by Will Hill
The footage of the event, the results of the initial scans, and thermographic and high-definition photographs of the before and after were parcelled together to be sent as an immediate report, as was the protocol for anomalous events. The satellite’s geo-positioning sensors determined the location of the event, and a tiny subroutine, buried deep within the code that powered the satellite’s computer brain, was activated. It triggered a protocol that changed the destination of the report the satellite had prepared, and as soon as the report had been encrypted and despatched, it deleted all trace of the event ever having taken place.
Skynet 6-1 returned to its normal operating mode, all proof that it had witnessed the burst of purple light completely exorcised from its memory banks. But more than 22,000 miles below, only 390 miles above the surface of the earth, RapidEye 4, a commercial imaging satellite, cruised slowly over eastern England, its high-definition cameras silently recording everything below it.
Cal Holmwood’s visor returned to normal, and he found himself looking at a vision of hell.
Purple fire was streaming from what seemed like at least a hundred burning vampires; thick black smoke billowed into the air, as the screaming, pleading vampires stumbled, and crawled, and lay still, their bodies burning. The smell was terrible, a thick fog of roasting meat and boiling blood, and Holmwood gagged.
In among the fires, the surviving Operators were standing around, dazed expressions on their faces, their weapons hanging limply at their sides. Several of them were staggering, holding their faces, and Cal realised with rising horror that they were not wearing their helmets. He ran to the nearest such man, an Operator he knew was named Potts, and grabbed him by his shoulders.
“I can’t see,” screamed the Operator. “Oh God, I can’t see anything.”
“Let me see,” said Holmwood, gently taking hold of the man’s gloved hands.
Blood was running thickly from the man’s ears, but he responded to the sound of Cal’s voice.
“Colonel Holmwood?” asked Potts, his voice thick with pain.
“That’s right, son,” said Cal. “Let me see now. Move your hands.”
Potts lifted his trembling hands slowly away from his face. Holmwood looked at the young Operator, and forced himself not to cry out.
The skin on his face was a red so dark it was almost black; in several places it had already cracked, and blood was oozing slowly down towards his neck. His eyes were bleeding at the corners; the white sclera had been burned a bright orange, and his blue irises were a virulent purple. The Operator’s pupils had constricted to such a tiny diameter that Holmwood could barely see them; they were little more than tiny black pinpricks in the middle of the young man’s ruined eyes. The corneas, the transparent film that covered the visible part of the eye, were dried out and shredded; it looked like Potts was wearing contact lenses that had been attacked with a razor blade.
“You’re going to be all right,” Cal said, firmly. “You hear me, son? You’re going to be fine.”
“I can’t see anything, sir,” said Potts. The fear in his voice was urgent.
“I know you can’t,” replied Cal. “I have to go and get you some help, so I want you to sit down right here and not move. OK?”
Potts nodded, an expression of misery on his shattered face.
“OK,” said Holmwood. “I’ll be back for you. I promise.”
He helped the Operator lower himself to the ground, then ran towards the hangar, stepping between the burning vampires that littered the wide stretch of tarmac.
“All medical staff to Landing Area 1,” he shouted over his helmet’s comms link. “All staff right now.”
He ran through the wide door of the hangar, his mind racing as he headed towards the row of emergency medical kits that hung on the armoury wall.
What the hell just happened out there? What were those things that came out of the ground? They were like ultraviolet bombs. Who the hell knew about them?
Holmwood hauled four green cases down off the wall, tucked them under his arms, then ran back towards the burning carnage of the landing area. A small group of Operators were waiting for him as he emerged, their faces pale at the scale of the destruction that had taken place around them, their eyes wide with horror and confusion.
“Colonel Holmwood,” said one, as he approached. “What the hell was—”
“No time,” snapped Cal. “We’ve got wounded out there. Take these and start isolating the injured.”
He dropped the green cases to the ground, and ran back into the hangar for the rest. Behind him he heard the running thuds of footsteps as the Operators did as he had ordered. He skidded to a halt in front of the two medical kits that were still hanging on the wall, then noticed the white door next to them. A red refrigeration triangle was printed on it, and something suddenly clicked in his mind.
“Oh Jesus,” he whispered, and hauled open the white door. Inside it stood twelve plastic litre bottles of O negative blood. He ran across the room, grabbed a black holdall from one of the racks, ran back and threw the bottles into it. Cal swung the bag over his shoulder, and sprinted for the exit.
“Larissa!” he bellowed, surveying the smouldering remnants of Valeri’s vampire army. “Operator Kinley! Where are you?”
Nothing moved.
The purple flames that had leapt so violently from the bodies of the vampires were starting to subside, leaving behind the crackling of burning skin and the groans and growls of the few vampires who were still able to make sound. Around him, he saw Operators kneeling beside their colleagues, applying gauze and bandages to wounds, whispering reassuringly to their injured friends. Kate Randall was still kneeling over Shaun Turner, as his father stood motionless beside them.
Can’t think about that now, thought Holmwood. Can’t think about that.
