by Derek Gunn
“We need to grow as a community before we can even attempt to take on the vampires,” he continued, and people shouted their agreement. “The effects of the serum are merely conjecture at this point and we should not threaten our families on the guesswork of a man who is more used to dispensing cold remedies than investigating complex biological viruses.”
Pat Smyth began to rise, his balding pate now as red as his cheeks as anger flushed through him. Sandra knew what Regan was trying to do and knew that he was baiting Smith, hoping that he would lose control. Regan knew that Pat was impetuous and could never hope to win against him, especially when Regan spoke the truth. She placed a hand on Smith’s arm and kept him in his seat with surprising strength. Nothing he said would get through today. They had lost this battle by seriously underestimating their opponent. Today’s performance had laid down a marker and she resolved to make sure that next time they would be better prepared.
The election was in three days but the result would be a foregone conclusion as word of today’s meeting got around. They would have to come up with something fast if they were to survive. Regan’s demented ambition for power would tear the community apart and the resulting fallout would see the death of millions as the serum began to kill those still enslaved to its effects. They had to do something this year or there would be no world left to save.
Regan was well aware that Pat’s findings were not conjecture; he had seen the evidence Pat had presented. The evidence was beyond doubt. In fact, the committee had shielded the community from the stark reality of the horrible death that waited for all those still taking the serum. The children would die first and the pain that each child would experience as their blood vessels burst and their organs swelled and shut down one by one was deemed too terrifying for those who still had relatives in other states who might still be alive. Regan’s callousness in revealing this secret in order to discredit the committee worried her. It rocked her to her very core that such a man could command such power in their community and she felt nausea sweep over her as she staggered from the room. Behind her the crowd still chanted his name as if he were their savior.
Chapter 5
The smoke drew them like a beacon. They had tried repeatedly to raise Bertrand since they had seen the first sign of smoke on the horizon but only static answered them. Something was wrong and cold fear spread through Captain William Carter with every mile. He was responsible for this area, and that responsibility brought with it power and prestige. However, when there was trouble, it could also bring about quick and violent retribution at the hands of the vampires. The supplies in Bertrand were critical to the cabal’s survival as both a bargaining tool and as the critical supplies they would need to fuel an invasion, if negotiations broke down.
Command in Von Kruger’s thralls guard was hard to achieve and even harder to keep hold of in times of relative peace. Those above you ruthlessly guarded themselves and those below constantly tried to find a weak chink they could use to topple you. This constant threat of attack from all sides allowed little time for anything else but self-preservation. While it was true that Carter had been forced by his commanders to place such large quantities of fuel in Bertrand, ostensibly to make it easier to supply their spearhead, should they invade. But it had been his own decision to set up his headquarters in nearby Niles instead of the small backwater town. He had left a large complement of soldiers in Bertrand, of course, but Niles had far more comforts both in flesh and food supplies and he had pandered to those comforts. This would be his undoing if anything had happened to the supplies. He watched the smoke spiraling up into the otherwise cobalt sky and wished fervently that some fool had merely blown himself up. The huge trails of smoke on the horizon, however, were far too great for anything as minor as that.
He knew with a certainty that gripped at his stomach and twisted it violently that he was looking at the portent of his own death, and the dread increased with each mile they traveled. He snapped into his handheld radio, demanding that Bertrand reply as he began to see the outline of the small town in the distance. They were close enough now so that the hand radios should work but still static seemed to mock him when he lifted his thumb from the device.
He could see the old fort now though smoke billowed around it like a veil and teasingly revealed part of the structure only to hide it again as the wind caught it and wrapped it back into its embrace again. He could see a tanker on fire and hope flared that it had only been an accident after all and that his demands over the radio had been ignored due to the town commander’s own fear of reprisal from his superior. He saw the first body on the ground when they were still half a mile away and his heart sank. There could be no doubt now. They had been attacked. There would be no reprieve for him.
The truck slid to a halt on the dusty surface of the road and men spilled out from the truck and ran into the smoke. For a moment Carter thought they had been swallowed by a living entity, but then he saw the first of the men return and their shouted reports began to form a picture of the carnage that lay hidden behind the veil of smoke. He tuned out for a moment and thought of how he would report this to his superiors. Would they make him report directly to the vampires to distance themselves from this grave error in judgement? Probably. The vampires did not take failure well and usually made an extreme example of anyone bringing them bad news. And this news was as bad as it got.
Not only did it show his incompetence but it also heralded what could possibly be a major incursion by the Wentworth cabal. A small spark of hope began to smolder in his chest as he realized that he might be able to use this catastrophe after all. If he could show that there had been nothing that he could have done, even if his headquarters had been here, then he might yet survive. Surely he could divert some of the blame to their intelligence division. Those bastards strutted around full of their own self-importance, demanding regular guards like him drop everything at their every whim. Surely they should have been able to predict such a large incursion.
