Department 19, The Rising, and Battle Lines

by Will Hill

  49 DAYS TILL ZERO HOUR

  43

  THE DARK HORIZON

  CHTEAU DAUNCY AQUITAINE, SOUTH-WESTERN FRANCE

  Henry Seward spat a thick wad of blood into the sink and looked at himself in the mirror.

  His nose had been broken and reset that morning, sending blood pouring down his throat and leaving a hot island of pain in the middle of his drawn, exhausted face, but he didn’t think that was what he had just spat on to the white porcelain. The blood was almost black and he felt sure it had come from somewhere deeper, from the depths of the body that was steadily beginning to fail him; his gut maybe, or his lungs. He coughed now, loud, wet barks that pounded his chest, and his lower back was a perpetual sheet of agony where the worst of Valeri’s beatings had been focused. His skin had a yellowish sheen to it, and his eyes were sunken and small.

  I’m dying, he thought, with an absence of emotion that surprised him.

  He had always believed that he would die either in the heat of combat or as an old man at home in his bed. This scenario, being slowly tortured to death on the orders of Dracula himself, had never occurred to him.

  Seward dressed himself carefully. His fingers and limbs were slow to respond to commands these days, as if the lines of communication between them and his brain were beginning to erode. He buttoned up his shirt, then slowly slipped his jacket over his shoulders. He had been invited to take drinks with Dracula in the vampire’s study, and he knew from painful experience that the penalties for tardiness were severe.

  With his jacket in place, Seward faced himself in the mirror and smoothed down his hair. It was greyer than it had been, and there was significantly less of it; clumps had fallen out in the aftermath of one of the worst sessions of torture, when his body had still been vibrating from the current that had been passed through his wet skin. He looked as though he had aged ten years in the three months he had spent as Dracula’s guest; he was absolutely certain that he would not last another three, and probably a lot less than that.

  If you’re going to come for me, Cal, he thought, I hope it’s soon. Otherwise you’re going to be wasting your time.

  Ten minutes later Seward knocked on a door on the top floor of the chateau.

  He had been escorted up the stairs by one of his guards, a female vampire whose husband had been destroyed by a Blacklight Operator five years earlier, and who seemed to be constantly trying to restrain the urge to tear out his throat with her bare hands. She left him at the end of the corridor and he walked the last few steps alone; the vampires in the chateau were scared of Dracula and seemed to avoid being in his presence wherever possible, despite the love they all professed to have for him.

  “Come in,” called the rich, smooth voice that had become so familiar. Seward took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

  The room was beautiful, a wide, wood-panelled space that occupied the south-western corner of the grand old building’s top floor. It had been Valeri’s private sanctuary in the years after the destruction of his wife, but had been immediately claimed by the convalescing Dracula. Bookshelves and paintings covered the walls and a low coffee table sat between two enormous green leather sofas. In the corner of the room was a wooden door, standing open to the cool night air.

  “Out here,” called the voice. “Do join me, my dear Admiral.”

  Seward walked slowly across the study and stepped through the door. A wide stone balcony ran all the way round the uppermost floor of the chateau, from where it would have once been possible to see approaching Spaniards when they were still half a day’s ride away. He turned to his left and saw Dracula reclining in an elegant wooden chair, his legs stretched out before him. A delicate wrought-iron table stood beside him, on which rested an ice bucket and two glasses of pale, bubbling liquid. The vampire picked one up and held it out, smiling warmly. Seward took the glass from his captor’s long, pale fingers, trying not to let his hand shake.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Dracula smiled, and nodded towards the empty chair. “You’re most welcome, Henry. Take a seat. You look as though you might fall over if you don’t.”

  Seward forced down the shame that swam up from his stomach and settled himself into the chair. He sipped the champagne, which was exquisite, and looked out across the vast, dark forest that extended to the west. The air was cool and clear, and it seemed to soothe the pain that had become his constant companion.

