by Will Hill
Firstly, he didn’t like the message that it sent to the queuing vampires. Sales of all things ultraviolet had exploded in the aftermath of V-Day, as the public scrambled to protect themselves from the threat they were now being told was lurking in their midst. Families up and down the country had put UV bulbs into motion-sensor-controlled exterior lights, and men and women – although it was mostly men, Pete had noted – had taken to wearing torches on their belts, like the six-shooters carried by gunslingers in the Old West.
Pete had more reason than most to be suspicious of vampires; he had seen first hand the violence and death left in the wake of Albert Harker’s bloody quest for revenge. But he also knew that it had been more the result of Harker’s damaged, broken mind than because he was a vampire, and he had agreed to found SSL on that assumption: that vampire was not the same as evil, that the supernatural was not something to be automatically feared. Having his volunteers carry weapons that could only hurt vampires felt uncomfortably close to a betrayal of that principle.
Secondly, and far more pragmatically, Pete knew that the ultraviolet torches were next to useless. He had seen Albert Harker overpower three Blacklight Operators, two of whom had turned out to be his daughter and Greg’s son, with apparently minimal effort; if one of the vampires queuing patiently outside the community centre decided to attack someone, he doubted any of the volunteers, or the professional security guards that were also mandated by the insurance policy, would have time to draw their UV torch from their belt, let alone turn it on.
The van that had brought the SSL team from Lincoln was parked outside the back door. Pete pulled the keys out of his pocket, walked round to the rear of the vehicle, and froze solid to the spot, his heart lurching as something huge and full of teeth snarled out of the darkness.
Nothing happened.
Nothing moved.
He dragged in a high, rattling breath, took a closer look at the shadows on the other side of the alleyway, and let out a long sigh of relief.
Jesus, he thought. Who the hell does something like that?
Painted across the crumbling brick and cement was a wide mouth, curled open in what could easily have been either a grin or a snarl. Rows of white triangular teeth gleamed in the darkness, and written in the space between them, as though the mouth was about to swallow them whole, were the words:
Dracula’s followers, he thought.
“Pete?”
He jumped round, his heart accelerating, and saw one of the volunteers, a young man called Rob, standing in the doorway with a curious expression on his face.
“Christ,” said Pete, pressing a hand against his chest. “Sneak up on me, why don’t you?”
“Sorry,” said Rob. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” said Pete, blood pounding in his ears. “Give me a hand.”
He unlocked the rear doors of the van as Rob walked across to join him. It was a battered white Ford Transit that had belonged to a butcher for almost twenty years, but its engine was solid, and its refrigerated cabinets still worked, most of the time. Pete climbed up into the back, hearing the suspension creak beneath him, and put the last twenty bottles of blood into a heavy plastic sack. He jumped back down to the ground, and held it out to the volunteer.
“Cheers, Pete,” said Rob, swinging the sack over his shoulder. “That’s the last of it, right?”
He nodded. “How short are we going to be?”
“Maybe a dozen people,” said Rob. “We’re going to start splitting bottles to try and make them last.”
“Good,” said Pete. “Give everyone as much as you can. I’m going to check the queue.”
Rob nodded, and carried the sack of blood through the open door. As Pete relocked the van, he heard the first cries and shouts from the vampires as they were informed that they were no longer going to be getting an entire bottle to themselves. He walked back into the community centre, past the row of tables and protesting vampires, and headed for the front door, counting the queue as he went. He had reached forty-two when he heard noises from outside that sent a shiver racing up his spine.
Raised voices. A scream.
And something that sounded like the howl of a wild animal.
Pete sprinted through the small atrium, out on to the quiet suburban street, and cut to his left. The queue ran along one side of the building, beneath the large banner that read SSL BLOOD DRIVE – ALL WELCOME and round the corner. Here, the queuing vampires had turned as one, and were staring with glowing eyes at three figures near the end of the line as they grappled and twisted against the wall of the building.
“Hey!” shouted Pete, and accelerated towards them. “Hey! Cut that out!”
He waded into the middle of them without slowing, pushing and shoving until he reached the centre of the commotion and was able to get a good look at who was fighting.
To his right was a vampire in his mid-forties, his eyes blazing, his fangs gleaming, his face contorted with anger. The man was clutching his right hand, as thick smoke rose between his fingers and a low growl rumbled from his throat.
In front of him, standing with his back against the wall, was one of the SSL security guards. He was a giant of a man, barrel-chested and shaven-headed. He had an ultraviolet torch in his hand and a smile on his face so full of arrogance that it filled Pete with the unexpected desire to punch him squarely in the centre of it.
To his left, yelling and thrashing against his outstretched arm, was Jen. Her eyes were wide with shock and fury, her face was pale, and he had to lean into her with both hands and all his strength to keep her swinging fists out of the reach of the security guard.
“Jen!” he shouted. “Calm down, for Christ’s sake! What the hell is going on out here?”
“Why don’t you ask this dickhead?” shouted Jen, dragging herself out of his grip and pointing at the security guard. “Go on, ask him!”
“Don’t point at me, love,” said the giant, his voice thick with condescension.
