Darkest Night

by Will Hill

  “Everything all right in here?” she asked.

  “Fine,” said Kate. “Leave us alone, please.”

  The nurse rolled her eyes. “Sorry I spoke,” she said, and backed out of the room.

  Kate glanced at her sleeping dad, then darted to the door and checked the corridor in both directions. She saw nothing suspicious: doctors, nurses, men and women in civilian clothes, who were presumably visiting patients, as she was.

  The radio buzzed into life.

  “Randall,” she said, holding it to her ear.

  “The Security Officer has approved your transfer request, Lieutenant.”

  Kate closed her eyes.

  Thank you, Angela, she thought. Thank you.

  “Good,” she said. “Do you have an ETA for the extraction team?”

  “The current ETA is forty-eight minutes,” said the Operator.

  Jesus.

  “That’s the best they can do?” she asked.

  “That’s what I was told, Lieutenant.”

  “OK,” she said. “That’s fine.”

  “Are you with the civilian?” asked the Operator.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you stay with him until extraction?”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said Kate.

  Kate checked her watch for the thousandth time. She had never known time to pass so slowly; it was as though some kind of cruel temporal anomaly was occurring inside Lincoln General Hospital.

  The nurse walked past the door again, peering through the window as she passed, her eyes narrow. It was the fourth time since Kate had ended her radio call with the Loop; it was clear that her continued presence on the intensive-care floor was beginning to attract attention.

  She checked her watch again. Eleven minutes to go, providing the ETA hadn’t changed. She checked the Glock. Still there.

  What was worrying her most was not the potential arrival of the Night Stalkers; she did not really believe that vigilantes would attempt to kill a patient in a hospital in broad daylight and even if they did, she was confident she would be able to handle them. What was worrying her was her inability to be proactive until the extraction team arrived to help her. She was in plain clothes, and could not, under any circumstances, identify herself as a Blacklight Operator; to do so would break one of the most fundamental rules the Department had. And even if she did, if she decided to ignore the rule, she could not prove it; her ID card was in the pocket of her uniform. All she could do was wait.

  Her radio buzzed and she raised it to her ear.

  “Randall,” she said.

  “Extraction team ETA seven minutes,” said the Security Operator. “Four minutes ahead of schedule. Hospital staff have been briefed to expect a patient transfer.”

  “What’s the cover story?” asked Kate.

  “Pete Randall is an undercover policeman working for the Lincolnshire narcotics unit,” said the Security Operator. “He was shot by members of a drug gang, and needs to be moved to a secure location immediately.”

  “OK,” said Kate. “That’s good.”

  “Extraction will be via Lincoln General’s rooftop helipad. Staff and security have been advised not to interfere.”

  “Understood,” said Kate, and ended the call. She checked her father, saw his chest gently rising and falling, then opened the door a fraction, and peered out.

  She froze.

  Standing at the nurse’s station were two uniformed police officers.

  Kate stared at them, her eyes widening, then ducked back as the nurse pointed down the corridor, seemingly directly at her.

  Shit, she thought. Six minutes. Shit.

  Kate backed along the wall away from the door, drew her Glock, and waited. She fought to control her breathing, taking slow breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth, and counted in her head.

  Ten.

  Eleven.

  Twelve.

  The handle turned. She fought back a surge of adrenaline as the door opened slowly towards her, shielding the policemen from view. One stepped into the room, his attention on the bed and its occupant. If he looked to his left, he would see her, but he didn’t. The second appeared next to his colleague, and Kate moved. She stepped to her right, kicked the door shut, and raised the Glock as the two policemen spun round, surprise on their faces that quickly turned to shock as their eyes found the pistol.

  “Not a sound,” she said. “Back up, both of you. Do it now.”

  The policemen raised their hands and retreated towards the corner of the room, their faces pale. When their shoulders touched the wall, she took a step forward.

  “Pull those over,” she said, nodding at a pair of plastic chairs beside her father’s bed. “Only one of you move.”

