by Will Hill
The street narrowed as it passed through a short stone tunnel, then widened as it curved away from the ancient walls and back into the centre of the city. Up ahead, a wide arch opened on to Rue du Grand Puits, one of the roads leading down to the medieval gate that served as Carcassonne’s main entrance and exit. As they neared it, a dull roar reached Alan’s ears: the thunder of footsteps as screaming, howling men and women ran headlong down the hill. He skidded to a halt beneath the arch, put an arm across his wife’s chest, and stared at the flowing mass of humanity before them.
He had been in a number of deadly riots over the course of his career – in Mogadishu, Baghdad and Kosovo, to name just a few – but what was happening in front of him was every bit as terrifying as any of them. Men, women and children were running blindly down the hill, many of them so badly injured that Alan assumed adrenaline was the only thing keeping them on their feet. Blood ran thickly between the cobblestones and pooled at the edges of the street. Motionless bodies lay on the ground, kicked and trodden on by the panicking mass; as Alan watched, a teenage boy tripped over a crumpled figure and fell to the ground, screaming in terror. He was swallowed up by the thundering crowd, trampled and driven to the cobbles, until he too lay still.
“Dear God,” whispered Cynthia.
Within the reeling, pulsing crowd, vampires moved with supernatural speed, rending and tearing. There were now many more than the eight Alan had seen in the square, their eyes blazing with crimson, their faces twisted into grins of sheer joy. One of them grabbed a middle-aged man by his shoulders and hauled him kicking and screaming into the dark night sky; seconds later, bloody lumps of meat began to rain down on the running men and women below.
“What do we do, Alan?” asked Cynthia.
He looked at his wife. Her eyes were wide, her skin pale, but he saw no panic on her face.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I really don’t know.”
Kate Randall was sitting at her desk in the Security Division, her head and heart still pounding with the hope that Paul Turner’s briefing had instilled, when she heard the beep.
She, along with most of her colleagues, had attended a number of sombre, painful meetings in the Ops Room; she had been there when the names of the men and women who died in Valeri’s attack on the Loop had been displayed, and when the Director had explained, in the aftermath of Château Dauncy, that Dracula was lost and the prospects of finding him were now slim. Good news had been extremely hard to come by over the last year or so, as darkness had piled upon darkness until it seemed poised to swallow them all.
Now, there was a small, flickering light at the end of the tunnel. They still didn’t know where Dracula was, or what he had planned, but the discovery of a cure represented a real chance to change things for the better, to release thousands of people from a condition the vast majority of them had never wanted, and to bring a halt to the violence that was currently sweeping, almost unchecked, throughout the country.
The beep was accompanied by the appearance of a new window on the screen of her computer. Kate enlarged it, and frowned. It was a message from the Surveillance Division, forwarding a classified alert that had been released ninety seconds earlier. She scanned the text, her frown deepening, then picked up her phone and pressed the button for her direct line to the Security Officer.
“Kate?” said Angela Darcy. “Everything OK?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “The Civil Aviation Authority just put an alert out. They’ve lost contact with a commercial flight off the west coast of Scotland.”
“What flight?”
“Virgin Atlantic 025,” she said. “An Airbus A340, travelling from London to New York. Four hundred and twelve passengers and crew.”
Beep.
“Has there been a response from the RAF?” asked the Security Officer.
“It’s just come through,” said Kate, reading the new message. “They’ve scrambled two Typhoons from Coningsby. They should be at the last recorded position in twelve minutes.”
“OK,” said Angela. “Keep me updated.”
“Yes, Captain,” said Kate. She hung up the phone, opened a new window, and accessed the secure Intelligence Services network; it was crammed with chatter, as GCHQ and SIS discussed the missing plane. The cockpit transmissions were already being listened to, but the extremely preliminary conclusion was that they contained nothing unusual.
Beep.
Another message appeared. Kate read it, and felt incredulity rise on to her face. She grabbed the phone again, and dialled her commanding officer.
“Have they found it?” asked Angela.
“I don’t know,” said Kate. “But an alert just came through from the American FAA. They’ve lost contact with three commercial flights in the last five minutes. One that had just left Atlanta, one over the California desert, and one over the Atlantic on approach to New York.”
“Three planes?”
“That’s what they’re saying,” she said.
Beep. Beep.
Kate’s fingers flew across her keyboard, opening the new messages.
“This is crazy,” she said. “I’ve just got two more. The French have lost an American Airlines 757 on Paris approach and the Italians have lost an Emirates 777 somewhere near Turin.”
“I’m logged in,” said Angela. “What the hell is this?”
Kate shook her head. “I’ve no idea,” she said. “Could they be mistakes? Some kind of air-traffic control error?”
“The national systems are all independent,” said Angela. “I can’t imagine what it would take for all of them to go wrong at the same time.”
Beep. Beep beep beep.
Four new windows opened on the screen. Kate stared at them, her heart racing, her eyes wide. “Four more,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Japan, China, the Bahamas, Mexico. Jesus. These can’t all be right. Surely they can’t be?”