  “How are you?” asked Dracula. “I heard you had an uncomfortable night.”

  On your orders, you bloody monster.

  “You heard right,” said Seward. “You know it would be easier for you just to kill me.”

  Dracula took a sip from his glass. “Indeed it would,” he said. “But that is what you want, yes? And I cannot give you what you want.”

  “Why not?” asked Seward, realising that he was suddenly on the verge of tears. “Why not just have done with it?”

  “Because you are the commanding officer of an organisation that has dedicated itself to destroying my kind,” said Dracula. “How would it look if I were to grant you mercy, or allow you the release of a quick death? What is being done to you brings me no pleasure, but even you must see that it is necessary. An example must be made, I’m sorry to say.”

  Seward knew full well that his suffering gave the ancient vampire great pleasure, but he forced himself to ignore the lie and returned his gaze to the stone wall that encircled the balcony and the horizon beyond it. Somewhere, in the deepest, darkest corners at the back of his mind, an idea had begun to form.

  “How does this all end?” he asked. “After all the blood and the screaming and the fighting. What happens then?”

  Dracula refilled their glasses. “When I was a man,” he said, eventually, “I had no desire to rule the world, despite what the histories may claim. I was Prince of Wallachia, the country of my birth, and that was all I had ever aspired to. I fought to keep her safe, to repel those who would take my throne from me, and I did so with great vigour. But I never wished to be Alexander, with an empire that spanned the globe. My own country was enough.”

  “You invaded Transylvania,” said Seward, mildly. “And Hungary.”

  Dracula laughed. “Transylvania was in the pocket of the Turks and they deserved no less than they received. I took no pleasure in raiding Hungary, or Serbia for that matter. They were not moves of ambition, of invasion. They served only to keep the Turks at bay. I did nothing during any of my reign that was not solely intended to keep my country safe and free.”

  Seward said nothing. He took a long sip of champagne, glanced again at the stone wall surrounding the balcony, then returned his attention to his captor.

  “Once I became what I am,” continued the vampire, “after my throne was stolen for the final time, I withdrew from public life altogether. For a long time, many decades, in fact, I lived in something close to isolation, with only my Generals and their wives for company. My appetite for war and bloodshed had died with my human self, and I was content to let humanity fight and squabble among themselves.”

  “So what changed?” asked Seward, draining his glass.

  “Men from your country chased me to my castle and stuck their blades into my flesh. That’s what changed.”

  Seward didn’t respond.

  “You want to know how this ends?” asked Dracula. “It’s extremely simple. Every human being on this planet will be given the opportunity to pledge their unending loyalty to me, and their complete obedience to my everlasting rule. Those who do so will be spared. Those who do not will die.”

  “And if everyone were to refuse?” asked Seward, his voice low. “What then?”

  “I believe I made myself clear, Henry. What you are suggesting will never come to pass, for once the dying begins, the cowards will beg for the chance to kneel before me. But if it did? I would kill every living soul on this planet.”

  Seward stared at the vampire; deep, dark red was creeping into the furthest corners of his wild
, flickering eyes.

  Madness, he thought. Nothing but madness.

  “Those who do kneel,” he said, carefully. “What world will they get the privilege of continuing to live in?”

  “A far better one than this,” said Dracula. “Without wars, or borders, or religions. A world where the only law is my word, and the only requirement is that they obey.”

  “It sounds delightful,” said Seward, smiling widely.

  He was hoping for a laugh and got one; Dracula tipped back his head and roared, a full-throated, guttural blast of amusement. For the briefest second the vampire’s eyes closed, and he made his move.

  Seward launched himself up out of his chair, reached the stone wall in two faltering steps, and threw himself over it, feeling cool air billow around him as he tumbled towards the distant ground.

  Henry Seward fell, watching with complete detachment as the stone wall at the top of the chateau shrank away above him. He had time to wonder whether hitting the ground was going to hurt before a dark shape burst over the wall and rocketed towards him.

