by Hill, Will
She led them back along the deserted platforms and out of the empty station. The car park rose tall against the night sky, an ugly lump of concrete, lit weakly from within by flickering yellow light.
“Do you think he’s still in there?” asked Jacobs.
“I don’t know,” she replied, her gaze fixed on the towering building. “Let’s find out.”
Angela’s boots thudded on the concrete as she ran up on to the car park’s uppermost level. They had chased the vampire up through the structure, getting little more than a glimpse of him on each floor, and she felt a surge of relief as she crested the ramp and surveyed the wide-open area.
No more levels, she thought. Nowhere for you to go.
Carlisle and Jacobs arrived beside her, weapons drawn, visors down. There were only a handful of cars parked on this level, spread out between the thick concrete pillars that supported the dilapidated structure. Water dripped steadily from numerous cracks in the ceiling, and the smell of petrol and grease was thick in the air.
“Where is he?” asked Jacobs.
“On this level somewhere,” said Angela. “Spread out and find him.”
The three black-clad figures moved slowly towards the centre of the car park, spacing out as they walked. Angela was on the left, her T-Bone resting against her shoulder, her breathing shallow and steady. Through the thermographic filter on her visor the car park was a landscape of grey and blue, cold and uninviting.
“Stay alert,” she said, via the comms system that linked them together. “Let’s take him down clean and easy.”
Three pairs of boots clicked quietly across the concrete. In the distance, Angela could hear cars making their way along the bypass, but the car park itself was silent. She felt a chill run up her spine as she remembered the speed the vampire had shown in the train yard, but tried to ignore it.
Nothing to worry about. Just a routine kill.
She looked across the wide concrete space and checked her squad mates. Jacobs was five metres to her right, moving steadily, with Carlisle the same distance again beyond him. A grim smile rose on her face as she watched them, an expression that froze in place as a voice suddenly echoed around them.
“Leave me alone,” it growled. “I just want to be left alone.”
Angela stopped dead. “Hold,” she said, then flicked her visor up as her squad mates did as they were ordered. She surveyed the empty space, looking for the source of the voice, suddenly acutely aware that the structural pillars were more than wide enough for someone to hide behind.
She reached down and twisted the control dial on her belt. “Why don’t you come out?” she asked, her amplified voice booming through the car park. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid!” screamed the vampire. His voice was shrill, reverberating against the flat concrete walls. “I’m not I’m not I’m not! Leave me alone!”
“We can’t do that,” she replied, her voice steady. “Just come out.”
There was no reply.
Angela scanned the area slowly, looking for any sign of their target. There was nothing: no shadow, no movement, nothing to give away his position. She looked at Jacobs, his T-Bone resting in his hands, then at Carlisle, standing easily between two pillars with his MP5 at his shoulder.
Then something white moved. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to speak, but it was already too late.
The vampire emerged from behind one of the concrete pillars, so suddenly it was as though he materialised from thin air. Carlisle began to turn, bringing his gun around, but was far too slow; one of the vampire’s fists crashed into his visor with a noise like a clap of thunder. The purple plastic shattered beneath the force of the blow, sending jagged shards into the Operator’s face and neck, drawing pulsing blood from innumerable cuts. Carlisle crashed unconscious to the concrete floor, his body spasming, his legs drumming involuntarily on the ground.
The vampire howled, an ear-splitting bellow of triumph, and turned its crimson gaze on Jacobs as the veteran Operator raised his T-Bone.
Alex Jacobs pushed down the fear that was pressing on his heart and slid his finger inside the trigger guard, his attention focused completely on the monster before him. The vampire was almost naked, his modesty spared by the fluttering scraps of what had once been his hospital gown. The man was skinny, almost malnourished, and his shaven head was covered in whirls and loops of pink scar tissue. His eyes blazed red and his mouth hung open, revealing gleaming white fangs.
The T-Bone settled against Jacobs’s shoulder; he aimed down the barrel, sighting the centre of the vampire’s chest. He began to tighten his finger on the trigger, but before he could exert enough pressure to fire the weapon, he found himself aiming at nothing as the vampire crouched low and came for him.