“I don’t know,” said Angela.
“What do we do?” asked Kate.
“I’ll brief the Director,” said Angela. “He needs to know what’s happening, even if it’s nothing to do with us.”
It is, though, thought Kate. Neither of us wants to say it, but we both know it is.
“All right,” she said. “What do you want me—”
The door to Kate’s office banged open. She spun round in her seat and glared at the Operator standing in the doorway. “I’m on the phone,” she said. “Can you give me a—”
“Turn your TV on,” interrupted the Operator. “Something’s happened in Moscow.”
“What?” asked Kate, but the Operator had already disappeared back through the door.
“Kate?” asked Angela. “What’s going on?”
“Turn on your TV,” said Kate. “I’m coming to you.”
She hung up the phone, strode out of her office, and ran across the Division towards the room she had once spent almost as much time in as her own. She knocked on the door and pushed it open; Angela was sitting behind her desk, her face pale, her attention fixed on the screen on her wall, which was showing the BBC News channel.
“What’s happening?” asked Kate.
Angela shook her head. Kate frowned, her heart pounding, and turned towards the screen, which was showing a shaky, grainy shot of a crowd of people clustered together on a wide street. Ambulances were arriving in droves, their lights flashing, and the sounds of crying and screaming echoed out of the screen’s speakers.
“Terrible scenes in Moscow this evening,” said a disembodied voice. “Details are still sketchy, but what we know for certain is that, some fifteen minutes ago now, an emergency call was made from the Kurskaya Metro station, and that the call made reference to a train having arrived ‘full of blood’. As you can see from this exclusive footage, emergency services are now on the scene, as conflicting reports emerge from inside the Russian capital. We have heard claims that a train has derailed at Kurskaya, we have at least one account of a possible gunma
n on a train, and we have received a number of reports of vampire sightings across the Moscow Metro system.”
Beep.
“Not another one?” asked Kate.
“Argentina,” said the Security Officer, her voice low as she stared at her computer screen. “They’ve lost a 747 over Buenos Aires.”
Kate just stared; she felt numb, as if her insides had been turned to ice. She couldn’t process what was happening; the entire world seemed to have fallen into chaos in the last five minutes.
“Stand by for breaking news,” said the news presenter. “We’re getting … this is absolutely remarkable … but we’re now getting reports of a number of explosions at subway stations in Beijing. We’re working to get you more details as soon as we can, but …”
The footage of Moscow disappeared, revealing the presenter looking away from the camera, a deep frown on her face, one hand pressed against the microphone in her ear.
“Is this right?” she said. “Are you sure you want me to …”
There was a moment of silence, until the presenter finally looked back down the lens.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “We are now receiving unconfirmed reports of vampire attacks on passengers on both the Paris Metro and the London Underground. The New York Transit Authority has ordered a complete closure of the New York subway system, presumably in response to these reported incidents. I don’t … I just …”
Beep. Beep.
The screen changed to show an archive photograph of a walled city, one that looked like a sprawling medieval castle. The caption beneath the image read CARCASSONNE, FRANCE.
“What is this?” asked the Security Officer; it was clear from her face that she already knew the answer to her own question.
“It’s Dracula,” said Kate.
The first vampire, the creature once known as Vlad Tepes but who now went by a name that struck fear into the hearts of men and women alike, floated anonymously through the screaming, panicking crowds like a theatre director making an impromptu check on a performance.
The tourists running for their lives paid him no attention, and the vampires knew his scent well enough to keep their distance. He did not join the attack; he was a General, and despite the longing in the pit of his stomach and the glorious scent of blood in his nostrils, violence was something he ordered, not something he carried out himself.
There was much that Dracula still did not understand about the modern world; he had lain dormant through a century in which humanity had advanced more rapidly than all the previous centuries combined, and many of those developments were still a mystery. What had become abundantly clear, however, during conversations with Valeri Rusmanov and the many dinners he had shared with Admiral Henry Seward, were the enormous advances that had been made in the field of murder.
He had tried to imagine rockets that could be fired from halfway around the globe to land on a single building, machines that flew to the edge of space to drop their payloads on to unsuspecting men and women below, and found he could not. But then he had seen, with his own eyes, the single bomb that had annihilated the thick stone walls and deep foundations of Château Dauncy, the helicopters that had swept his soldiers with deadly ultraviolet light, the armour that had allowed his enemies to survive blows that should have been instantly fatal. When he had still been a man, battles had been fought on foot and on horseback, with swords and spears and bows; on several occasions, Dracula had allowed himself to wonder how different his long campaigns against the Turks might have been if even one per cent of the modern world’s weaponry had been at his disposal.
Around him, the fleeing crowds were beginning to thin. The first vampire checked his watch, and saw that fifteen minutes had passed since the assault had begun. Thus far, his followers were carrying out their orders perfectly; they had torn into the inhabitants of Carcassonne with great relish, rending and killing and driving those who managed to avoid their fangs and fingernails down the old streets and out of the city.
