by Will Hill
“What?” asked Smith. “Nothing happened? What do you mean, nothing happened?”
“Nothing happened. The sunlight rolled up my legs, and nothing happened. Across my body, and nothing happened. And eventually, across my face, and nothing happened. I hadn’t felt the sun on my face for more than twenty years, and I started to weep, and I barely noticed when one of the doctors raised their dart gun, and fired it into my leg.
“I woke up some time later, and I knew immediately that something was different. The surface beneath me wasn’t the smooth glass of the cube; it was cracked, and ridged, and uneven. I opened my eyes, to see concrete and spray paint. I was lying in the doorway of an abandoned building. And when I stood up, I saw that it was the building I had been taken from, however many weeks or months earlier.”
“They put you back?” asked Smith. “Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know,” said Adam. “I’ve asked myself thousands of times. Maybe they were done with me; maybe they couldn’t learn anything more. Or maybe they had found what they wanted, and I had just been lucky enough to survive it. I don’t know. But they let me go. And I was cured.”
Smith sat back against the wall of the cabin, his mind reeling.
There’s a cure, he thought. It exists, it’s really real. Somewhere out there, there’s a cure.
“I tried to fly,” Adam continued. “But I couldn’t. I tried to lift an abandoned car on the street in front of the building, but I couldn’t move it. Finally, I tried to lower my fangs, and nothing happened. But to be honest, I knew before I tried anything; I just felt different.
“So I ran, again. I grabbed a suitcase worth of my old life from the house I had shared with Emily, mostly photos, and I left San Francisco that day. I headed south, driving my car in the daytime, leaving the windows open all the way, feeling the sun on my skin, until I got to Caliente. I had the keys to this place – they were left to me when my grandfather died – and I moved in. I’ve been here ever since. And that’s my story, Mr Smith. For what it’s worth.”
The two men sat silently for several long moments, one exhausted by the effort of telling the tale, the other digesting the implications of it. Eventually, it was Smith who spoke first.
“What cured you? Please tell me you know.”
“I’ve no idea,” said Adam, shaking his head, sadly. “I don’t know what any of the drugs they gave me were, and I don’t know which one of them was the cure. I’m sorry.”
“Do you know where you were? Do you remember anything that could help me find the place they held you?”
“I don’t. The inside was a laboratory, the outside was desert. It could have been anywhere. I’m sorry, I really am.”
“Do you know anything that can help me? Anything at all?” Smith’s voice was rising, as frustration spilled through him; he was so close, so close to the end of a quest that had taken him more than a year, and to be denied at this last stage was too much.
“I’m afraid not,” Adam replied. “I’m sorry, I really am. But if it’s any consolation, I still don’t believe that’s really why you’re here.”
“So what is?” exploded Smith. “Tell me, please! What the hell am I doing here?”
“You’ll see soon enough,” replied Adam, an odd smile on his face.
Smith looked at the man, and felt his heart lurch. Adam’s outline was shimmering in the heat of the desert, the shape of his body appearing to have become fluid, like the edges of a drop of oil in water. He looked down the canyon, and watched as the vast expanse of the desert began to breathe, slowly, rhythmically, the landscape expanding and contracting, in and out, in and out. Smith looked back at Adam, and realised that the edges of his vision were becoming blurry, shot through with a kaleidoscope of brilliant colours.
Drugggggedd, his mind slurred. Heee druuggggggged meee.
“What… did you do… to me?” he managed to ask.
“Nothing bad,” replied Adam. “And nothing I didn’t do to myself.”
Smith looked down at the cup he had placed beside his feet, then the concentrated psilocybin extract that Adam had added to both their coffees overwhelmed his rational mind, and the two men spiralled into their vision.
They wandered across the pulsing desert, holding hands as they walked, their minds’ understanding of reality usurped by the psychedelic extract flooding through their brains. They talked, about nothing and everything, conversations that slipped away the moment they were concluded, lost in the wilderness, never to be remembered. They laughed, and on several occasions, they cried. At one point they danced furiously beneath the diffusing, liquid sun, danced as though their lives depended on it, guttural chants spilling from their mouths.
After an unknowable amount of time, they reached a cave.
The opening was low and narrow, little more than a wide crack in a red rock wall at the bottom of a short gulley. They stood in front of it for a long time, until Adam took Smith’s hand and led him forward. Smith resisted: he didn’t want to go inside. He was incapable of expressing why the dark opening filled him with dread, but it did; his disorientated brain was screaming at him that if he went in there, he would never come out.
“Scared,” he managed to slur, when Adam turned back to see why he was resisting.
Then Adam did something that Smith would not have been able to predict, even had his brain been functioning properly. The man stepped forward, and hugged Smith, wrapping his arms tightly round him.
“There’s nothing to be scared of,” he whispered. “This is why you’re here.”
Then he took his visitor by the hand, and led him into the cave.