It surged across the concrete floor and seized his left hand, pushing it up and back. His finger convulsed against the T-Bone’s trigger, sending the metal stake slamming into the ceiling before it bounced back down and skittered away. The vampire’s grip was impossibly strong, and Jacobs screamed as he felt the bones in his wrist grind together; he beat at the monster with his free hand, but nothing happened. The vampire’s face rose up before his own, glowing red and twisted with madness, and Jacobs felt terror explode through him as his hands were gathered together in the crushing, vice-like grip and pulled forward, his body bending involuntarily at the waist as his feet scrabbled against the ground.
Angela Darcy fought back a momentary wave of panic and forced herself to stay calm, to do her job. Her squad had been decimated in what seemed like the blink of an eye; John Carlisle was twitching on the ground, blood pouring from his ruined face, while Alex Jacobs was being manhandled by the vampire like a squirming, protesting puppet.
This isn’t right, she had time to think. Not right at all.
Too strong.
Too fast.
She raised her T-Bone and saw immediately that she had no clear shot; there was no way to fire the metal stake into the vampire’s body without hitting Jacobs. She slammed the T-Bone back into its holster, drew her UV beam gun, aimed it at the vampire and thumbed the button in one fluid motion. A beam of bright purple light burst across the car park and engulfed him; he had no time to react before his body erupted into flames.
Purple fire licked across the vampire’s skin, scouring it black, and blood began to spill from a spider’s web of cracks. He howled in agony, but did not release his grip on Jacobs’s hands; the Operator was protected from the flames by his uniform, but they billowed over and around him, and his screams matched the monster’s. Angela watched, her eyes wide with horror beneath her visor, as the burning, howling vampire dragged Jacobs forward until his body was at a right angle, then brought his burning arm down across both of the Operator’s. Jacobs’s arms broke with a terrible crunch; his screams reached an inhuman pitch as the vampire threw him aside and turned to face her.
Angela risked a glance at her fallen squad mate; his arms were both snapped mid-forearm, his hands pointing uselessly upwards at a grotesque angle. Then she returned her attention to the flaming monstrosity that was shambling towards her. Burning lumps of the vampire’s body were falling to the concrete floor as he moved, hissing and steaming, on the cold ground. Angela backed slowly away, keeping a wide distance between them; she had seen the vampire’s speed twice now, and would not take any chances. Without taking her eyes from the disintegrating face, she drew her MP5 and emptied it into the vampire’s legs, blowing out his knees and shattering the long, thick bones. He slumped to the ground, no longer making any sound, and swayed on his ravaged knees, his arms wide, his mouth open and full of fire.
Jesus Christ, she thought. Oh Jesus Christ.
Angela Darcy had seen a great many terrible things in the course of her highly classified career, but this was one of the very worst. She took a deep breath, dropped the MP5, and drew her T-Bone again. The vampire appeared to look at her, but there were purple flames where his eyes had been, so she couldn’t be
sure. Her T-Bone felt heavy as she aimed it at the heart of the twitching, burning thing and pulled the trigger.
What was left of the vampire exploded in a thud of boiling blood, splattering across the dirty concrete floor. Angela was already moving, sprinting across the car park and yelling into her helmet microphone, demanding emergency medical evacuation for her fallen squad mates.
10
IN CONVERSATION
Jamie Carpenter stood outside a door on Level C and took a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heart.
He had left Ellison and Morton absorbing the detail of their briefing, what little there was. Of the five vampire targets they had been given, only one had so far been identified: Eric Bingham, a paranoid schizophrenic who had been caught attempting to strangle his infant niece, had wandered past a police station in Peterborough and been captured on CCTV. The Surveillance Division’s facial recognition system had instantly identified him, logged his location into their system, and tracked him as he moved slowly south. The other four targets were mysteries, nothing more than heat blooms on satellite screens. Every effort would continue to be made to identify them before Jamie’s squad moved against them; knowing whether they had been violent men before their turnings could prove vital.