“Shut up,” said Pete, keeping his attention fixed on his volunteer. “I’m asking you, Jen. What happened?”
She stared at him for a long moment, and sighed deeply. Some of the colour had returned to her face, and tears appeared in the corners of her eyes as her anger was replaced by shock and upset.
“This guy asked me if he could jump the queue,” she said, and nodded at the vampire holding his smoking hand. “I told him he couldn’t, and he asked me to check whether he was definitely going to get any blood because he hadn’t drunk anything for two days. I told him I would. When I turned away, he grabbed my arm.”
“I’m sorry I did that,” said the vampire, his voice low. “I really am. I’m just hungry.”
“It’s all right,” said Jen, shooting him a smile before looking back at Pete. “He didn’t hurt me. I asked him to let me go, and he did. But then Captain America here waded in and torched his hand.”
Pete turned to the security guard. “You did that?”
“The geezer attacked one of your staff,” said the guard. “You ought to be thanking me, mate.”
“It happened like she said,” said the vampire. “You can ask anyone.”
Pete turned to the queuing vampires; the entire line was staring at him, their faces full of suspicion. “Anybody got a different version of events?” he asked.
The vampires growled and hissed, and shook their heads.
“Right then,” he said. “Jen, take this man to the front of the queue and give him enough blood to heal his hand.”
“Come on,” she said, and smiled at the vampire. “Let’s get you sorted out.”
The vampire nodded, the fire in his eyes fading. “Thank you,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to cause trouble. I’m just hungry.”
“It’s all right,” said Pete. “Go with Jen, she’ll look after you.”
He watched her lead the vampire away, then faced the security guard, trying his hardest to control the anger threatening to explode inside him.
&nb
sp; “Come with me,” he said. “I want a word with you.”
Pete strode down towards the end of the queue, dozens of vampire eyes watching him as he passed, and round to the rear of the building. He turned back in time to see the security guard stroll round the corner, as casually as if he was walking home from the pub.
“Was that necessary?” asked Pete, as the man came to a halt in front of him. “Do you think setting a man’s hand on fire was a reasonable response to the situation?”
The guard shrugged. “He grabbed your girl.”
“And then he let her go,” said Pete. “Did she ask for your help? Did she scream?”
The guard spat on the ground, and shook his head.
“What would you have done if the whole queue had turned on you?” said Pete.
“I can handle myself,” said the guard.
“Against fifty hungry vamps?”
“If I had to. Yeah.”
Pete stared at the man. Belligerence and arrogance were radiating from him in waves, but his bravado did not feel fake; he seemed to genuinely believe he could take fifty vampires single-handed if it came to it.
“I don’t recognise you,” said Pete, eventually. “What’s your name?”
“Baker,” said the man. “Phil Baker.”
“Are you from Dave Calley’s agency?”
“Nope,” said Baker. “A geezer called Greg Browning hired me direct. Said your usual lot were overbooked.”
“Military man, right?”
Baker smiled. “Royal Marines,” he said. “Eight years.”
Pete nodded; the man’s bearing screamed uniform. “OK,” he said. “I want you to call it a night. We’re almost done and I think you staying is going to do more harm than good.”
Baker shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
“All right then,” said Pete. “Safe journey home.”
He walked into the community centre without a backward glance. His head was still pounding with anger, but he was proud of himself for not letting his temper get the better of him; simply removing the arrogant dickhead of a security guard as quickly as possible was the best solution, and further confrontation would have served no useful purpose.
Pete stood behind the tables and watched his volunteers serve the final bottles of blood to the remainder of the queue; they were working quickly and efficiently, and the last of the vampires was now inside the building, lined up against the wall by the front door. He did a quick count.
Thirty-nine more vamps. Fifteen minutes, give or take.
Satisfied that everything was back under control, Pete took his phone out of his pocket, scrolled down his contacts list until he reached Dave Calley’s number, and pressed CALL. After barely two rings, the phone was answered.
“Pete?”
“Evening, Dave,” he said, walking back out into the alleyway.
“Evening,” said Calley. “What’s going on? Everything OK?”
“Mostly,” he said. “Had a little bit of trouble at tonight’s drive. Nothing serious, but something came up that I wanted to ask you about.”
“Shoot.”
“Have you spoken to Greg this week? I talked to somebody who said you couldn’t staff this one because you were fully booked.”
“Let me check. Where are you?” asked Calley.
“Peterborough,” he said. “All Saints Community Centre.”
“Hang on.”
Pete waited patiently. Dave Calley ran a security agency in Lincoln that one of the earliest SSL volunteers had recommended, and he had never regretted the decision to take him on; Calley’s staff were uniformly large, shaven-headed and monosyllabic, but every one of them was certified and insured and, as Pete had seen for himself on several occasions, capable of staying calm in the face of appalling provocation.
Not like that guy I sent home, he thought. Baker. Not a bit like him.
“Still there, Pete?” asked Calley.
“I’m here, Dave.”
“I’ve got my lads booked in for you in Boston on Friday, and in Nottingham and Grimsby on Saturday, but nothing for tonight, and nothing in Peterborough till next month.”