  Dracula thundered into him in mid-air, his face twisted in an inhuman snarl of rage, his fangs bared, his eyes boiling with red-black fire. He gripped Seward’s shoulders with both hands, his nails sinking deeply into the flesh beneath the jacket, and he cried out with new pain. The vampire grinned in triumph, although the smile began to fade as quickly as it had arrived; Seward stared into the ancient, hateful face and realised what was happening.

  They had stopped moving when Dracula had taken hold of him, but now they were descending again. He twisted his head around and saw two things: they were still six or seven storeys up, and they were accelerating. He looked back at Dracula, a bitter smile rising on his face, and saw uncertainty on the old monster’s.

  “Can’t hold me, can you?” spat Seward. “Not strong enough. Let me go or I’ll take you down with me and we’ll find out what the courtyard does to that new body of yours.”

  Dracula gritted his teeth, and Seward felt their descent slow once more. But it was a brief respite; as he watched, blood began to bubble out of Dracula’s nose and fall steadily on to Seward’s chest and upturned face. A savage elation filled him.

  Not strong enough. Nowhere near. You’re one bit of heavy lifting away from falling apart.

  “Let me go!” he bellowed, and began pounding at the vampire’s arms with his fists. “Let me go!”

  Dracula redoubled his efforts and hauled them a few metres back towards the increasingly distant roof of the chateau. Blood was starting to appear at his hairline and run down his forehead, spreading in patches across the front of his crisp white shirt. Seward watched him struggle, his mind still full of hope that he might be allowed to fall, that Dracula’s ego would prevent him from calling for help. But then the vampire threw back his head and screamed Valeri’s name, dashing Seward’s hopes to pieces.

  From far below the two twisting, writhing figures, there came the sound of breaking glass; a second later Valeri Rusmanov appeared beside them, his eyes blazing red, and swung a gnarled fist through the air. It crashed into Henry Seward’s jaw; a jolt of shuddering pain burst through his head and everything turned grey. He felt new hands take hold of him, hands that were impossibly strong, and, as his vision cleared, he heard Valeri ask his master what had happened.

  “The coward jumped from the roof,” said Dracula. He was floating under his own power, smeared and soaked with blood, and was looking at his guest with a fury that seemed to burn into his skin. “I caught him before he was able to take the easy way out.”

  “You should have let him fall, master,” said Valeri, staring at Seward with open loathing. “He is not worth exerting yourself for.”

  “Do not presume to tell me what I should do, Valeri,” said Dracula, his voice full of fire. “He dies when I say he dies, not a second before or after. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly clear, master,” said Valeri, and Seward fought back the urge to laugh in the face of the craven, servile vampire.

  You could tear his heart from his chest before he even saw you move, he thought. But you would rather take his orders and insults. How pathetic you truly are.

  “What would you like me to do with him?” asked Valeri.

  “Take him back to his room,” said Dracula. “I have lost my appetite for his company. Then have a girl brought to my study. Two of them in fact. I feel the need to take my disappointment out on somebody.”

  “As you wish, master,” said Valeri.

  Dracula began to ascend, painfully slowly, towards the distant roof. Blood continued to fall steadily from beneath his clothes as he disappeared in the darkness.

  I reckon that’s set him back at least a couple of days, Seward thought, as he hung in Valeri’s grip. Maybe that’ll help you, Cal. I hope so. It’s not much, but it was all I could do.

  I hope you know that one day.

  I hope you know I tried.

  44

  THREE MUSKETEERS

  Jamie awoke in his bed with a clear conscience.

  He had done as Cal Holmwood had told him: gone straight to his quarters and tried to get some sleep. But he had lain awake for a long time, his gaze fixed on the grey ceiling of the small room, his mind turning the Morton problem over and over.

