by Thomas Emson
It stopped a yard from Lithgow. The driver popped his head out of his window and started to curse Lithgow. A vampire shot out from between the parked cars. The vampire wrenched the man’s head, stretched his neck out, sank its teeth into the man’s throat.
The car blocked traffic. Horns honked and drivers screamed.
Headlights flared on full-beam. Helicopters swooped overhead, throwing down their spotlights. A megaphoned voice said, “Stay in your vehicles, stay in your vehicles.”
Lithgow jumped to his feet. The vampire pulled the driver out of the car and dragged him into the shadows to finish its meal.
Lithgow’s gaze flitted around. Passengers spilled out of the bus and pointed at him, one saying, “It’s him, he’s made them, get him,” another saying, “There’s the bastard, there he is,” and they started towards him.
Lithgow clambered over the bonnet of the car that had almost hit him. He scooted round to the driver’s side. He opened the door, leaped in. The engine still running, he jammed the car into gear and floored the accelerator.
The car jolted and stalled.
He cursed – and then something caught his eye. He looked right, out of the open driver’s side window.
“Fuck,” said Lithgow.
The vampire shot from the shadows.
Lithgow started to roll up the window.
The vampire bared its teeth, hurtling forwards.
Lithgow rolled like mad, whimpering.
The buss passengers, coming for him, clambered over cars. Vampires attacked them, sweeping some away into the shadows.
The vampire dived for the window.
Lithgow screamed, rolled like crazy, the window shutting as the vampire’s hand shot through the gap.
Lithgow yelled out, jammed the vampire’s wrist in the window.
Bone snapped. The vampire snarled, clawed at the glass with its other hand.
Lithgow fired the engine, slammed the accelerator. The car shot forward. He dragged the vampire along, weaving through traffic.
He looked in the rear-view mirror. The baseball hat and the skinhead pointed after him and he knew they were saying, It’s him, it’s him.
The vampire Lithgow was dragging along bumped off cars. Its fingers opened and closed in the car. It snarled at Lithgow, and Lithgow tried not to look the thing in the eye because every time he did, he wanted to piss himself.
He drove straight, pinballing vampires and pedestrians out of the way.
Helicopters hovered over Central London. Their spotlights threw a great shower of light over the city. Lithgow sped towards the glow.
He came to Parliament Square, the vampire still attached to the car. Lithgow looked around. Camera crews filmed the chaos on the green outside Parliament. Vampires attacked reporters, attacked tourists, attacked buses and cabs.
Lithgow’s eyes skimmed over Big Ben.
And something cold crawled up his spine.
He slowed the car and said, “Jesus Christ,” in a whisper, and stared up at the clock. A figure stood in one of the faces, more than three hundred feet above Parliament Square. It hung on to one of the clock’s hands, watching the chaos below.
The figure, Lithgow guessed, wasn’t human.
Chapter 73
SILVER SCREEN.
The Empire Cinema, Leicester Square – 11.30 p.m., February 10
CRAIG Truman, nineteen and desperate to make his move, stroked Lisa’s thigh. Lisa slapped his hand away. Craig, assistant manager at Lyte’s Electricals near Waterloo, tutted and folded his arms. He stared up at the screen. Sylvester Stallone rampaged through the jungle.
Funny she’d wanted to see John Rambo, he thought. Craig didn’t think it was a girl’s film. But Lisa said she liked Stallone. A pang of jealousy twisted in Craig’s gut.
Maybe if I was muscled beyond nature, she wouldn’t play so hard to get, he thought. He got off with her last weekend at Bar 242 on the South Bank. He got her number, said he’d call, obviously didn’t. He left it a week, played hard to get, then rang saying, “Hey, babe, it’s me,” and she went, “Who’s me?” and Craig said, “I had my tongue down your throat at Bar 242 on Saturday, babes, and no lady ever forgets my tongue.”
She turned out to be a tough nut, but he finally persuaded her to come on a date, asked her what movies she liked, what kind of food.
“I want to see the new Rambo,” she’d said, “and I fucking love Chinese.”
