by Will Hill
Through the comms plug in his ear, he heard disembodied shouts of pain and protest as Qiang and O’Malley joined the fight. A vampire lurched towards him, his eyes blazing with fury, a sign in his hand that he had presumably taken from one of the protesters – it read VAMPIRES ARE A PLAGUE FROM GOD – and swung the wooden board at Jamie. He ducked beneath it, took hold of the incredulous, off-balance vampire by his collar, and threw him up and out of the crowd; the man spun end over end, and tumbled from view on the other side of the wide road. Another man took the vampire’s place, but made no move towards him; he was bleeding heavily from a wound in his forehead, and one of his eyes had been glued shut with blood. Jamie shoved the man in the direction of the hospital, then pushed forward again, scanning the crowd for the vampire who had been hit by the bottle.
There.
He lunged through the crowd, and reached her at the same moment as she grabbed the man that had thrown the bottle by the throat and lifted him effortlessly off the ground. The man’s face was bright red, his eyes bulging with fear, his legs kicking uselessly above the pavement as she drew him close to her blood-splattered face. Jamie skidded to a halt, drawing his MP7 from his belt and raising it as he did so.
“Put him down!” he yelled.
The woman gave no indication of having heard him; her attention was entirely focused on the face she was holding in front of her own.
Jamie hesitated. He could shoot the vampire in the legs, without killing her or harming anyone else, but was surprised to realise how strongly he didn’t want to; the woman had blood pouring out of her head, despite the fact that she had done absolutely nothing wrong, and he couldn’t remotely blame her for being furious. Instead, he raised the MP7 towards the sky and let out a deafening burst of automatic gunfire.
The fighting stopped instantly, as men and women hurled themselves flat on the ground, their hands over their ears. The vampire woman looked round at him, surprise filling her glowing eyes.
“Put him down,” repeated Jamie, and pointed the gun at her. “He isn’t worth dying for.”
“What would you know about it?” she growled. “You don’t know what it’s like to be hated for something that isn’t your fault.”
Jamie raised his visor. Boiling heat was filling his eyes and she recoiled, but did not let go of the struggling, spluttering man.
“I know,” he said. “Believe me, I do. I get why you’re here, why you wanted to be cured. And you still can be. Put him down and this can be over for you tonight.”
She looked at the man, then back at Jamie, the light in her eyes fading, ever so slightly.
“Are you going to arrest him for throwing that bottle at me?” she asked. “Or doesn’t it count, because I’m a vampire?”
“Put him down and I’ll see to it that he spends at least tonight in jail,” said Jamie. “I promise you.”
The woman growled, but it sounded more full of uncertainty than anger.
“Fine,” she said.
She lifted the man as high as she could reach, then released her grip. He fell like a dead weight to the pavement, and Jamie felt a savage surge of pleasure as his ankle broke with a loud, dry snap. The man’s face turned bright white, before he threw back his head and screamed, the sound echoing over the crowd.
“Thank you,” said Jamie. “Go and take your place inside.”
The woman fixed him with a long stare, then nodded and walked slowly towards the hospital.
“Hang on a minute,” said one of the police officers. “She just broke that bloke’s ankle. You can’t just let her go.”
Jamie turned on the man, his eyes blazing, a thick growl bursting from his throat. The policeman took a step back, his eyes wide with fear.
“Get this piece of shit inside and arrest him the very second the doctors have splinted his ankle,” said Jamie. “And if you so much as speak to that woman I will end your career. Is that absolutely clear?”
The policeman nodded vigorously.
“Good,” said Jamie. He looked around at the still, silent crowd. “Those of you who are not vampires,” he continued, raising his voice to a shout. “If you don’t want to be arrested, you have thirty seconds to get out of my sight. Vampires, stay right where you are.”
Nobody moved.
“Now!” he yelled. “Twenty-nine! Twenty-eight! Twenty-seven!”
The crowd scattered, leaving broken signs and empty bottles and pools of spilled blood behind it. Jamie waited until the running footsteps had faded from even his hearing, then turned to face the vampires that remained. There were at least sixty or seventy of them, men and women who had used the eruption of violence as a chance to either stand up for one of their own or gain some measure of release against people who openly hated them. Jamie could not condone their behaviour, but nor could he condemn it.
“We’re finished for tonight,” he said, “but we’ll be back tomorrow. We probably shouldn’t be, given what a bloody mess this turned into, but this is more important than a few broken bones and a bit of hurt pride. So I want you all to come back tomorrow evening, and queue up and wait your turn. Don’t let anyone stop you from making this choice. Don’t let them win. All right?”
There was a low murmur of agreement.
“Good,” he said. “Get out of here.”
The vampires dispersed, some through the air, some trudging across the ground. Jamie watched them go, as Jack Williams appeared beside him.
“It’s going to be like this every time,” said Jack. “Isn’t it?”
“I hope not,” he said. “But yeah. Probably.”
Jack raised his visor and smiled. “It’s a strange feeling,” he said. “Protecting vampires from humans. They never really covered it in Blacklight training.”