  The man had been an outstanding soldier and Jamie believed he could be just as good an Operator, in time. But time was what they didn’t have: the situation unfolding around them required every Operator to pull their weight, and Jamie had already lost a highly dangerous vampire because of the actions of his rookie. It wouldn’t be fair to Ellison, or to the rest of the Operators who were risking their lives chasing down the Broadmoor escapees, if he allowed the same thing to happen again because he was unwilling to make a hard decision. Although, as he lay on his bed, he had realised that it actually wasn’t all that hard; it was, in fact, barely a decision at all.

  Now he just needed to work out how to tell John Morton.

  Jamie climbed out of bed and made his way to the shower block. The hot water was soothing and he stayed beneath its pounding heat for a long time, feeling his muscles relax, the knots in his shoulders and thighs slowly loosen. When his skin was pink and tingling, he shut the shower off, towelled himself dry, and headed back to his quarters. He dressed quickly, grabbed his phone from his desk and did some calculations in his head.

  Nevada is eight hours behind. So it’s just after midnight yesterday.

  He deliberated for a minute, then scrolled down to Larissa’s name and pressed CALL. There was a pause as the connection was made, before the phone started to ring. It rang twice before stopping dead. A second later Larissa’s recorded voice invited him to leave her a voicemail.

  Jamie frowned. If his girlfriend was asleep, or on Operations, her phone would either be switched off, in which case it would have gone straight to voicemail, or on silent, when it would ring a dozen times or so before cutting out. He took the handset away from his ear and pressed CALL again. Larissa’s phone rang for slightly longer this time, almost four rings, before cutting out again. He considered leaving a message, but decided against it; instead, he put the phone in his pocket and took out his console. A press of his thumb activated the screen and another opened the messaging app. Jamie typed out a short message to Ellison and Morton, telling them to report as normal for training in the Playground, then looked with deep resentment at the mountain of files and reports towering on his desk. With a deep sigh, he settled himself into his chair, and pulled the first one down from the top of the pile.

  Five hours later Jamie pushed open the door to the dining room and felt his heart sink.

  It was lunchtime and the long, wide room was almost full: Operators, scientists, doctors and civilian staff filled the tables, and queued along the length of the serving counters, laughing and chatting to each other at what seemed like a deafening volume.

  He stood at the entrance to the room, trying to decide what to do; his head was pounding from catching up on t
he reports, and the prospect of the conversation he knew he had to have with John Morton was starting to loom large in his mind. But he was here and it would be stupid not to eat. His squad’s orders had not yet arrived, but he assumed they would be going out again in a few hours; he was going to need to be at his best, especially in light of the fact that there would only be two of them leaving the Loop.

  “Looking for someone?” asked a familiar voice.

  Jamie turned to find Kate Randall standing outside the door, a big grin on her face. He stepped forward and pulled her into a bear hug, almost lifting her off her feet; she gasped, then started laughing and pounding on his back, demanding that he put her down. He did as he was told and she stepped back, her face flushed.

  “It’s good to see you too, Jamie,” she said. “Have you eaten already?”

  “No,” replied Jamie, smiling happily. “I was just deciding whether or not to bother.”

  “I’m supposed to be meeting Matt,” said Kate. “But we both know how likely that is to actually happen.”

  Jamie laughed. “Right,” he said. “He lives next door to me and I see him about once a week if I’m lucky.”

  “Well, if we’re assuming that Matt isn’t going to show,” said Kate, “I suppose you would just about do as a substitute lunch companion. Fancy it?”

  “Absolutely,” he replied.

  The two Operators made their way across the dining hall and joined the back of the queue for the food counters. Jamie surveyed the wraps and brimming bowls of salad, before ordering an enormous burger, groaning with bacon and cheese, and a pile of fries to go with it. Kate shook her head at him as she selected a tuna baguette; he flipped her a casual finger and pushed his tray away along the counter, leaving her staring after him with a perfect O of mock outrage on her face.

  They found an empty table in the far corner of the dining hall and sat down. Jamie was about to take the first bite of his burger when he spotted a skinny figure in civilian clothes standing by the dining-room door.