Carter looked out over the carnage and began to formulate his report. There was enough destruction to safely estimate a huge attacking force. He did not care if his report wasn’t accurate—his life was on the line now and only a full-scale invasion could save him. He began to walk through the shattered remains of the fort, trying to piece together the attack. There were no tire tracks other than his own men’s vehicles so the enemy had not attacked en masse. That was not good. If they had not used vehicles then it had probably been a small commando raid and that did not fit in with his plan.
The fuel was still mostly intact, only one tanker had been destroyed and another was missing, but the main storage tanks were still undamaged. He could not understand why Wentworth would risk such an attack and not leave his enemy crippled. Why would he steal one tanker and leave the bulk of the supplies for his enemy to use against him? It made no sense, but good strategy was not something he needed to be concerned about. He had to show that there had been no possible hope that he could have driven off the attack.
He looked back towards the men he had brought with him. He had been so harried when the news of the smoke had come to him that he had grabbed what men were on watch and rushed towards Bertrand, leaving word for the others to follow as soon as the main force was ready. It wasn’t that he was particularly brave, rushing off the save Bertrand, it was merely that he was so scared that blame would be laid at his door that he had rushed off without thinking that the town could still be under attack. Luckily, it had not been, though as he watched his small squad shift trough the smoky scene he thanked his luck that there had only been a few men available. A plan began to form in his mind.
He shouted orders at his men to form up and they jumped to his command. There were ten guards in all, men he had known for two years now. He had shared with them the pleasures his masters had promised since the beginning of the war with the vampires and had no regrets for the many diabolical acts he had initiated.
The men lined up together
and waited on his command and Carter took his time as he surveyed the men. He reached behind him and felt for the automatic that hung from a strap over his shoulder. Calmly he raised the weapon and opened fire on the thralls that still stood at attention in front of him.
The last two had recovered enough to move but Carter had acted with such speed that they had only managed to bring their weapons to bear when the bullets slammed into them and sent them flying back into the dust.
Carter looked over at his men and shrugged. Now he could say that he and his brave men had dutifully been on patrol and had returned in time to see Wentworth’s forces in the process of stealing their supplies. They had fought hard and saved the fuel supplies though his entire patrol had been killed in the firefight. He walked to the truck they had arrived in and took a parcel of explosives from the back. He looked back towards Niles and could see a large dust plume in the distance; his re-enforcements would be here soon. He had to hurry.
He pulled his men into positions around the walls as if they had died while attacking the fort. Then he moved to the main tanks and placed the explosives by the main pump and set the timer to one minute and grinned as he imagined his story of how he had managed to save the supplies with only seconds to spare. The dust plume grew closer and he could hear the roar of the engines as they raced toward him.
He pulled his handgun from its holster at his side and calmly placed the muzzle against his arm. He could not possibly have been the only survivor without some injury. Calmly he pulled the trigger and fell to the ground in agony. God it hurt, he thought and a wave of nausea swept over him. He heard the trucks arrive outside the fort and he smiled as he imagined how he would be hailed as a hero. There would be plenty of opportunity to rise in the ranks in the upcoming war, especially for the man who had risked so much to save his cabal’s supplies.
“What do you think?” Rodgers asked as he drew back from the edge of the hilltop and winced with the pain that shot through his leg. He turned towards Peter Harris who still lay beside him, surveying the carnage below.
“Looks like we may have hit the jackpot,” Harris grinned as he lowered his binoculars. “I was worried that our attack was too small to convince them that Wentworth had come across. I thought that it would take at least a few more raids before we could actually get them at each other’s throats. But it looks like our friend there may just do the job for us.”
“It’s amazing what they’ll do to hide their incompetence,” Rodgers agreed. “What do you want to do with the fuel?”
“Keep it hidden for now; it’s too risky to move it by day. Besides, we can’t move Steele at the moment.”
“How is he?” Rodgers asked as he massaged his own wound.
“Luckier than he has any right to be.” Harris scowled and then gazed into the sky as if lost in thought. He blinked as he snapped himself out of it and turned back towards Rodgers. “You know,” he said, suddenly excited, “we could siphon off what we can carry and then leave the truck over the border. We could leave it somewhere that Von Kruger’s men are sure to find it. I know it’s a lot of fuel to give up but it might just be the nail in the coffin if Von Kruger’s men were to find it.” He looked at Rodgers as the man considered the new plan.
“It might just work,” he replied slowly as he thought it through. “We’d have to make sure they found it, of course, but I’m sure we could arrange that.” He burst into a wide grin. “You are an evil bastard, you know that, Harris? They’ll tear each other to pieces.”
“And we’ll be here to make sure that there aren’t any cool heads ruining it for us.”
Chapter 6
Sandra Harrington sat in the small room and fumed. The committee, minus Peter who wasn’t due back until tomorrow, shuffled around or sat talking in low tones around the large table. The air was filled with chatter, scraping chairs and the tinkle of crockery as some poured themselves coffee and tea from the table in the corner. Won’t be long before the coffee runs out, Sandra mused as she watched Phil Regan talking to his cronies before they took their seats. Then the world truly will end.
