by Will Hill
Julian Carpenter waded through ankle-deep blood, his eyes locked on the drawbridge above him, his stomach churning.
He was a veteran of a great many conflicts, and he knew better than most that the battle would not be won – if it was won – on the ground, in the thick of the killing; it would be won by cutting off the enemy’s head, not by hacking at its body. He could do nothing about Dracula himself – he had gathered from overheard discussion in the displaced persons camp mess that a team had been sent into the city with the sole aim of destroying the first vampire – but as he looked up at the entrance to the old city, he realised he might be able to do the next best thing.
A vampire holding a radio was floating above the drawbridge, his eyes locked on the battle raging below. Julian had watched him as he fought his way across the blasted landscape, trying not to lose sight of him as he staked vampire after vampire. He was now far from a hundred per cent – he had taken a crunching blow that had broken at least three of his ribs, and he had a deep gouge across his neck where a vampire had come within millimetres of tearing out his throat – and he was exhausted, running almost entirely on adrenaline, but he was far from done; his heart was still beating, and his eyes were shining with determination.
There had been a dozen vampires surrounding his target when the battle began. Julian had seen several of them fly into the walled city, and at least two had been taken out by long-range gunfire; now, after God only knew how much time had passed, there were only four left. They surrounded his target, their glowing eyes scanning the landscape on all sides, but a plan had formulated in Julian’s mind as he battled his way towards them; a plan he was now ready to put into action.
A vampire crawled across the blood-soaked ground in front of him, its arms and upper chest riddled with bullet holes. He strode forward, grabbed the man by his bleeding shoulder, and pulled him to his feet; the vampire hissed in protest, then grunted with shock as Julian jammed his stake into its back. The vampire went limp, the fire in its eyes fading to a low glow as he leant it back against him. Then he dipped his head and pushed the stricken vampire up the hill, hiding himself behind it as its blood soaked into his uniform.
He was within ten metres of the drawbridge when the vampires surrounding his target noticed the shambling approach of the vampire he was holding before him like a shield, and bellowed for him to stop. Julian did as he was told, then ripped the stake up through the vampire’s body and pierced its heart.
The man burst in a huge spray of blood, as Julian drew his MP5 and fired through the gore. The vampires – guards, that’s what they are, they’re guards – went down, blood pumping out from dozens of wounds, but the man holding the radio shot up into the air like a launching missile, twisting away from the gunfire. Julian raised his gun, trying to sight him as he sped through the air, but was nowhere near fast enough; the vampire rocketed down out of the sky and threw a punch like a piledriver into the side of his helmet. A bolt of pain sliced through Julian’s head as he was sent sprawling back down the hill, his vision greying at the edges. He hit the ground on his shoulders, hard, and for an awful second he thought the MP5 was going to spill from his hands; he held on to it tightly as he skidded to a halt, and looked up, searching the sky for his attacker.
The vampire was charging down the hill, a look of incredulous anger on his face as Julian raised the MP5 and pulled the trigger again. The man darted to his left, but one of the bullets found its target, punching a hole in his arm and spinning him to the ground. He got up, screamed with primal fury, and advanced towards Julian again, his eyes full of homicidal fire.
Bob Allen raced across the battlefield, leaving Ovechkin and Tán behind as he chased a vampire towards the remnants of a hotel at the bottom of the steep hill. He found solid footing, brought his T-Bone up, and was about to pull the trigger when Guérin’s voice sounded in his ear.
“General Allen?”
“Damn it!” he shouted, lowering his weapon. “What is it, Guérin?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the French Captain, and something in his voice made Allen pay attention; it sounded like the man was on the verge of tears. “I really am. There was nothing I could do.”
“About what, Guérin?” asked Allen. “What’s going on?”
“The President gave the order, sir. The missile is in the air.”
For several seconds, Allen couldn’t speak; shock had momentarily paralysed him. “When?” he managed. “How long have we got?”
“Five minutes,” said Guérin. “The safe distance is eight miles. I am so sorry.”
Allen stared out across the battlefield. Thousands of men and women were surging back and forth across the wide space, running and thrashing and fighting and dying.
There’s not a chance, he thought. No way we can disengage and get to the safe distance in five minutes. Not a chance in hell.
“It’s not your fault,” he heard himself say, as if someone else was using his vocal cords; his mind was reeling from the enormity of what was on its way towards his army. “I’m sure you did everything you could, so don’t do anything stupid, OK? Do you hear me? Stay where you are. Stay safe.”
“I do not think that is an option, sir,” said Guérin. “But thank you.”
The connection was cut, but for a long moment Allen didn’t move. He was still staring at the battlefield, his mind trying to process the reality he had been presented with.
Everyone I can see, vampires and Operators alike, is going to die. Every single one of them. There won’t be anything left but radioactive ash.
He twisted the comms dial on his belt and opened a line to the strike team.
“Listen to me very carefully,” he said. “There isn’t much time.”
Jamie slammed his stake into a vampire’s chest and leapt back, a deep frown on his face.
“Say again, sir?” he shouted, trying to make himself heard over the chaos. “The French have done what?”