As soon as Smith was inside the cave, a dark crevice of rock no more than five metres deep, his vision intensified. Starved of outside stimulus, his mind roared into overdrive; thick freshets of blood gushed down the cool rock walls of the cave, pooling at the bottom and creeping gradually across the floor to where the two men were standing. The dark black corners of the cave, where the light entirely failed to penetrate, shifted and moved in the corners of his eyes; dark shapes formed and dissolved, lurching towards the light then retreating, tantalisingly out of sight.
Then time seemed to freeze. The blood that was descending the walls stopped, hanging on the smooth surfaces in defiance of gravity, and the dark corners fell still. Smith stood, his hand tightly clenched in Adam’s, his heart and mind racing, the darkness surrounding him, and waited.
After what could have been eons or thirty seconds, a shape appeared at the rear of the cave, a pale smudge that slowly coalesced into the form of a teenage boy, who walked slowly forward until he was two metres away from the two visionaries.
The boy was tall and slender, and dressed all in black. One side of his neck was a mess of scar tissue, his face pale and soft-featured, almost feminine.
Smith’s heart accelerated until he was sure it would burst in his chest, as his mind teetered on the brink of collapse. He did the only thing he could think of.
“Hello,” he said, his words echoing in the tight confines of the cave.
The boy bared his teeth, and then, to Smith’s utter horror, his eyes flooded a sickening, glowing red, and two white fangs slid smoothly from behind his upper lip.
“Leave me,” the teenager hissed. “You’re too late.”
Then he backed away, disappearing into the shadows so quickly and completely it was as though he had never been there at all. Smith opened his mouth and screamed, a high, wavering sound tinged with madness, and he didn’t stop until Adam dragged him forcibly out of the cave and laid him down on the hot desert sand.
“You’re safe,” Adam whispered, as Smith’s breathing began to slow, and the colour began to creep back into his face.
He had been as white as a ghost when Adam pulled him into the sunlight, and this had scared Adam, who was extremely experienced at handling the psilocybin trip and knew the warning signs to look for, more than the screaming itself. It was the face of a man who had come to believe
what he was seeing was real. “You’re safe. You’re in the Californian desert, just outside of the town of Caliente. You’re near my home. You drove here in your own car. I’m with you. You’re safe.”
When Smith was calm, when the colour had returned to his face and the clarity to his eyes, Adam asked who the boy was, and Smith recoiled in shock, as though he had been slapped.
“You saw him too?” Smith asked, incredulous.
“As clearly as I see you,” Adam replied. “Shared visions are rare things. They’re usually important. Who was he?”
Smith sat up, and Adam took half a step away; the look of anguish on Smith’s face was almost too much for him to bear.
“What was that?” Smith asked, his voice cracked and broken from screaming. “In the cave. Was it real? Tell me.”
“I don’t know,” replied Adam. Fear was creeping through him, the feeling of having unleashed something he should perhaps have left alone. “It might have been, it might not. It could be something that has happened, or something that’s going to. Who was he?”
The man who was calling himself Robert Smith took a deep breath.
“His name is Jamie Carpenter,” he replied. “He’s my son.”
41
AND A TORCH TO LIGHT THE WAY
“Say that again,” asked Paul Turner.
Valentin smiled. “I have been assured by people I trust that my brother has had informants inside Blacklight for more than half a century, Major Turner. As I said, I cannot speculate about anyone else who might have managed to infiltrate your little organisation.”
“You have evidence to back up what you’re suggesting?” asked Turner, his voice low.
“This is not a courtroom, Mr Turner,” replied Valentin. “You asked me a question, I answered it. Whether you believe me or not is hardly my concern.”
Turner stared at the ancient vampire with his glacial grey eyes, a look that would have sent chills running up the spines of most men. But Valentin Rusmanov was not most men; he was, in fact, not a man at all, and so he merely smiled.
“If you’re waiting for me to crumble under your fearsome gaze, Mr Turner, I suspect we may be here for some time. I would recommend that you continue with your questions.”
Major Turner held the vampire’s gaze for a moment longer, then looked away. His pale face remained as unreadable as always.
“Do you know the names of any of the men or women your brother mentioned to you?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not,” replied Valentin.
“Ranks? Dates? Anything that would help to identify them?”
“No,” replied the vampire. “Sorry.”
“Then you will presumably not take offence at my suggestion that this could simply be a move on your part designed to sow fear and doubt within this organisation?”
“I take no offence,” said Valentin. “And I will certainly not think any less of you if that is the conclusion you reach. I’m sure investigating what I’ve told you will involve a large amount of predominantly tedious work, and I will understand if you do not have the appetite for it.”
The vampire was now openly goading Major Turner; it was obvious to everyone who was watching, including Jamie.
Keep calm, he thought, staring at the Security Officer. If you react, you’re letting him win. Keep calm.