Dracula rose into the air and soared rapidly towards the high stone tower of the Basilica. In the cobbled square below the church’s walls stood the Hôtel de la Cité, an elegant old building surrounded by pristine gardens that extended out over the steep edges of Carcassonne. There, if his orders had been competently followed, the next phase of Dracula’s plan would be waiting for him.
The ancient vampire climbed high above the city, savouring the screams and sobs that were still floating through the air beneath him, and took a moment to look at the place he had chosen to be his new citadel. Although the architecture was somewhat different, it reminded him in many ways of Poenari Castle, his seat of power during his reigns as the Prince of Wallachia. Both occupied the highest ground for many miles, their walls and battlements draped across rising peaks and uneven hillsides, making them almost impregnable, at least from medieval means of attack. The destruction of Château Dauncy had made it clear that the thick stone of Carcassonne would be no match for contemporary weaponry, but that did not matter; Dracula was relying on something else staying the trigger fingers of his enemies.
Osvaldo, the Spanish vampire who was the closest thing to a confidant that he had allowed in the aftermath of the death of Valeri Rusmanov, had suggested that a more remote location might have been more suitable for his new base of operations – a Pacific island, perhaps, or a section of the south-western American desert – but Dracula had explained to him that remoteness is only an advantage when you are intending to hide. And hiding was the last thing on his mind.
The ancient vampire looked out across the slanted, unruly rooftops of the city, enjoying the cool evening air on his skin, then descended towards the square near the summit. As he reached the ground, he noted the vampires stationed at its four corners, guarding the ways in and out, and allowed himself a small smile.
They’re not real soldiers. The least of my Wallachians was worth ten of them. But they are so very keen, and so very scared.
Dozens of his followers were milling about in the wide space in front of the hotel, hissing and growling, reliving the attack, but a respectful silence settled instantly over them as he touched down. He turned slowly, favouring the vampires with an expression that was not quite a smile but which contained no obvious reproach.
“Well done,” he said. “All has gone according to plan, and now the real work begins. Do not let me down.”
He saw flickers of glowing red in faces set with determined pride, held their gaze for a long moment, then turned and strode into the hotel. Osvaldo was waiting in the wood-panelled entrance hall; he bowed as his master approached.
“My lord,” he said. “The police have arrived.”
“As expected,” said Dracula. “Where?”
“Most are tending to survivors outside the walls, my lord, where ambulances and fire vehicles have also arrived. However, a small squad of armed officers is making its way into the city.”
“Kill them,” he said. “Have their bodies brought up here. Intact.”
“Of course, my lord. We should also expect to see helicopters shortly. The police will send them, and so will the television news, once word gets out.”
“Bring down the first one that flies inside the border of our walls. That will make the others keep their distance.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Osvaldo, and flew quickly through the hotel’s door. A second later Dracula heard him bark orders at the vampires waiting in the square, and smiled.
After the humbling, harrowing defeat at Château Dauncy, the first vampire had lain low for several months in a farmhouse in northern Italy owned by one of the tiny number of his followers that had also survived the battle. In the first weeks, he had refused to see anyone; he had shut himself away with his rage and disappointment and frustration. He had not been as strong as he needed to be, as strong as he should have been, and it had almost cost him his life; he had been arrogant, and stupid, and he had no intention of making the same mistake again.
When he
emerged from his isolation, the survivors of the battle had been joined by almost fifty other vampires; it was a paltry amount in the grand scheme of things, but heartening nonetheless. The new arrivals had sought him out, pledging themselves to his vision of the future, a future in which vampires were the planet’s dominant species and human beings were little more than cattle. He had welcomed them, thanked them for their loyalty, then ordered them to go out and recruit more men and women to their cause.
His followers had done as he commanded, delivering vampires to the farmhouse in steadily increasing numbers; one or two a day at first, then a dozen, then twenty, until they were arriving at the rate of more than a hundred a week. There was quickly no room for them all at the farmhouse, so the first vampire sent them away as they arrived, ordering them to lie low in one of his ever-expanding network of safe houses until they were needed.
Osvaldo had been in the farmhouse when Dracula at last emerged from his isolation. The Spaniard had no military experience – he had been an advertising executive in his former life – but he had already established himself as the de facto leader of Dracula’s followers. He did not shout, or fight, or growl, nor did he manipulate or scheme; he simply possessed a natural air of authority, and when he suggested an idea or a plan, they invariably proved successful.
As a result, the first vampire had immediately considered killing him; he could not tolerate anything even approaching divided loyalties, and Osvaldo’s death would have made that abundantly clear. What had stopped him was the look in the vampire’s eyes as he bowed before his new master, a look that he recognised instantly: the boiling fervour of a true believer. By the end of their first conversation, Dracula knew that Osvaldo wanted nothing more than to help him burn the world down. And so it had proved.
The call had gone out twenty-four hours earlier.
The first vampire had sent a hundred vampires to board commercial flights around the world, a hundred more to the major underground railways in Europe, America and Asia. Each one of his followers had been given a detailed plan and a time of attack that was to be adhered to on literal pain of death; coordination was vital if his opening salvo was to have the desired impact.