“All right,” said Craig, “let’s do Sunday, babe.”
Craig, shit hot on technical stuff, had sat next to her in the cinema and gave her the gist on THX, saying, “It’s a high-fidelity sound system, innit, which is just a mark of quality, yeah. Stands for Tomlinson Holman’s eXperiment, okay, and he, like, invented it for George Lucas.”
But Lisa goes, “Whatever,” and hogs the popcorn and, now, just slapped his hand away.
Lisa stared at the screen. He’d already tried to put his arm around her, but she shrugged that off. He’d tried to nuzzle her throat – she jerked away. And now she wouldn’t let him stroke that smooth, caramelcoloured leg.
Bitch, he thought; ice-cold bitch.
He slumped in the seat. He was getting nowhere. He looked around.
The cinema was packed, more than thirteen hundred customers.
The sound of war thundered from the speakers. Rambo ran riot, his enemies dying by the dozen. The cinema screen split open and a figure leaped out.
Cold fear flushed Craig’s veins. He thought for a second that a character from the film had sprung out into real life.
Rambo flapped around on the ragged remains of the screen.
The audience started screaming. The figure that tore through the screen dived into the front rows. Fists flew, curses filled the auditorium.
Rambo fired on a torn screen. Explosions deafened Craig. He stood up, grabbed Lisa’s arm. She said, “What’s going on?”
The audience panicked. More figures spilled out of the tattered screen. They dived off the stage and into the audience. The audience started to stampede. Shouts and screams filled the cinema. The film kept rolling. The sound was spot-on. THX for you, thought Craig, and then, pulling Lisa out of her seat, he said, “Come on, we got to get out of here.”
The lights came on. The invaders sweeping out of the screen raced up the aisles. Fights broke out as people tried to flee the cinema.
Craig yanked Lisa’s arm, and got her out into the aisle. He shouldered into the traffic, barging someone out of the way. Craig pulled Lisa into the wave of people rushing for the exit. She screamed. She slipped from his grip. He turned with his mouth open, ready to call her name, but the air was knocked out of his lungs as the crowd thudded into him, carrying him off his feet.
“Craig, Craig” – Lisa shrieking his name – “Craig, Craig.”
He pushed against the tide of bodies. Someone threw a punch at him saying, “Get the fuck out of the way.”
A pale man, shaven headed, flew through the air and bombed into the crowd. The impact scattered bodies. Craig got dominoed by the stumbling crowd and he fell on bodies and bodies fell on him.
He tried to get up. A foot rammed into his chest. It blew the air out of him. Feet trampled him. He threw his arms over his head, but the feet pounded at him. He kicked out, tripping some of the stampeders, and they fell on top of him. He struggled to breathe. Panic filled his heart. He clawed and punched and kicked. And through the chaos of bodies he saw Lisa. The shaven-headed guy straddled her, his face nuzzling her throat.
Rage flashed in Craig’s chest.
He said, “Lisa,” but his voice died in the swarm sweeping over him.
A man fell across his chest. A woman tripped over the man. Someone else piled on top of her. Craig screamed and struggled. The bodies heaped on top of him.
“I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe,” he said, but his screams died in the panic. A body rolled across his face. He scrabbled at the body. Feet trampled his legs. Someone stood on his balls and it lit a fire in his
groin. An arm pressed down across his throat. A leg blocked his mouth.
His lungs became tighter and tighter. The pressure in his head grew and grew.
He called for Lisa again, but only in his head because he had no breath for words. And he kept calling her till the life was crushed out of his body.
Chapter 74
HOW DO WE STOP THIS?
A POLICE van drove them up Charing Cross Road towards Leicester Square. Murray had shown the cops a letter from some senior officer giving her access to the investigation. The cops were reluctant at first, but Murray persuaded them she and her companions would be safer with the police.
And then one of the armed officers who had seen Lawton kill the vampire at Embankment said, “Let them come with us, this guy”
– jabbing a thumb at Lawton – “seems to know what he’s doing.”