They were scheduled to depart in just over an hour and a half, so Jamie had ordered his squad mates to meet him in the hangar in seventy-five minutes. He had been about to head down to the dining hall to grab a late breakfast when Jack Williams called and told him the news.
Angela Darcy’s squad mates were both in the infirmary, being tended to by the Blacklight medical staff; Jacobs’s arms had been set and splinted, and Carlisle’s wounds had been treated and stitched. They were both going to recover, but Jacobs was going to be inactive for several months, and Carlisle had required surgery to remove a shard of plastic that had stopped a millimetre short of his left eyeball.
“One vamp put them both down,” said Jack. “Angela said she’d never seen anything like it.”
Jamie thanked him for passing on the news, and warned him to be careful out there. Jack told him to do the same and cut their connection.
The door in front of him was no different from any of the hundreds of others on B and C, the residential levels of the Loop; what lay behind it was why his heart was accelerating so sharply. He reached out a gloved hand, noted with anger its visible tremble, and knocked heavily on the door.
Silence.
Jamie knocked again, and was about to turn and walk away when he heard a deep voice emerge from inside the room.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” he replied. “Jamie.”
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the door unlocked with a series of smooth clicks and swung open a fraction. Jamie reached out and pushed it inwards, revealing a spacious room, far larger than his own quarters. It was sparse and scrupulously neat; the surface of the desk was clear, the bed was neatly made, the floor was clean and polished. A pair of armchairs sat opposite the desk. One was empty; the other was straining under the weight of its occupant.
The monster, now once again going by the name Victor Frankenstein, looked up as Jamie walked into his room. He was wearing a white shirt, open at the neck, and black trousers and boots; a thick multi-coloured beard sprouted from his cheeks and chin, and his hair fell carelessly across his forehead and below his ears. His appearance was not against regulations – Blacklight operated a far looser dress code than the regular military, just as the special forces did – but it worried Jamie nonetheless. On a small table beside the armchair stood a glass, a bottle of whisky and a bowl of ice, and these items worried him too, given that it was barely noon.
“Hey,” said Jamie, settling into the empty armchair.
“Good evening,” replied Frankenstein.
“It’s afternoon,” said Jamie, forcing a smile. “Early afternoon.”
“I don’t care,” replied Frankenstein. He reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. “How are you, Jamie? Looking after yourself?”
“I’m trying,” he replied. “It was easier with you looking after me as well.” He smiled again, trying to encourage the monster, to flatter him. “A lot easier.”
“I’m sure it was,” said Frankenstein. “It’s a shame you’ve had to grow up so fast. You didn’t deserve it.”
“I know,” said Jamie. “But that’s the world, isn’t it? Bad things happen.”
Frankenstein nodded. “Bad things happen.”
The monster’s free hand slid to the middle of his chest and rested there. Beneath the material of his shirt was a long pattern of scars, far more recent than the many others that covered his uneven flesh. They had been carved into him with a scalpel by Dante Valeriano, the self-styled vampire king of Paris, whom Frankenstein had injured terribly almost a century earlier, and who had spent the subsequent decades focusing on nothing except his insatiable desire for vengeance. In truth, he had been a fraud, a working-class boy from Saint-Denis called Pierre Depuis who had asserted dominance over the Parisian vampires with little more than bravado and a compellingly fictional history. Jamie and a small squad of Operators had destroyed the vampire king in the theatre where he lived, and brought the captive Frankenstein home, but not before Valeriano had begun to exact his revenge.
He doesn’t know he’s doing it, thought Jamie. Doesn’t realise how often he touches his scars.
Jamie felt his own hand twitch towards his neck, where an ugly red patch of skin stretched from his jaw to his shoulder, a memento of the search for his mother, what now felt like years ago.
You’re not the only one, he thought. We’ve all got scars.
“How’s your girlfriend?” asked Frankenstein. “What’s her name? The vampire?”
“Larissa,” said Jamie, through a suddenly clenched jaw. “She’s fine. Thanks.”