“They’ve given the order,” shouted General Allen, directly into his ear. Jamie’s helmet was gone, lost somewhere in the frenzy of battle, but his earpiece was still in place, and the backup microphone on his collar was doing its job.
“What order, sir?”
“The nuclear order!”
Cold spilled down Jamie’s spine. “They can’t do that.”
“It’s done!” shouted Allen. “The missile is in the air. It’ll be here in five minutes.”
“What do we do, sir?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Allen, his voice full of what sounded dangerously close to resignation. “I honestly don’t. Whatever you can. I’m sorry.”
The line went dead.
Jamie looked around the square, panic rising through him in a steady wave; vampires still flew back and forth, but most were now on the ground, broken and bleeding. In the hotel entrance, Frankenstein and the man with silver hair had been sniping them out of the air like two friends on a Sunday morning duck hunt, but the monster was now staring straight at him, his M4 lowered, his eyes wide with shock.
“Sub launch,” said Valentin, appearing at Jamie’s side as suddenly as if he had teleported. “It has to be.”
“Where’s the nearest coastline?” asked Larissa, joining them in a blur of black and glowing red.
“To the south-east,” said Valentin. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Take care of it?” repeated Jamie, incredulously. “What are you talking about? What are you going to do?”
Valentin smiled. “I have absolutely no idea,” he said. “But don’t worry. I’ve always been very resourceful.”
The ancient vampire leapt into the air, and disappeared over the rooftops.
“What do we do, Jamie?” asked Larissa, her voice low.
He shook his head. “We carry on,” he said. “If Valentin manages to do something, then brilliant. If he doesn’t, I don’t think being at ground zero of a nuclear explosion will hurt very much.”
Larissa smiled at him. “Probably n
ot,” she said. “Let’s finish this.”
Valentin accelerated almost vertically, searching the expanding horizon for the missile.
The absurdity of the situation struck the ancient vampire as he climbed, and he fought back the sudden urge to laugh. The fate of thousands of men and women now rested solely in his hands; unless he was able to do something, they – along with several square miles of the French countryside – would be vaporised by nuclear fire. But if he was able to stop the missile, to somehow divert or defuse it, and they then failed to kill Dracula, he was going to be essentially responsible for the end of the world.
A voice in his head was screaming for him to just get to a safe distance, hover in the warm air, and watch the blast obliterate Carcassonne; it was the sensible thing to do, and inarguably in his own best interests. But as he soared upwards, he found himself unable to do so. He had happily broken his word on many occasions when it suited him, but he had made a promise to Paul Turner, and told Jamie and the rest of the strike team that they could trust him; for reasons he didn’t fully understand, he was unwilling to let them down.
Besides, a nuclear blast would make it impossible to know for absolutely certain that Dracula was dead. And that could not be tolerated.
In the distance, streaking across the darkening sky, he saw the missile’s vapour trail, and growled with anger. It was far higher than he had expected; as he tracked the trail across the sky, he saw that it was already past him. He swore, and hurtled after it, pushing his body as fast as he could through air that was increasingly cold and thin.
Less than thirty seconds later, Valentin pulled alongside the missile and marvelled at the sheer size of it.
The cylinder of grey metal was more than twelve metres long, with a long trail of fire and heat blasting out from its rear. He looped round it, trying to concentrate through the deafening roar of the rocket, momentarily transfixed by the astonishing destructive power hidden beneath the innocuous-looking panels of grey metal.
Do something, he told himself. Anything. It’s not like you can make it worse.
Valentin matched the missile’s speed and floated beside it. He ran his gloved hands along its smooth surface, feeling the slight depressions at the edge of the metal panels; in his mind, he was picturing a cross-section of a missile that he knew was almost certainly inaccurate, but was all he had to go on. In his mental image, the rear of the cylinder contained the engine, the middle contained the fuel, and the front section and nose contained what he was interested in: the nuclear warhead itself, and the computers that controlled the guidance and firing systems. The missile was cold beneath his hands as he slid towards the front, and stopped. He dug his fingers into the ridges at the sides of a wide panel, took a deep breath, and ripped it out.
Nothing happened.
Valentin breathed out with relief, and tore at the second layer of metal, dragging out panel after panel, exposing the interior of the missile. The noise of the rocket was so loud that he could barely think straight, but he risked a glance to the west, and forced himself to concentrate.
On the distant horizon, probably no more than thirty miles away, his supernaturally sharp eyes could see the medieval city of Carcassonne.
The target.
Larissa raced across the cobbled square, staking stricken vampire after stricken vampire without slowing.
Jamie and Frankenstein were doing the same, finishing off the dozens of men and women who had fallen under their guns and swinging fists. The surviving vampires, no more than ten of them in total, had fled up the hill towards the Basilica, but the strike team had not given chase; it would only take a few litres of blood to revive the vampires lying on the cobblestones and turn them back into threats.
Larissa’s heart was pounding; she had no idea whether there was still any point to what they were doing, whether they and the hostages standing in front of the hotel were all about to be vaporised, but all she could do was carry on. There were only three of them left now, probably not enough to stop Dracula if they even got close enough to try, but turning back, when they were so close, was not an option.