There was something different that she couldn’t put her finger on at first. It wasn’t just the obvious presence of a public gallery that disturbed her, though it hardly helped. The outcry from the debate had left a room full of angry people demanding an explanation for what had been revealed. The shouting had been so loud that it had attracted others who had not attended and it wasn’t long before word spread throughout the community. Of course, the whispered reports of what had happened had been embellished each time it had been repeated so that the story had been blown out of all proportion very quickly.
Sandra had tried to calm the room but her injuries had flared up again and she did not have the energy to take on such a mob. It had been Regan who had finally managed to calm the room, and he had suggested that a small representative group should come to the committee so they could put their questions directly to them. Sandra was well aware that the situation was playing perfectly to Regan’s plan but she had no other choice but to agree to his terms, and the crowd had begun to disperse. Though there was still an air of angry outrage amongst them that did not bode well for an understanding audience.
There was only room for twelve men and women in the room as well as the committee. The same number as a jury, she thought idly as she scanned the angry faces of people she had known for only a few months. There were no reassuring smiles from any of them.
Despite the strained air, though, there was something else. She had noticed it as soon as she walked into the room, something in the air, but each time she thought she had it the notion would dissipate like fog caught in an early morning breeze. It nagged at her and made her already black mood far worse. And then, suddenly, it came to her. For the first time she could remember there was a definite feeling of division in the room. The gallery sat away from the committee, though the table was large enough to accommodate them all. Even among the committee, people had chosen seats that set them within one camp and away from others leaving an empty space in the middle of the table that seemed to scream its presence at them like the tolling of their own destruction.
Everyone had been informed of what had happened and she could see by the grim faces around the table that they were more than aware of the repercussions that they could anticipate. She fully expected Regan to be severely censured, but throwing him off the committee would only play into his hands. She knew that no matter what they did, it was too late. Word was already sweeping through the community and anything they did here could only be a matter of damage control.
The committee had changed a lot since their early days when they had met secretly in their hideaway in the docks. Sometimes she fancied that she could still smell the petrol and fish fumes that she always associated with those times. For a moment she thought about her father as he had been then with his large frame matching his equally large personality. It had been his strength that had given all of them hope. He had not been the first to overcome the serum’s debilitating effects but it had been him that had organized those first few into a force that now included nearly three thousand. She missed him a lot. She still woke in a sweat with the image of his throat gushing blood and Nero’s triumphant smile as he reached for her. In one way, though, it was a good thing that he did not see the petty jealousies and power plays that plagued them now. Human nature had two very different sides, she mused, and the darker side would always try to tear down that which others had built with their very blood.
She shook herself from her thoughts and glanced around the room. Lucy Irvine sat in her usual place and let the conversation and general noise of people flow around her, as she remained focused on the papers in front of her. Sandra looked at the woman and was startled to notice that she had aged quite a lot in the last few months. It had always been difficult to put an age on Lucy for as long as she had known the woman, but now, as Sandra really looked at her, she could see the deep worry lines that creased her face, he
r hair was not quite as neat as usual and it had lost its platinum sheen so that her hair was now pure white. It was her eyes, though, that showed the most startling change. They had always sparkled with an inner fire, no matter how bad things had gotten. Now Sandra could see a deep sadness there that shocked her.
Pat Smith sat beside her and quietly fidgeted. She had seen him lean towards Lucy earlier, attempting conversation, and had received a sharp rebuke. Sandra looked over at him and caught his eye. She could see the struggle in the man’s face; he obviously wanted to move and sit beside someone more friendly but felt it too rude just to get up. Sandra was not really in the mood for conversation so she merely shrugged noncommittally and continued scanning the room.
Father Jonathon Reilly sat like a coiled spring in his chair. His massive frame looked awkward on the small chair but he sat with an easy grace despite this. He was chalk-white and looked quite unwell—in fact, he had not yet recovered from his wounds but refused to allow himself the time to heal. He had been badly wounded during the battle with Nero and they had thought him lost. It had been almost two days after they had pulled themselves from the ruined headquarters that they had found him. He had been barely alive, impaled on a stake with a vampire clutched to him in an embrace that had torn his own organs to shreds but had proved fatal for the vampire. But, ironically, it had been the stake that had saved his life as it had plugged the hole and stopped the bleeding.
He had not, however, come out of it unscathed. He had terrible internal injuries, had lost a kidney and his stomach would probably never heal fully, at least not until they found a surgeon capable of sorting out the mess inside him. Till then all they could do was stitch him up and order him to rest. His face was drawn and heavily lined and his hair had begun to thin alarmingly. His clothes no longer fit him well with the weight he had lost since his ordeal, but he refused to wear civilian clothes, preferring ‘the black suit of his office to pampering to vanity,’ as he put it. Despite his injuries, though, he had insisted that he was needed and had spent the last two months consoling not just those who were newly awakened, but also those who had survived the last attack but had lost loved ones.