Frankenstein nodded. “Is she still in America?”
“Yes,” said Jamie.
“Best place for her,” grunted the monster.
Jamie bore down on the fury that was rising up through him with all his strength and somehow managed to push it back.
Be calm, he told himself. It’s not his fault. Be calm.
Frankenstein’s hatred of vampires was long-standing and potent. He had made his feelings on them as a species clear to Jamie the very first time they had gone out on an operation together; he believed them to be aberrations, creatures that had no right to exist in the world. His encounter with Lord Dante had not improved his opinion of them, and he had still not forgiven Larissa for wasting their time during the search for Marie Carpenter, despite Jamie’s repeated pleas for him to do so.
“She seems happy,” he said, as brightly as he was able. “So maybe it is.”
Frankenstein stared at Jamie with his misshapen, multicoloured eyes, his gaze heavy and unblinking, and momentarily full of warning. “What about your other friend?” he asked. “The girl from Lindisfarne? Kate, was it?”
“She’s fine,” said Jamie, grateful for the new topic of conversation. “She’s getting stuck into this new project she’s running with Paul Turner. I hardly see her at the moment.”
“That’s life inside the Department,” said Frankenstein. “There’s always something going on.”
“Tell me about it,” said Jamie. “I’ve just come from a Zero Hour briefing. You’re not going to believe what—”
“I don’t want to know,” interrupted the monster.
“I know, but—”
“Jamie,” said Frankenstein, his voice like thunder. “We’ve been through this before. Cal offered me a place on the Zero Hour Task Force and I turned it down. You know that. I don’t understand why you find it so difficult to respect my decision.”
They looked at one another for a long, silent moment.
“You’re still on the inactive list,” said Jamie, eventually. It was a statement rather than a question.
“That’s correct,” replied Frankenstein.
“Why?”
“I would have thought that was obvious. I’m dangerous. I’m of no Operational use to anyone.”
“You’re dangerous three days of the month,” said Jamie. “And I’m obviously not suggesting you go out during them. But the rest of the time—”
“I’m sorry,” interrupted Frankenstein. “As always, I’m curious as to why you think this is any of your business?”
Jamie felt his face fill with angry heat. “I’ll tell you why it’s my business,” he said. “It’s my business because I risked my life, and the lives of four other people, to drag you out of that theatre in Paris and bring you home safe. That’s why.”
“Why did you do it, though?” asked Frankenstein. “Why did you risk so much to rescue me?”
“Why?” asked Jamie, leaning forward in his chair. “What the hell do you mean, why? Because we’re on the same side. Because I thought we were friends. Because I didn’t want you to die. Take your pick from any of those. Dante would have killed you if we hadn’t got there when we did, and now all you can do is drink whisky and ask me stupid questions? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You’re lying to yourself, Jamie,” said Frankenstein. The monster’s tone was even, maddeningly so. “Why did you rescue me?”
“Because what happened to you was my fault,” shouted Jamie. “If I hadn’t listened to Tom Morris, then everything on Lindisfarne would have happened differently. You wouldn’t have fallen, or been bitten, or lost your memory. So when we found out you were still alive, I couldn’t let you die, OK? I had to find you and bring you home. Do you understand? I had to.”
Frankenstein smiled at him, an open expression that seemed full of genuine warmth. “I know, Jamie,” he said, his voice low. “And if you think I don’t appreciate what you did, then you’re sorely mistaken, I promise you. I owe you my life, truly I do. But we both know why you did what you did. Because you felt guilty, because you believed that rescuing me would atone for the mistake you believe you made last year. Which, as I’ve tried to tell you a thousand times, was never your fault in the first place. Bad things happen, Jamie. They do. You trusted a senior Operator that you had no reason not to and things went wrong. You blamed yourself and I understand that. But you rescued me, you brought me home, and now you can put down that weight you’ve been carrying around with you since I fell. I meant it when I said I owed you my life, Jamie. But that doesn’t mean you get to tell me how to live the rest of it.”
