Department 19 d1-1

by William Hill

  As he spoke, the final camera screens disappeared into snow. At a console in the middle of the room, a deeply frightened radio operator punched in the emergency frequency that linked the supernatural Departments of the world together, and sent the distress call Petrov had ordered. He had just finished sending the message, which was only six words long, when there was an audible thud on the external microphones, and the communications went dead.

  “General,” he said, looking up from his screen, fear bright in his eyes.

  But Petrov was gone.

  The General ran through the bowels of the SPC base.

  Sirens shrilled in his ears and the light that flooded the corridors hurt his eyes, but he didn’t slow his pace. An elevator stood open at the end of the corridor, and he sprinted toward it, his chest burning.

  Been behind a desk too long, he thought. Run, old man. Run.

  Inside the elevator, Petrov pulled a triangular key from a chain around his neck and inserted it into a slot on the metal panel beside the door, below the numbered buttons. The doors closed immediately and the elevator shot downwards, the sudden motion churning Petrov’s stomach. He fought it back, and watched as the buttons that marked the floors lit up and went out, one after the other. -2… -3… -4… -5… -6… -7…

  Level -7 was the bottom of the SPC base, seven stories beneath the frozen Arctic ground. It was home to the enormous generators that powered the complex, as well as accommodation for the maintenance crews and support personnel; as a result it was rarely visited by SPC soldiers or scientists, and it was not General Petrov’s destination now. There was only one thing in the base worth the risk of a frontal attack, and he was one of the few men on the planet who knew what it was.

  The -7 button lit up, and then blinked out, but the elevator continued its descent, into the unmarked depths. When the doors slid open ten seconds later, Petrov ran out into a single corridor of gleaming metal, lined on both sides by huge, heavy-looking metal doors, doors that looked like they belonged on the airlock of a submarine, or a space station. Each was stamped with a single number, in black letters three feet high; there were sixty doors, but Petrov was already running toward the one stamped 31.

  In the control room, the men of the night shift looked at each other nervously. Static squealed from eight screens of white noise, and the external microphones were silent. The men, eight of them in all, had broken out the arms locker and were holding Daybreakers, the heavy SPC explosive launchers, as they waited for whatever was out there in the snow.

  The door to the main access corridor suddenly flew open, slamming against the concrete wall, and the men jumped in unison. The thirty-two men of the Base Protection Regiment flooded silently into the control room, taking up almost every inch of space. The duty staff did their best to contain cheers of relief; the BPR was made up of the finest SPC officers, the very best of the very best. They took up a wide semi-circular formation, facing the heavy air-locked door that led to the outside world, their gray uniforms bristling with weapons and webbing that was heavy with equipment. They trained their Kalashnikovs and Daybreakers on the door, and the duty staff withdrew, taking up positions behind the soldiers.

  Silence.

  Then, slowly, a terrible sound of rending, buckling metal filled the room. Private Yurov, who was holding a Daybreaker with two shaking hands, had just enough time to say a silent prayer, before the huge metal door was wrenched from its hinges and hurled out into the black and white Arctic night.

  Snow swirled into the room in thick flurries, driving the men of the SPC back. The air was so cold that it closed their throats, trapping the oxygen in their lungs, and the snow was thick and blinding. Dark shapes, impossibly fast, flooded in through the gaping door, and the soldiers began to fire their weapons, almost randomly, hands covering their streaming eyes, their chests burning. Bullets whined off the walls, shattering monitors and punching holes in consoles, and the fiery crunch of Daybreaker rounds rang through their ears. The dark shapes seemed to be everywhere; they slipped through the snow-filled room like shadows, rending flesh and spraying blood as they went. A jet of crimson spurted from within the cloud of snow and hit Yurov in the chest and face. He recoiled, and then suddenly there was a dark figure in front of him, no more than six feet away. He raised the Daybreaker and fired, the recoil jolting up his arms. The figure staggered as the round hit home, and then lurched forward out of the snow.