  One of the men nodded, and slid slowly along the wall. He picked up the chairs, and carried them back to the corner.

  “Put them against the wall and sit down,” said Kate. “Hands beneath your legs.”

  The two men did as they were told, and stared at her as she stepped forward, and read the name badges on their uniforms. “Officers Sudbury and Woodford,” she said. “Tell me why you’re here. More importantly, tell me who sent you.”

  “What do you mean, who sent us?” asked Sudbury. “This man is the victim of a serious crime.”

  “What crime?” asked Kate.

  “Attempted murder,” said Woodford. “He was shot by suspected Night Stalkers, and we’re the investigating officers. Who the hell are you?”

  Kate felt a chill run through her. “How do you know it was the Night Stalkers?” she asked, ignoring his question. “This man was pulled out of the canal with a gunshot wound. He’s the only one who knows who shot him.”

  The men glanced at each other, then Sudbury smiled at her. “Ever heard of CCTV?” he said. “We recorded a black van leaving the area within the likely timeframe, similar to one used in previous Night Stalker attacks. Our sergeant sent us to take a statement from the victim.”

  “What’s your sergeant’s name?” asked Kate.

  A brief hesitation. “Parker.”

  “And your station?”

  “Lincoln.”

  “Lincoln what? There must be more than one police station in—”

  There was a click as the door opened behind Kate. She turned to see the nurse standing in the doorway, her eyes wide as she stared at the Glock.

  “Get in here and shut the door,” said Kate. She turned back to the men, suddenly aware that she had taken her eyes off them, but Sudbury was already halfway across the room, his face twisted into a smile, his fist hurtling towards her. She raised her arm to protect herself, but was far too slow; Sudbury’s punch knocked it aside and slammed into her mouth, driving her back across the room as stars exploded across her vision and a single thought filled her mind.

  Failed.

  Kate was sitting on the floor when she came, to her back against the wall.

  Her head was pounding, her mouth felt like someone had filled it with razor wire, and her throat was thick with liquid. She raised the back of her hand to her face, fought back a scream of pain, and felt her head swim as it came away soaked with red.

  Bleeding, she thought, her mind thick and slow. Why am I bleeding?

  Then she looked up, and adrenaline roared through her as she remembered where she was.

  Woodford was standing beside her dad’s bed. Sudbury – if that’s even his name, she wondered – was standing over her, pointing her own gun at her chest. Behind him, in the corner, the nurse sat trembling on a chair.

  “What’s the plan?” asked Woodford.

  “No witnesses,” said Sudbury.

  “All three of them? Randall was the order. These other two don’t have anything to do with it.”

  Sudbury shrugged. “You know what an evolving situation is,” he said. “Remember Helmand?”

  “This isn’t Afghan,” said Woodford.

  “It’s a war,” said Sudbury. “Different enemy, that’s all.”

/>   “I don’t like it,” said Woodford. “This one’s a nurse and we have no idea who the other one is. Why attract more heat by killing civilians?”

  Sudbury sighed. “How many civilians have you met that pointed a Glock 17 at you?” he asked. “Anyway, don’t you read the papers? Pete Randall’s daughter is Blacklight. That’s why he founded SSL in the first place. This must be her.”

  Woodford looked at her. “That right?” he asked. “You’re Blacklight?”

  Kate stared up at him, her mind blank.

  “She’s a soldier,” said Sudbury. “I know one when I see one. So I’ll make it quick. I’ll do that much for her.”

  He raised the Glock until its barrel was pointing between her eyes. Kate saw not a flicker of doubt in the man’s eyes; he had killed before, and she knew he wasn’t afraid to do it again.

  I’m going to die, she thought, her heart freezing in her chest. I’m going to die, and that nurse is going to die, and then my dad is going to die.

  Sudbury’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Say goodbye, Miss Randall,” he said. “It’s time to—”

  The door crashed open, and Kate’s heart thundered back to life as she spun round.