They’d eyed the spear, but Lawton guessed that the cops were happy for people to arm themselves at a time like this.
Crowds choked the streets. They looked scared and confused. The van crawled along Irving Street. A radio crackled and the copper took the call. A cacophony of voices crashed through the airwaves.
“What’s that?” said Murray.
“Riot at the Empire cinema, up ahead,” said the Inspector, a man called Suleiman.
Lawton slid open the van’s door. He leaped out into the sea of bodies. He turned, saw Sassie trying to follow him. He said, “Stay in the van, Sassie, stay in the fucking van.”
The colour washed out of her face. The rage in his voice had stopped her dead. But then Murray put a hand on Sassie’s shoulder and said, “He’s right. Stay here.”
He backed away, looking into Sassie’s dark blue eyes and saw the yearning in them, and he showed her the yearning in his. But the fear growing in him made it difficult. And he said, “I’ll see you again,” then turned and barged through the crowd.
People poured out of the Empire. A figure flew out of the exit, ten feet above the panic.
Vampire, thought Lawton.
The creature plunged into the throng. The crowd rippled out – like someone had thrown a rock into a lake. Screams grew louder. The vampire grabbed a woman from behind, tearing into her throat with its hands, lapping at the blood. Her friends swatted the creature, but it held on.
Blood crazy, thought Lawton as he sprinted over, wielding the spear.
“Out of the way,” he said, and the friends moved aside.
Lawton drove one end of the spear into the vampire’s ear, through its head, and out of the other ear. The creature shrieked. Lawton shook the spear and the vampire flapped like a rag doll. Lawton pulled the spear free. The hole in the vampire’s head was the size of a tennis ball.
Black fluid pulsed from the wound. The vampire staggered about like he was pissed. Lawton glanced at the woman. Blood bubbled out of her throat. Her friends were comforting her.
Lawton turned on the vampire. The vampire, unsteady on its feet, snarled at him, called him a “Bastard.” It stumbled towards Lawton, the creature wailing like a distressed dog. Lawton thrust the spear into the vampire’s heart and the thing burned and burst into a cloud of ashes.
“Jesus Christ,” said someone, “it’s just blown up.”
“Vampires,” said another voice, “vampires.”
Voices babbled around him. Two more vampires sprang out of the cinema.
“Over here,” said Lawton, trying to grab the vampire’s attention.
The vampire turned, caught his eye, and came for him with its teeth bared.
Lawton jabbed with the spear, but the vampire evaded the attack.
The creature clawed Lawton’s cheek and he felt the blood hot on his face. He stumbled away.
A voice said, “Look out.”
Lawton wheeled around. A female vampire raced towards him.
Lawton swiped at the creature with the spear. The weapon’s point gashed a wound across the vampire’s face. Black blood oozed from the wound.
The vampire who’d torn Lawton’s cheek sprang forward again.
Lawton kicked out, caught it in the midriff and sent it staggering away.
Lawton’s strength drained out of him. Blood seeped from his face, and the bite on his throat throbbed. His vision blurred and the screams and shouts around him faded in and out.
The crowd formed a circle around him. It was like they were watching a street fight.
“They’re coming again,” someone said and Lawton thought, Yeah, thanks – why don’t you fucking help me?
The female vampire pounced. Lawton plunged the spear up through its solar plexus. The creature screeched and thrashed and clawed, and the crowd, as one, made a gasping sound.
The male vampire bounded for him, now. Lawton saw the attack coming, but he had the female vampire pierced on his spear. Then, she withered and erupted, dusting the concrete and Lawton with her remains. But it was too late. The male was nearly on him. Lawton braced himself. The creature’s scarlet-stained eyes held his. Its jaw widened and Lawton saw the fangs.
The car swept in from the right, crowd screaming and scattering as it skidded into Leicester Square.
The vehicle slammed into the vampire. The creature wheeled through the air and crashed into a Starbucks window.
Lithgow, in the driver’s seat, said, “Looked like you could do with a hand.”
“Yeah,” said Lawton, “I had some issues, you’re right. But you took your time.”