“I know,” said Jamie. “Everything’s changing. We just have to try and keep up.”
“Deep,” said Jack.
“Piss off,” said Jamie, and grinned at his friend.
Kate Randall frowned as she read the message on her screen, and started pulling her uniform back on.
Her console had beeped when she walked back into her quarters from the shower block, as her brain was attempting to process a long, chaotic day in the Security Division. So far, there had been no official reports from inside PROMETHEUS, but word was spreading through the Loop like wildfire. Everyone now knew that at least one Operator had been imprisoned for refusing to take part, and everyone was aware that Angela Darcy had been the first person bitten by Valentin Rusmanov. Kate had known before everyone else: the Security Officer had sent her a message telling her that she was in charge until her commanding officer was discharged from the infirmary. And, although it was exactly what Kate wanted, it had proven a bad day to have her ambitions realised.
The first dispensation of the cure had descended into violent chaos, and the process was being expanded to three more hospitals tonight, all of which needed Operators to secure them, and all of whom had watched the footage from London and voiced their concerns. On top of that, the preparations were continuing in France as the clock ticked down towards Dracula’s deadline, and Kate was trying to deal with the personal fallout of the previous day’s Zero Hour Task Force briefing. She had sent a number of messages to both Matt and Jamie, but had received no reply from either of them.
As a result, she groaned when she saw that the message was from the Director of the Department.
Come and see me immediately.
Kate tied her wet hair back and zipped up her uniform. She pulled on her boots, and a minute later she was exiting the lift on Level A and treading the well-worn path towards the Director’s quarters.
The Security Operator stepped aside and waved her past. Kate nodded, and walked down to the door. She knocked on it, and heard Paul Turner’s voice call out immediately.
“It’s open,” he called. “Come in, Kate.”
She pushed open the heavy metal door, walked into the room, and frowned. The Director was in his usual position, sitting in the chai
r behind his desk, but he looked pale, almost ill; there were bags beneath his eyes, his skin was waxy, and he was looking at her with an expression she didn’t like.
It looked like pity.
“Sir?” she said, as she stopped in front of the desk. “Is everything OK?”
Turner shook his head. “No, Kate,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s not.”
She felt her heart accelerate. “What is it, sir?” she said. “What’s going on?”
“It’s your father, Kate,” said Turner. “He’s in hospital in Lincoln. In intensive care.”
Cold spread through her; she felt it race down her spine and out to the tips of her fingers.
“What happened to him?” she heard herself ask.
The Director fixed his gaze on hers. “He was shot, Kate. Last night.”
Her frown deepened with incredulity, and she fought back the sudden urge to laugh. “Shot?” she said. “What are you talking about?”
“We don’t have any details yet. Two council workers pulled him out of the Lincoln canal and gave him CPR. They saved his life.”
“But … you’re sure he was shot?”
“Yes,” said Turner.
“Why?”
“That’s all we know, Kate. But SSL is controversial. It’s possible they have enemies.”
“I have to go to him,” she said. The words formed automatically, seemingly without input from her brain; she was staring at the Director in a state of complete shock, her body and mind frozen solid.
Turner nodded. “Of course you do,” he said. “There’s a car waiting in the hangar.”
An hour later, a black SUV pulled up outside Lincoln General Hospital.
Kate looked up at the tall concrete building, suddenly unable to move; she had spent the drive from the Loop ordering herself to stay calm, to assess the situation and put her personal feelings aside until she knew that her dad was OK, but as she stared at the hospital, all of her self-admonishments were forgotten.
“Lieutenant Randall?” asked her driver, peering round from the front seat. “This is it. We’re here.”
Kate stared helplessly back at him. Then Larissa’s voice appeared in her head, warm but firm.
Snap out of it. You can do this. You have to do this. You know you do.
“All right,” she said.
“I’ll be two minutes away,” said the driver. “Let me know when you need extraction.”
She nodded, pushed open the car’s door, and got out. For a moment, her legs trembled so violently beneath her that she was sure she was going to fall, but she steadied herself, took a deep breath, and walked towards the entrance of the hospital.
Kate stood in the doorway of a room on the third floor, staring at the occupant of its only bed.
She was not prone to unnecessary self-criticism; she knew that she was smart, and capable, and would have disagreed vehemently with anyone who suggested otherwise. But as she stared at her father, she felt, for the first time in many years, like the little girl she had been, small and weak and scared. She wished she was wearing her uniform; despite the Glock 17 tucked into her belt, her jeans and T shirt made her feel like a civilian, and added to her feeling of helplessness as she stared at the bed.
Her father looked like he was dead.
He wasn’t – the steady beeping of the machines attached to his body were testament to that – but his skin was almost translucent, and had the dull, plastic sheen of a waxwork. His arms and chest were covered with needles and sensors, multicoloured wires rose from him in a tangled web, and a thick wad of bandages covered his left shoulder. She started to cry, furious with herself but entirely unable to stop her tears; it wasn’t fair that her father was clinging to life in a hospital bed, for no other reason than trying to make the world a little bit better, to offer help to people who had seen the dark underbelly of the world. And in the back of her mind, a voice was whispering the painful, inarguable truth over and over again.