“All right,” said Pete. “And you haven’t talked to Greg?”
“Not about this.”
“Could someone else have told him you were booked out tonight?”
“They could have,” said Calley. “But if someone did, let me know so I can stick a rocket up their arse, because I know for a fact I’ve got four lads twiddling their thumbs at home.”
Pete grinned. “Will do, Dave. I’ll see you soon, all right?”
“Sure thing,” said Calley. “See you later.”
Pete ended the call. He scrolled straight down to Greg’s name and dialled the number.
“Pete?” asked Greg, before his phone had even rung once. “Everything all right at the drive?”
“Everything’s fine,” he said. “We’re nearly done. Had a bit of a security issue, though. A guy I didn’t recognise caused a bit of trouble in the queue.”
“Shit,” said Greg. “That’s what I get for trusting people. I’m sorry, mate. Dave Calley’s boys were all booked up, so I got a name from a friend of mine. He said they were good people. Did you get rid of him?”
“I sent him home,” said Pete. “Phil Baker, his name was. It really wasn’t a big deal, but I wouldn’t use him again if I were you. He was a bit gung-ho for this kind of work.”
“I won’t,” said Greg. “Cheers for taking care of it.”
“No worries,” said Pete. “So you talked to Dave?”
“I talked to him yesterday.”
“In person?”
“On the phone,” said Greg. “Why?”
“No reason,” said Pete. “I’ll see you in the morning, all right?”
“See you then, mate. Get some sleep.”
“Cheers.”
Pete slipped the phone back into his pocket. He turned towards the community centre and saw Jen standing in the doorway, looking at him with narrowed eyes.
“Everything cool?” she asked.
“Fine,” said Pete, although he wasn’t at all convinced that it was.
What’s going on, Greg? he thought. Why are you lying to me?
Jamie sat in the back of his squad’s van, still wondering whether he should have simply told his mother what she wanted to hear. But that would have meant lying to her, again, and at this particular moment in time he would rather she was angry with him than placated by dishonesty.
“Everything all right, sir?” asked Ellison.
He nodded. “Fine,” he said. “Sorry. I was miles away for a minute there.”
“We noticed,” said Ellison, and flashed a quick smile. “Thinking about the new SOP?”
He wasn’t, but it was much easier just to nod his head.
“The new order is strange,” said Qiang. “Although I understand it. We are ratcatchers now.”
Ellison frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“In laboratories, they use rats,” said Qiang. “For testing. There are no vampire rats, so they must use vampires. We have been ordered to catch them.”
“You think this is about Lazarus?” said Ellison.
“Don’t you?” asked Qiang.
“I do,” said Jamie, pleased that somebody else had reached the same conclusion as him. “I think you’re exactly right, Qiang.”
“Hang on,” said Ellison, her frown deepening. “Am I missing something here? I thought this was a PR exercise?”
“Maybe it is,” said Jamie. “At least partly. But I’m with Qiang. There’s something going on here that we’re not being told, and I’m sure it’s got something to do with Lazarus.”
“Why are you sure?” asked Ellison.
Jamie shrugged. “Matt Browning is pretty much the project’s second-in-command, and I haven’t seen him for over a week. Nobody has. And as far as I can tell, nobody has seen anybody from the project for three or four days, at least. And now the SOP gets cha
nged. It might be nothing. But I don’t think it is.”
“Because you haven’t seen your friend for a week?” said Ellison. “That’s a bit of a reach, don’t you think?”
“Maybe so,” said Jamie. “But think about it. Why do we have to bring vamps back to the Loop with us? If this was just about PR, if it was the Director trying to show the world that we don’t just kill indiscriminately, then the new SOP could just be a ban on lethal force. But it specifically tells us to bring vampires back alive.”
The three Operators fell silent. The van’s engine rumbled as it carried them towards their Patrol Respond grid in the north Lincoln suburbs. The fold-down screen glowed in the darkness, waiting for an alert from the Surveillance Division that would see them leap into action.
“It would be something, though, wouldn’t it?” said Ellison, her voice low. “A cure, I mean. It would change everything.”
“Yes,” said Qiang.
“It could give us a real advantage,” said Ellison. “Particularly if it could be weaponised, like into an aerosol that we could spray over a large area. We could take out dozens of vamps at a time. Hundreds, even.”
“It would be huge,” said Jamie. “Every vamp that doesn’t want to be one could go back to normal. We could cut the numbers down to almost nothing.”
“What about Dracula?” said Ellison. “Surely it would work on him if it worked on the others?”
Jamie shrugged. “Unless he’s something different. He was the first, after all.”
“Have you ever wondered about that?” asked Qiang. “About what turned Dracula in the first place?”
“I don’t know,” said Jamie. “I don’t think anybody does, except for him. And I can’t imagine he’s going to tell us.”
“You should give it a shot,” said Ellison, and grinned. “Next time you see him, ask him if he’s got a spare five minutes to explain it to you.”
Jamie smiled. “I’ll do that,” he said. “Remind me when—”