  Two Operators in full uniform, purple visors over their faces, silenced MP7s at their shoulders, burst into the room. The Night Stalkers were fast – Sudbury’s Glock rose in a blur as Woodford drew a Beretta from his belt with well-practised speed – but the Operators were used to facing vampires. The MP7s fired, the suppressors reducing the shots to low thuds, and the two men hit the ground, expressions of surprise on their faces and neat holes in their foreheads.

  Kate got unsteadily to her feet and looked at the nurse. The woman was staring at the two bodies, her eyes and mouth comically wide, but she wasn’t screaming, and Kate was grateful for that; screams would have attracted more attention, which this situation absolutely did not need.

  “Are you all right?” asked one of the Operators, their voice cold and metallic through their helmet filters, and all of a sudden she understood how terrifying an encounter with Blacklight must be to a member of the public: the calm precision of the violence, the voices and faces hidden by technology.

  “I’m OK,” she said. “Did you have to kill them?”

  “Better them than you,” said the Operator.

  Kate stared at the impenetrable purple visor; she could think of no response to such a blunt assessment.

  The Operator took a step towards her. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I think so,” she said. “Yeah. I’m all right.”

  The Operator nodded. “OK. Medical team, the room is clear. Extraction is a go.”

  Two Blacklight medical staff, wearing full NBC suits and hoods, strode into the room, followed by two more Operators. Kate stepped aside as the doctors went to her father’s bed and the Operators led the nurse towards the door. She went without protest, her face a mask of shock: Kate knew she would be given a copy of the Official Secrets Act to sign, then left with nothing but a memory that would give her nightmares for years to come.

  Kate shut the door as the medical staff leant over her father and began removing the needles and monitoring patches from his body. When he was fully unhooked from the machines, which let out a horrible droning beep as his vital signs disappeared, they unfolded a plastic isolation tent and threw it over his bed, clipping it tightly to the frame.

  “Ready,” said one of the doctors.

  The Operator nearest the door nodded, pulled it open, and followed the medical staff as they wheeled her father’s bed through it. The other looked over at her.

  “Coming?”

  Kate stared. “Thank you,” she said, her voice trembling with relief. “Thank you so much.”

  The Operator flipped up their visor and Dominique Saint-Jacques smiled at her.

  “You’re very welcome, Kate,” he said. “Tell me one more time that you’re OK.”

  “I’m OK,” she said, a tiny smile rising on to her face.

  “I believe you,” said Dominique. “Now come on. I want your dad safely at the Loop before Dracula’s deadline.”

  Kate frowned; she had thought about nothing else since Paul Turner had given her the news about her dad, and had completely lost track of time.

  “How long have we got?”

  “Just over an hour,” said Dominique. “Then we’ll see what we’re dealing with.”

  “Yeah,” said Kate. “I suppose we will.”

  Every clock in Carcassonne ticked over to 10.06pm as every resident of the city held their breath.

  Silence.

  In the displaced persons camp, at the Loop and Dreamland, in Washington and London, and in homes around the world, people waited, hearts in their mouths, for Dracula to make good on his promise.

  Silence.

  Watching through a pair of binoculars from his command centre, General Allen momentarily allowed himself to consider the prospect that the ancient vampire had been bluffing.

  Perhaps he already has what he wanted. Perhaps he just wanted the city cleared. Perhaps—

  The night sky burst a bright, blinding orange, illuminating the city with a vast, silent flash. A millisecond later the sound hit; a roaring explosion that rumbled the ground beneath Allen’s feet and hammered into his skull. He staggered backwards, bellowing in pain, and turned to the monitor tuned permanently to a French news channel. It was showing helicopter footage of Carcassonne on a five-second delay; as he watched, enormous fireballs erupted into the sky as every petrol station within a five-mile radius of the medieval city exploded at the same moment.

  Dracula smiled as shock waves thundered across the empty city, blowing his long hair back from his face. The sound that followed them was agony to his supernatural ears, but his smile didn’t waver.