There was a rush of noise and activity behind him, and he heard shouts and exclamations of surprise as the Loop’s medical staff poured out on to the tarmac, carrying trauma kits and wheeling stretchers between them. The white-coated doctors and nurses immediately took charge of the situation, barking orders and shouting for the uninjured Operators to clear the way. Holmwood left them behind, running through the human and vampire wreckage, shouting Larissa’s name as he did so.
He reached the edge of the runway, looking frantically across the blood-soaked tarmac and burning concrete.
“Larissa!” he bellowed, and then the tiniest flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned, seeing a thin column of smoke rising from the grass at the edge of the runway. He ran towards it, praying he was not too late, and slid to a halt beside a twisted pile of charred flesh and bone.
Larissa was lying on her back, her skin as black as the night sky, her arms and legs burned down to the bone. Her face was destroyed; her eyes and ears were gone, and her lips had burned away to reveal her teeth, giving her an awful skeletal look. In her mouth was the charred remains of an arm, the bones and tendons of which were still clearly visible. Holmwood followed the arm to where it met the white nub of a shoulder bone, and then on to the body of a second vampire. Cal could see the flapping remnants of a white shirt, and clarity burst through him.
It’s Valentin, he realised. Why the hell is his arm in her mouth?
He looked more closely at Larissa, and saw empty space where her throat should have been; even with the terrible damage the flames had done to her, it was still obvious. The muscles and tendons that had been laid open to the evening sky by the punishing purple fire were torn and ripped, in a single direction.
He fed her his own blood, Cal realised. She was hurt, and he fed her. Dear Jesus.
He looked down at the two smouldering bodies for a long moment, then made a decision. Cal shrugged the holdall off his shoulder, and tore it open. He lifted the first bottle of blood out, twisted the top off and tipped it directly into Larissa’s mouth. The effect was instantaneous; small sections of her flesh immediately turned red, then pink, then white, knitting back together as
they did so.
When the first bottle was empty, he threw it aside, and tore open the second. As it glugged down her savaged throat, her eyes swam back up into their sockets, and her tongue grew back into place. She groaned in agony, and swivelled her eyes to look at him.
The third bottle saw her begin to move, ever so slightly, as she began to resemble the Larissa he knew, and when it was empty, she was able to lift one trembling hand, and push the burnt remnant of Valentin’s arm out of her mouth. She groped for the fourth bottle as he opened it, and he placed it gently in her hand; she raised it to her mouth, and drank, slowly. Holmwood watched until he was sure she could feed herself, then grabbed four of the bottles and leant down next to Valentin.
He paused as he twisted the first one open and lowered it towards the vampire’s mouth.
Valentin Rusmanov had killed and tortured for more than four centuries, and nobody could have blamed Cal if he had sunk his stake into the ancient vampire’s heart, ending him forever. But they had made a deal with him, a deal that it appeared Valentin, when presented with the opportunity to renege, had honoured. Cal had seen him fight Valeri with his own eyes, and it was clear that he had given up his own blood to help Larissa.
Cal Holmwood tipped the bottle, and poured sweet, reviving blood into the mouth of the third oldest vampire in the world, a creature that represented everything that Department 19 stood against. He watched as the vampire’s body responded to the blood, and began the torturous, agonising process of rebuilding itself. There was a long, rattling gasp from beside him, as Larissa pushed herself up into a seated position, and looked at him, gratitude burning in her eyes.
“Thank you,” she croaked, then looked down at Valentin. “He didn’t leave me,” she said, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “He was beating his brother, but when Valeri attacked me, he stayed, and gave me his arm. He could have let me bleed out.”
“I know,” replied Cal. “That’s why I’m doing this.”
Holmwood threw the first bottle aside and opened the second. He was tipping it towards Valentin’s mouth when two beams of yellow light burst over the trees at the edge of the Loop, and the steady thump of a helicopter engine thundered through the night air.
“Five minutes,” yelled the pilot.
Jamie Carpenter checked his watch, and swore. Thirty-one minutes had passed since he and his team had emerged from the smouldering darkness of La Fraternité de la Nuit, carrying the unconscious grey wolf between them. Their chopper was idling in the middle of Rue de Sévigné, its side doors standing open.
Jamie knew it was a violation of operational protocol to bring the helicopter down in the middle of the Marais, but there was no other option that he could see. The pilot had expressed surprise when he heard Jamie’s order, but he had not objected; by the time the team emerged from the building he had set the chopper down in the centre of the wide boulevard, and loaded the black SUV into its hold.
Carrying Frankenstein in his wolf form took all five of the team; the animal was incredibly heavy, and his fur slid through their gloved fingers like spiders’ webs. The pilot saw them emerge, ran over and shoved the gate open. They hauled the wolf through the narrow gap, and, with a huge effort, loaded it into the helicopter. The pilot leapt inside and began strapping the animal down with restraining belts, as Jamie’s team removed their helmets and took their seats.
Jamie climbed in last, his eyes on the many windows that overlooked their extraction; there were lights on in several of them, and he thought he saw a number of curtains twitch, but he saw no one. He took a quick last look at the grey windowless building, then turned and leapt up into the helicopter.
“Go!” he yelled, and strapped himself into his seat as the engine noise rose to a piercing scream, and the squat helicopter lumbered into the air.