This is your fault. If you had said no to Blacklight, if you had just gone home when you had the chance, he wouldn’t be here. He would never have been dragged into Albert Harker’s crusade, and never would have founded SSL. None of this would have happened if you had just gone home.
Kate blinked her tears away and took a tentative step into the room. She had talked to the doctor in charge of her father’s case at the nurse’s station, who had confirmed that he had been shot once in the shoulder; the bullet had fractured his clavicle as it passed through, and exited just above his armpit, which was the good news. The bad news was that her dad had spent an unknown amount of time in cold, dirty water, long enough for him to have technically drowned. He had been revived by the council workers who had called the ambulance the night before, and there was no indication that he had stopped breathing for long enough to cause brain damage; there was no cranial swelling, and they had decided not to put him into an induced coma. But he was weak, and hypothermic, and an infection of the bullet wound was almost certain, given the canal water that had filled it when it was open and raw. He was on a precautionary antibiotic drip, and being monitored for any changes in his temperature or vital signs. The doctor’s final assessment had been that her father had been very, very lucky indeed, a viewpoint that was hard for Kate to accept as she looked at him.
She took another step, and another, until she was standing beside the bed. She reached out, gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and realised with sudden, blinding clarity that she would do anything in return for him being OK. If he woke up and asked her to quit Blacklight and move back to Lindisfarne, if he made her promise to turn her back on her friends and the life she had made for herself, she would agree without hesitation.
Anything, as long as he was all right.
A low groan emerged from his lips. Kate let go of her dad’s hand and stared at the monitoring screens, preparing to press the CALL button on the wall above his head if she saw even the slightest change in the readings. She watched for long, agonising seconds, until she was sure that nothing was happening, and turned back to look at him. His eyelids were fluttering, and as she leant in closer, they opened as slowly as the sliding doors of the Loop’s hangar. His eyes rolled, then locked on her face.
“Dad?” she whispered. “Can you hear me, Dad?”
“Kate …”
Tears spilled from the corners of her eyes. “Yeah, Dad. It’s me. I’m here.”
“Where …”
“You’re in hospital,” she said. “You’re fine, though, you’re going to be absolutely fine. I promise.”
He stared at her with apparent incomprehension. Then his eyes sharpened, and the ghost of a frown creased his forehead.
“Not here …” he whispered.
Kate leant in closer. “What do you mean, Dad? What’s not here?”
“Not … safe … here …”
Her heart thudded in her chest. “From who, Dad?” she asked, trying to keep her voice calm and reassuring. “Not safe from who?”
His eyes closed, and for a long second she thought he had fallen back to sleep. Then they opened again, and there was far more of the man she loved in them; they looked like the eyes of her dad.
“Night Stalkers,” he whispered. “Get me out … of here … not safe.”
“Did the Night Stalkers do this to you?” she asked.
He nodded; the movement was almost imperceptible, but she saw it.
“Who are they?” she demanded. “Tell me, Dad.”
His eyes closed again. She waited again, but after a long, silent minute, his breathing deepened, and she realised he was asleep. Kate stared at him for a long moment, then backed away from the bed, her heart racing.
She checked her Glock, and felt a rush of relief at the feel of its plastic grip; there was no way she could have lost it between the car and her father’s room, but she suddenly had to be sure. Her system was flooded with adrenaline, as though she had been dropped without warning into a Priority Level 1 situation; her Operator side had asserte
d itself completely and was surveying the small room. There was a single door, which was good for access control, but bad for extraction if that became necessary; she had no idea why her dad was saying he wasn’t safe, but she had to trust him and assume the worst. She had to assume the Night Stalkers were on their way to the hospital right now to finish him off.
Kate pulled her radio from her belt and keyed in the Blacklight emergency frequency. She pressed SEND and held the handset to the side of her head.
“Security,” said a voice. “Code in.”
“Randall, Lieutenant Kate, NS303, 78-J.”
“Hold for authorisation.”
There was a moment of agonising silence as her voiceprint was checked against the Department’s database.
Come on! she shouted, silently. Come on, for God’s sake!
“Authorised,” said the voice. “What’s your emergency, Lieutenant Randall?”
“I need an immediate civilian extraction,” she said. “From Lincoln General Hospital to the Loop. Civilian’s name is Pete Randall.”
“Reason for transfer?”
“His life’s in danger,” said Kate. “He has information on the Night Stalkers that will be valuable to the Department.”
“I’ll take it to the Security Officer for approval.”
“Do it quickly, please.”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” said the voice. “I’ll call you right back.”
“Good,” said Kate, and pressed END. She backed into the corner of the room, her gaze alternating between her father and the door. The entire hospital suddenly felt threatening; every person that passed the window in the door seemed like a potential threat, every distant voice sounded dangerous.
The door opened and Kate jumped. Her hand flew to the Glock at the back of her jeans, her heart racing, as a nurse in a white uniform appeared.