  The first vampire was floating above the highest section of the ancient walls, as his army flooded down the hill below him to carry out the task they had been given. Blowing up the petrol stations had not been strictly necessary, but Dracula had always instinctively understood the need for theatre when it came to warfare, to consider not only the damage you could do to your enemies’ body but also the effect you could have on their minds. Fear, as he had told the Rusmanov brothers on a great many occasions, was the greatest weapon any commander wielded; it was the one thing that could defeat an enemy before the fighting even began.

  The fireballs had illuminated the countryside for miles around; what they left in their wake were more than a hundred burning buildings, flames roaring up from their roofs and walls. They were scattered around the city sprawl, blocks – even miles – apart, but, as he watched his vampire army fan out through the dark streets, Dracula knew they were about to spread.

  Osvaldo led his master’s followers along Carcassonne’s main street, a snarling mass of glowing eyes and growls and wide smiles of excitement. Their orders were clear and unambiguous, and the Spanish vampire was determined to see them carried out as quickly and efficiently as possible.

  Burn it down. Burn it all down.

  He spun in the air and flew backwards, facing the army of vampires.

  “Teams of three,” he shouted. “Spread out and do as our lord has ordered.”

  A roar rose from the crowd, a huge noise that was somewhere between a cheer and a growl, before it scattered in every direction, a dark shadow rippling out across the city. The two vampires Osvaldo had selected – Carina, the young Italian girl who had turned up at the farmhouse when Dracula was still in seclusion, and Richie, the quiet, solid American who had arrived in Carcassonne barely two hours after they had sacked the old city – flew to his side, and followed him along the suddenly empty street. He dropped to the ground outside a mini-supermarket nestled between a clothes shop and a cinema and pointed towards the former. Carina and Richie flew across to it, ripped its metal security shutter up, and smashed their way inside.

  A deafening alarm rang out, but Osvaldo paid it no attention; he knew there was nobody com
ing. Instead, he floated towards the supermarket, and kicked its shuttered door off its hinges. A second alarm blared as he flew through the broken doorway and towards the shelves of alcohol at the back of the store, carrying a shopping trolley easily in one hand.

  Moving quickly, he filled the trolley with bottles of vodka and carried it back out to the street. Carina and Richie were already there, and had torn a pile of T-shirts into long strips. The three vampires got to work, twisting off the caps of the bottles, shoving rags into their necks, and soaking the trailing wicks with alcohol.

  “First pitch is yours,” said Richie.

  Osvaldo nodded, a smile on his face. He lifted one of the bottles, took a cigarette lighter from his pocket, and applied its flame to the soaked strip of cloth. It flared blue and he hurled the bottle into the supermarket. It hit a shelf full of paperback books and exploded, spraying burning liquid in every direction. The books and shelves of produce caught immediately, and as the vampires moved away, the supermarket roared into an inferno.

  Osvaldo threw another flaming bottle through the upstairs window of a tourist shop; its inventory of cheap T-shirts and flags and plastic souvenirs burst into flame like it had been soaked with petrol in advance. He led Carina and Richie down the street, setting fire to every second or third building, then ordered them away in opposite directions as they reached a wide junction; Carina flew in the direction of the train station as Richie carried an armful of bottles towards a tall office building, both vampires smiling savagely. Osvaldo carried on towards the edge of the commercial centre, then looked back, and felt a rush of pleasure at what he saw.

  Carcassonne’s main street was already burning wildly out of control, fire billowing from the shops and offices and sending great clouds of sparks up into the dark night sky.

  Bob Allen stared incredulously at the monitor.

  The fires were spreading quickly, and from the news helicopter’s high vantage point it was clear that new ones were constantly bursting into life, so rapidly and across such a wide area that there was no doubt they were being started intentionally. A thick pall was spreading over Carcassonne, choking the air with acrid smoke that he could smell inside the command centre, more than ten miles away.