“Picked up a passenger,” said Lithgow, gesturing at the vampire attached to the car. “Get rid of it, can you?”
Lawton went round to the driver’s side. The vampire trapped by its arm in the window snarled and clawed at the car. Lawton drove the spear through the middle of its back. The creature stiffened and wailed, then dissolved into dust.
“Better finish the other one off,” said Lithgow.
The creature crawled through the shattered Starbucks window.
Shards of glass jutted from its face. Lawton kicked it in the head. The vampire slumped, rolled on its back. Lawton skewered it through the heart, and it scorched and softened and went to dust.
Crowds stampeded through Leicester Square. They screamed above the noise of helicopters and sirens. Another pair of vampires burst out of the cinema. And other creatures bounded into the Square from other directions.
“Get away,” said Lawton, waving his arms at the crowd, “just get out of the area.”
Flashing blue lights blinded Lawton. Emergency vehicles raced into Leicester Square.
Vampires chased the fleeing crowd.
Police marksmen shouted warnings:
“Down! Get down! We’ll fire! Armed police!”
Like that’s going to make a difference, thought Lawton.
And it didn’t.
The coppers fired. The vampires danced as the bullets ripped into them. Then they turned on the cops, clawing and tearing and biting.
Fuck, thought Lawton. His body was weak, but he found strength somewhere. Dragging the tip of the spear along the Tarmac, he strode towards a pair of vampires tussling with a marksman.
Lawton raised the weapon, ready to strike.
And he thought, How the hell do we stop this?
Chapter 75
JENNA’S GONE.
St. James’s Park, London – 7.30 a.m., February 11, 2008
MARK McCALL stared at the photo on the front of thelondonpaper.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and the blood drained out of his face. He moaned, put his head in his hands.
The grainy CCTV image showed his dead daughter straddling a youth in a Maida Vale street. Jenna’s face was turned to the camera.
Her complexion was pale. She scowled at the camera. Dark fluid oozed from her mouth. The same black liquid poured from the youth’s throat and pooled on the pavement.
Sitting in a cafe not far from the Metropolitan Police’s headquarters, he stared out of the window. Last night’s debris littered the streets. He’d got here at 7.00 a.m. as u
sual, ready to wait outside Scotland Yard for news of his daughter’s death. He travelled in on the No. 53 bus from New Gate Rail Station, then picked up the No. 11 from Parliament Square to Victoria. A fifteen-minute walk down Victoria Street got him to Scotland Yard. The journey usually took just over an hour – today it had taken two. Police had cordoned off streets. The City crawled with armed units. Forensic officers scuttled around in their white overalls.
Picking up the London Lite and thelondonpaper, the capital’s freesheets, McCall went to the cafe for tea and toast. He only ate because his wife told him to. His appetite had waned since Jenna’s death. But Sarah said, “You have to eat something, keep you going, so promise me that you’ll have some toast, at least.”
So he did, for Sarah.
He’d also bought The Sun and the Daily Mail, and their front pages howled at the indignity and uselessness of the authorities in handling the crisis.
The Mail accused sub-cultures of distributing drugs that gave the impression of death. And the paper attacked the “weird, unnatural” desire in some humans to drink blood.
“All this talk of vampires is misleading,” said the Leader column.
“These are not vampires in the fictional sense – that is a nonsense. These are sick, perverse individuals produced by a sick, perverse society.”
The Sun’s front page blasted the words:
Welcome to Hell in red capital letters, and then a sub-deck below saying:
London more deadly than Baghdad He turned again to thelondonpaper. He studied the image again.
There was no mistaking; it was Jenna – or what was left of Jenna.
Her face seemed cold, and he’d never seen her look with such fury before. The caption under the picture said, “A ‘vampire’” – they’d put the word in quotes, to pretend it wasn’t real, maybe – “attacks a youth outside Warwick Avenue tube station in Maida Vale last night.”
McCall bit his finger to hold back the tears. His child was an animal.
His Jenna was gone. His blood boiled. This was Lawton, all Lawton.