  It was Alex Titov, the young Siberian who shared his desk. He looked at Yurov, his eyes wide, his mouth moving silently. The projectile had stuck to the front of his chest, over his solar plexus. As Yurov watched, helpless, the pneumatic charge fired, driving the charge through his breastplate. Yurov heard bones break, then Titov’s scream cut through the wind that was howling through the control room. Blood spilled from his mouth, and he looked at his friend, a pleading expression on his face. Then the explosive charge fired, and Titov erupted, covering Yurov from head to toe. He stared blankly, his friend’s blood dripping down his face. When a vampire slid out of the blizzard, moments later, and tore his throat open, it was almost a kindness.

  Thirty-eight men died in the SPC control room in less than three minutes.

  The vampires struck with dizzying speed, emerging from the swirling snow, biting and clawing and tearing, and the men of the night watch and the BPR were slaughtered side by side. They never stood a chance; they were blinded by the snow and numbed by the freezing cold, and Valeri’s followers butchered them where they stood. Two BPR soldiers ran for the access corridor, and made it into an elevator. They survived, huddling in the mess hall on the second subterranean level, with the scientists and doctors and general staff that kept the SPC running on a daily basis.

  When the control room was clear, the ancient vampire stepped out on to the frozen ground and hauled the door back into its frame. It no longer fit properly; it had been bent and twisted when he had pulled it free, but it stopped the worst of the wind. The snow dropped to the floor in drifts, piling up against desks and chairs, covering the bodies of the fallen SPC officers, turning pink where it settled over pools of blood. The horde of vampires, most of them streaked red, their eyes blazing, gathered quietly behind Valeri, and followed him into the base.

  General Petrov set his back against the door to vault 31, raised his Daybreaker, and pointed it at the elevator doors. The radio on his belt periodically buzzed into life, issuing forth screams of pain and snarls of violence. He did his best to ignore the sounds, and concentrate solely on the metal doors that stood closed at the other end of the corridor. Eventually the radio fell silent, and he pulled an encrypted satellite phone from his belt. He typed a message on the glowing screen, nine short words, and sent it. Then he replaced the phone, and waited for them to come.

  Even though he was expecting it, the doors slid open so quietly that it took him by surprise. Vital milliseconds passed, and then he pulled the trigger of the Daybreaker, aiming into the confined space of the elevator. A vampire roared out of the open doors and took the charge in the shoulder. A second later it exploded, spraying the walls, floor and ceiling crimson. Two more clambered through the spilt blood of their companion and suffered the same fate, before a fourth shot went wide, clanging off the wall and attaching itself harmlessly to the ceiling. Petrov’s fifth shot caught a vampire girl in the forehead, and destroyed her down to her knees. Petrov fought down rising bile, and fired his final shot. For a fleeting second the gray-haired head of Valeri Rusmanov swam into view amidst the smoke of the explosives, but he was gone again before the charge had left the Daybreaker’s barrel. Instead it thumped into the chest of a vampire woman, who cast an imploring look into the elevator before the explosive annihilated her. Petrov threw the spent weapon to the floor, pulled his ancient AK47 from his shoulder harness, leveled it at the elevator, and prepared to fire.

  There was a moment of calm, as if he had succeeded in discouraging the vampires, but then they swarmed out of the elevator again, and Petrov knew he was lost. Ther
e were too many of them, far too many; they crawled up the walls and across the ceiling, and bounded along the floor, their mouths open, excitement and sadistic joy etched on their faces. He pulled the worn trigger of his rifle and the corridor was filled with acrid blue smoke. The heavy rounds blew off limbs, punched holes in heads and torsos, but still they came. He was screaming, although he couldn’t hear himself above the rattling din of the gun, and he fired and fired until the hammer clicked down on an empty chamber.

  General Yuri Petrov lay on the metal floor.

  Something wet was trickling down his back and pooling along the ridge of his belt, and he could see only red through his left eye. He realized with detached curiosity that he couldn’t feel either his arms or his legs. There was no pain, which surprised him, because he was dying; of that he had no doubt.