Too late, thought Jamie. She said I was going to be too late. Too late for what?
“I’ve got a General Alarm at the Loop!” yelled the pilot, above the howl of the engines. “It was sounded two minutes ago, sir.”
“Get us there as quickly as you can!” shouted Jamie.
The helicopter tore across western France, and boomed out over the English Channel, heading north-west. There was silence in the back of the helicopter; Jamie had told the rest of the team Larissa’s message, and all five of them were wondering what was happening at the base they all thought of as home.
“Five minutes,” repeated the pilot. “We’re coming in—”
The pilot’s voice died out as the interior of the helicopter suddenly blazed purple. The team threw their hands over their eyes, as the light pierced every corner of the helicopter’s cabin. Then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, the light was gone.
“Report!” yelled Jamie. “What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said the pilot. His voice was low, and full of shock. “Whatever it was, it came from the Loop. It looked like a million UV grenades went off at once, sir.”
Jamie looked around at the worried faces of his team.
“Fly faster,” he said.
Cal Holmwood watched the helicopter roar overhead, descending rapidly towards the landing area. Beside him, Larissa tried to get to her feet, and fell back on the grass. She swore, and grabbed another bottle of blood out of the holdall. She tipped it into her mouth, her eyes fixed on the helicopter as it touched down outside the hangar, its tyres screeching on the burning tarmac.
As soon as the huge vehicle came to a stop, Jamie hauled the door open and leapt out. For a moment, he merely stood, staring; fires were burning from the doors of the hangar to the edges of the long runway, and the ground was scattered with dark, motionless figures, and splashes of drying blood.
My God, he thought. This can’t be real.
Then he saw Kate, kneeling on the ground, and ran towards her.
“Kate!” he shouted, his feet thudding across the tarmac. “Kate! Where’s Larissa? Are you—”
She turned to look at him, and he skidded to a halt, three metres away from her. Her face was a mask of agony, and his heart lurched with fear.
It’s Larissa. Something’s happened to Larissa.
Then he noticed Paul Turner standing beside her, as still as a statue. He walked forward on trembling legs, and saw what his friend was kneeling beside.
Shaun Turner lay on the cold tarmac of the landing area, his eyes wide, staring up at nothing. His neck was bent horribly to one side; a ridge of bone, cracked almost in half, was visible beneath the skin. His chest was still, and his hands lay limply at his sides. Kate was cradling his head, her hands buried in his hair. She was not crying; the word did not do justice to the guttural, primal sounds of grief that were emerging from her throat.
Jamie tried to make his body respond; he wanted to run to Kate and wrap his arms round her, wanted to pull her away from the terrible lifeless thing that had been her boyfriend, but he could not make himself move. He stared dumbly as he watched his friend suffering through a nightmare he knew all too well.
Slowly, like a statue coming haltingly to life, Paul Turner stepped forward. Jamie watched, his eyes wide, his mind unable to begin to comprehend what the Security Officer must be seeing with his glacial grey eyes, his heart breaking for a man who had generally treated him with a respect he had not always deserved. Turner took two robotic steps, and then knelt beside Kate, looking down at his son.
“Let him go,” he said, his voice soft. Kate looked round at him, her face streaked with tears. “Please,” said Turner. “Please let him go.”
Kate stared at him for a long moment, and Jamie felt a terrible bond of grief crystallise between them. It was palpable, even from where he was standing. Then she gently slid her hands out from under Shaun’s head. Turner replaced them with his own, and Kate stumbled to her feet, backing away, towards Jamie. She stood beside him, her eyes locked on Shaun’s father as he entered the worst nightmare of every parent.
Jamie looked at her, trying desperately to think of s
omething to say, but everything his mind could come up with sounded pitifully inadequate. Then a small noise floated through the night air, a hitching, rattling sound that seemed to be full of all the grief in the world. He looked on, utterly helpless, as one of the most desperate, stomach-churning moments of his life played out.
He watched as Paul Turner began to weep over the body of his son.
Jamie reached out and touched Kate’s shoulder. She flinched, then turned to face him, the expression on her face appearing to teeter on the brink of catatonia. Her eyes were wide and staring, her mouth hung open, as though her internal processes had been shut down.
He looked at her, completely unable to think of anything to say; instead, he fumbled for her shoulders, and pulled her tightly against him. She came willingly, burying her head against his chest, and beginning to tremble as the first of a series of terrible, racking sobs escaped her. He held her as tight as he dared, as if trying to shut out everything that had happened around her, as if he could make it better by preventing her from seeing it. He lowered his head so his mouth was beside her ear, and started to whisper to her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t respond; he held her as she shook and shivered in his arms.
They stayed that way for a long time, as the Operators who had survived whatever had happened while Jamie and his team were in Paris began to gather round Paul Turner, their heads lowered in respect for his loss.
Doctors in white coats ran between injured men and women, and a steady stream of stretchers rolled in and out of the hangar. Three Operators were making their way across the landing area, systematically staking the smouldering remains of the vampires; they exploded with small claps of air, the blood in their veins boiled dry by the searing ultraviolet fire.
