Ellison and Morton climbed to their feet and closed in around him.
“We’re sitting ducks,” hissed Morton. “He can see us, but we can’t see him. We need to pull back.”