  Vampires stood quietly all around him. He tried to raise his head to look at them, and found that he was unable to do so. Valeri stepped away from the door to vault 31, where he had been examining the fifteen-digit keypad set into the wall beside it, crouched down in front of the stricken officer, and smiled at him.

  Petrov forced a smile in return, and found that he could still speak.

  “It’s… no use,” he said, his breath whistling as it struggled to form the words. “I will… never give you… the combination.”

  Valeri’s smile widened, and one last clear thought rang through the General’s faltering mind.

  We are betrayed.

  Petrov’s smile faded as Valeri stood up. He watched the vampire in the black greatcoat step across the corridor and tap rapidly on the keypad next to the door of vault 31. There was a long beep, and then the locks released with a series of clicks and thuds, and the door hissed slowly open. For a brief moment, Petrov had a clear view into vault 31, and he laid his dying eyes on something that only a handful of human beings had ever seen.

  There were only two objects in the vault. In the middle of the metal floor stood a square steel cube, each edge a meter long, and on top of the cube stood a clear plastic tube with thick black metal lids at each end. The container was three-quarters full of a gray powder, and had a label that Petrov couldn’t read pasted on to its side. Then Valeri stepped into the vault, blocking the contents of vault 31 from view, waving a hand over his shoulder as he did so.

  With a chorus of snarls, the vampires fell on Petrov.

  He had enough time to scream, once.

  38

  LOVE BURNS

  For the second time in less than eight hours the general alert rang through the Loop. Operators who had flopped into their beds on the lower levels less than forty minutes earlier were dragged back to the waking world, swearing and cursing as they pulled their uniforms back on and fastened their weapons into place.

  Admiral Seward was in the main hangar, directing the sluggish men and women of Blacklight. Out on the runway two EC725 helicopters sat on the tarmac, light blazing from their open passenger compartments as technicians pulled hoses from trapdoors in the ground and filled them with fuel.

  “Where’s the jet?” Seward shouted. “Damn it, we’d be there in forty minutes.”

  “Cal Holmwood took the Mina II to Nevada three days ago, sir,” replied a passing Operator. “He’s running a training exercise with the Yanks, sir.”

  Seward swore heartily, and turned his attention to the line of Operators forming behind him. He spoke to Paul Turner, who was overseeing the mobilization.

  “You, me, and the first eighteen men to report,” he ordered. “Comms and weapons check, then load them up. I want to be in the air in five minutes.”

  “Yes sir,” replied Turner. He strode over to the reporting men, and began checking their radios and weapons. When an Operator was equipped to Turner’s satisfaction, the Major jerked his thumb toward the waiting helicopters, and the soldier ran out on to the tarmac and climbed up into one of the choppers.

  Admiral Seward left him to it and walked quickly through the corridors toward the Ops Room. He was about to open the door when his cell phone buzzed into life. He hauled it out of the pocket of his uniform and checked the screen. NEW SMS FROM: PETROV, GEN. Y. VAULT 31 ABOUT TO BE COMPROMISED. HURRY OLD FRIEND. YURI

  A chill raced up Henry Seward’s spine.

  How do they know about 31?

  He shoved the Ops Room door open and stepped inside. Jamie, Frankenstein, and Morris were gathered around a desk in the middle of the room, the teenager holding his radio in a slightly shaking hand. They looked up when he entered.

  “Colonel Frankenstein, Lieutenant Morris, Mr. Carpenter,” he said. “You are confined to base until further notice. I’m taking a rescue team to Russia immediately; I’ll deal with you when I return. In the meantime, I suggest you focus on the report I asked you for.”

  Admiral Seward strode out of the room, without a backward glance. After a minute or so, Jamie was first to speak.

  “We’re totally screwed,” he said. “I’m never going to see my mother again.”