“Clear,” shouted Jamie. “Let’s move.”
He was standing in front of the hotel with Frankenstein and the hostages, who were staring at the blood-drenched square with obvious disgust. She flew across to join them.
“Where to?” asked the monster.
“Up,” said Jamie. “Until there’s nowhere left to go.”
“What about them?” Larissa asked, nodding at the hostages.
Jamie turned to face them. “Get as far away from the city as you can, as fast as you can,” he said. “Don’t go through the main exits if you can help it. Is that clear?”
Most of the men and women nodded, their eyes bright with fear. The silver-haired man, whom Frankenstein had been beside as the fighting raged, narrowed his eyes.
“Are you going after Dracula?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Jamie.
“Good,” said the man. “I’m Colonel Alan Foster. I’m coming with you.”
“I’m not going to stop you,” said Jamie. “And I don’t have time to argue. But we won’t be able to look after you.”
“That’s fine,” said Foster, and smiled. “I can take care of myself.”
I bet you can, thought Larissa.
A woman stepped forward and took hold of Foster’s arm.
“Alan?” she said. “Do you have to?”
“You know I do,” said Foster, and gave her cheek a gentle kiss. “I’ll be all right. Help the others, OK?”
The woman nodded, her face pale but tight with determination.
“All right,” said Jamie. “Follow me.”
He turned towards the narrow road that led up to the summit of Carcassonne, where death or victory awaited them.
The wind howled around Valentin as he wrenched out a plastic screen, exposing a mass of wires. As he stared at them, the missile shifted as its nose began to tilt towards the distant ground.
All right, he told himself. It’s all right. There’s still time.
He drew in a deep breath, and took hold of two handfuls of the wires. He was suddenly aware that what he was about to do might be the last thing he ever did; no amount of blood was going to help if a nuclear missile went off in his hands, because he was pretty sure there would be no remains to revive. He glanced down and saw that the ground was already closer.
Much closer.
Valentin shut his eyes, and permitted himself an indulgent moment to consider the life he had lived, a life almost unparalleled in human history, full of light and dark and every shade of grey between.
Then he breathed out, and tore the bundle of wires in half.
Osvaldo strode across the blood-soaked ground with the hunting knife that had been his father’s in his hand, his body physically vibrating with anger.
He knew he should just return to his post on the drawbridge, revive his guards, and send one of them down the hill to finish the man off, but his mind was coursing with a simple, unstoppable desire: he wanted to kill the soldier so very badly.
The destruction of the helicopter fleet and the reveal of their second front meant that the battle was now indisputably going their way, but it was still far too early for complacency. Until each and every one of their enemies lay dead on the ground and his master descended from the Basilica to begin his reign, he would assume nothing.
The soldier got to his feet at the same moment Osvaldo reached him and plunged the hunting knife into his gut. The man’s eyes widened; he let out a thick grunt and slumped forward as Osvaldo hauled the knife upwards, slicing flesh and muscle until a thick ridge of bone stopped the blade. He yanked out the knife, and shoved the soldier backwards; the man spun limply through the air, his insides trailing, and slid across the blackened ground. For a long moment, Osvaldo considered going after him and finishing him off, but the bloodlust that had gripped him so urgently was already fading, and he could see there was no need.
The man was done.
I’m hurt, thought Julian, as shock flooded through him. Oh God, that hurts so much.
The vampire was staring down at him with a cold expression on his face. Julian tried to move, but couldn’t; his mind was horribly clear, but his body would simply not obey its commands. His insides felt like they were on fire, like someone had scooped his organs out and replaced them with burning coals, and his hands were cold beneath his gloves, so cold that he could suddenly no longer feel his fingers. He tried to raise his head, and felt liquid gush up his throat and into his mouth; he gagged and spat, blood running down his face and neck in warm rivers.
The vampire was still staring at him, its eyes smouldering red in the darkness.
Come on then! he wanted to shout. Come on and finish me!
But he couldn’t form the words. All he could do was stare back, and hope the fear pulsing through him was not visible in his eyes.
The vampire frowned.
His eyes flared crimson and he looked up at the sky, a millisecond before fifty-two tonnes of intercontinental ballistic missile obliterated him completely. It hammered into the ground and exploded with a belch of fire, a noise that struck Julian momentarily deaf, and a storm of flying shrapnel.
Julian stared at the fireball billowing up into the air, dimly aware that the missile had not detonated, that only its fuel tank had blown; the heat was overpowering, and he could smell cordite and blood and burning metal, but he wanted to throw back his head and scream with joyous laughter. If the frown on the vampire’s face before the sky quite literally fell on him was the last thing he ever saw, he could think of a great many worse sights.
Despite the protective material of his uniform, the heat on his skin began to rise to an unbearable level. He couldn’t move himself away from the burning wreckage of the missile, but he knew it didn’t matter. The pain the vampire’s knife had caused was gone, replaced by shivering cold and a sensation of profound exhaustion; the ground beneath him was soaked, and he was starting to feel light-headed.