“My appetites are my own business, Mr Rusmanov,” replied Turner, calmly. “Unlike yours, which you inflict on innocent men and women.” A flicker of red crackled in the corners of the vampire’s eyes, and Turner continued. “For the sake of clarification, do you possess any information regarding your brother Valeri’s claim to have repeatedly infiltrated Blacklight? Beyond mere gossip, that is?”
Valentin narrowed his eyes, and shifted in his chair.
“No,” he answered. “I do not.”
“Thank you,” said Major Turner. “Let’s move on, shall we?”
Well done, thought Jamie. Bloody brilliantly well done.
A loud beep rang out through the cellblock corridor, and everyone turned to look at the source of the sound. Admiral Seward pulled his console from his pocket, checked the screen and then widened his eyes, fractionally.
“Carry on, please,” he said, nodding at Turner. “Lieutenant Carpenter, a word, please.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Jamie, and followed the Director towards the airlock door. When they were both safely through and standing in the small alcove beside the lift, Seward passed his console to Jamie.
“Read it,” he said.
Jamie took it from him, thumbed the control pad and watched the screen power up. He began to read the text that was filling the small rectangle.
FROM: Ellis, Christian (NS303, 47-J)
TO: Seward, Henry (NS303, 27-A)
The trail of the individual suspected of being Colonel Frankenstein remained clear and verifiable as far south as Paris. Witness statements are attached. Last likely sighting was four weeks ago (Christmas Eve) at Notre Dame Cathedral. Investigation suggests that he is, or was, in the company of Jean-Luc Latour (V/A2/87), a Priority Level 2 vampire. Further investigation, including attempts to locate Latour, has proved fruitless. Trail appears to now be cold. Request permission to return to base.
Jamie read the message a second time, so he could be sure that his eyes weren’t deceiving him.
“They’re coming home?” he asked, incredulous. “That’s it? They’re giving up?”
“Their investigation is concluded, Jamie,” replied Admiral Seward. “I asked them to ascertain whether Colonel Frankenstein was still alive. They have been unable to do so.”
“It’s obvious he’s still alive,” said Jamie. “Surely it’s obvious?”
Seward sighed heavily. “I want him to be alive too, Jamie. I really do. But the Field Investigation Team are coming home. They’ve done their job, and I’ve granted their request.”
“What about this vampire?” asked Jamie. “Latour?”
Seward took his console back from Jamie, pressed a series of keys, then handed it back. Jamie looked down at the file that had opened on the screen.
Subject name:
LATOUR, JEAN-LUC
Species:
VAMPIRE
Priority level:
A2
Known associates:
VALERIANO, DANTE
FRANKENSTEIN, VICTOR
Most recent sighting:
18/5/2002
Whereabouts:
PARIS (UNSPECIFIED)
NOTES:
One of the oldest vampires in Paris, and possibly in all of France.
Believed to have been turned circa 1900, by an unknown vampire.
Known to frequent Saint-Germain-des-Prés, the Marais, the Rive Gauche.
Often sighted in the company of artists, writers and other notable cultural figures.
Kills to feed and for pleasure, without discrimination.
Jamie made a decision.
It took no thinking whatsoever, and the possible consequences of the decision didn’t even occur to him; it was simply one of those rare, liberating moments when you know exactly what you need to do, that there are no other options.
“I’m going to Paris to find him, sir,” he said. “I really hope I can go with your permission, but either way, I’m going.”
He braced himself for the explosion, but it didn’t come. Admiral Seward was staring at him with a look on his face that was full of empathy, and not a little admiration.
“Permission granted,” the Director replied.
Jamie fought back the urge to throw himself at Admiral Seward and wrap his arms round the greying, exhausted-looking man.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “Really. Thank you.”
Seward nodded. “Assemble a five-man team from the active roster,” he said. “Then come back to me for final authorisation. Do not leave without my go, is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jamie. “I’m on it.”
“All right then,” said Seward. “Go an
d see to it. Dismissed.”
The Director headed back towards the airlock, and stepped through the first door. As it swung slowly shut, he turned to look at Jamie, through the narrowing gap. He looked as though there was something else he wanted to say, the muscles around his mouth twitching as though he was about to speak, but then the door rolled shut with a loud thunk and the Director was gone.
Jamie stared after him for a moment, then turned and walked across to the lift. He stepped inside the metal car, pulling his own console from his pocket as he did so. As the lift ascended, taking him up towards Level 0, he quickly typed out and sent a message to every Operator on the active roster.
ACTIVE_LIST/VOLUNTARY_OP_EXT_L1A/LIVE_BRIEFING/OR/ASAP
The lift doors opened, and Jamie strode down the corridor towards the Ops Room, wondering who would be the first to show up.
It turned out to be Angela Darcy, although Jack Williams was less than a minute behind her.
The pretty, deadly former spy strolled into the Ops Room as though she was taking a Sunday morning constitutional, smiled at Jamie and sat down at one of the desks. He nodded in return, about to say hello to her, when the door opened again and Jack Williams bustled through it.
“I came as soon as I got your message,” he said, slightly out of breath. “What’s going on?”