  Frankenstein looked at him, alarmed at the resignation in the teenager’s voice. It was as though the fire that usually burned inside him had been extinguished.

  Morris spoke nervously. “It’s not as bad as-”

  “Tom,” interrupted Jamie. “Don’t try and placate me. I’m not a child.”

  Morris looked down at the table, and the teenager continued. “I want to know what happened in Northumberland. Don’t tell me that Larissa tipped off Alexandru, because I don’t believe that. I want to know what really happened.”

  Frankenstein looked steadily at him. “As far as I’m concerned,” he said, “you’re asking the wrong people. I’m sorry if that isn’t what you want to hear.”

  “Fine,” replied Jamie.

  He stood up from the table and walked out of the Ops Room, without a backward glance. In the elevator at the end of the corridor, he gripped the metal rail until his knuckles turned white. Anger squirmed in his stomach, hot and acidic, and he bore down on it with all his strength, pushing it down as far as he was able. Then the elevator door slid open onto the cellblock, and he strode along it toward Larissa.

  She was waiting for him.

  The vampire girl stood in the middle of her cell, just beyond the UV wall; she smiled at him as he appeared in front of her, a smile that faltered slightly when she saw the thunderous expression on his face.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Did you tell Alexandru we were going to come for him?” he asked, his voice straining with the effort it was taking to keep his temper in check. “Did you tell him to run?”

  Larissa’s eyes widened with realization.

  “He wasn’t there,” she said, “was he?”

  “No,” replied Jamie. “He wasn’t there. Neither was my mother. They were both gone, to God knows where. Only a handful of people in the world knew we’d found him, but by the time we got there, less than ninety minutes later, he was gone. I want to know how that happened.”

  “Ask me,” said Larissa. “Ask me the question again.”

  “Did you tell him we were coming?”

  “No,” she replied. “I didn’t.”

  He sagged before her eyes. His shoulders slumped, and his head tipped forward, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

  It’s over. Oh God, I’m never going to find her. It’s all over.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he said, his voice choked with despair. “I want to believe you, but I don’t know if I can.”

  She took half a step forward and said his name in a low voice.

  “Jamie.”

  He looked at her, his eyes red, pain etched in every line of his face.

  “You can trust me,” she said, and then she moved.

  Her hand shot through the UV field and grabbed him. Her whole arm burst into flames, purple fire erupting from the skin, but she didn’t even flinch. She pulled him through the barrier, spinning him to the side, and kissed him, as burning skin crackled in his ears and flooded his
nostrils.

  He kissed her back, his hands finding her hair. He could feel the heat of her burning arm through his uniform, but it felt as though it was coming from a thousand miles away, felt as though it was coming from another world. He surrendered himself entirely to the kiss, her lips cool and soft against his, her hands on his waist, his entire body trembling.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

  She pulled away from him, and he opened his eyes. Her face was barely an inch from his; he could feel the heat of her breath on his mouth, could see the intricate pattern of yellow that traced through the dark brown of her eyes.

  They stared at each other as though they were the only two people alive.

  Pain finally broke across her face, and she fell to the ground, thumping her arm, putting out the flames that were rising from it, until all that was left was gray smoke drifting toward the roof of the cell. The smell was nauseating, and he knelt beside her. The smoke cleared, and his stomach lurched.

  Her arm rested across her knee, burned almost entirely black. The skin had peeled away in sheets, revealing muscles that had been seared into tough dark ropes. Beneath them he could see the gleaming white of bone, and he looked away, afraid he would be sick.

  “It’s all right,” she gasped. “It’ll grow back. I just need blood.”

  Without thinking, Jamie pulled the collar of his uniform down and turned the uninjured side of his exposed neck toward her. She laughed, despite the agony in her arm.

  “That’s sweet,” she said, through a grimace of pain. “But I don’t think we’re ready for that just yet.”

  Jamie flushed red, then ran down the block to the guard office.

  She could have put her arm through the barrier anytime she wanted if she wanted to hurt me.

  Anytime.

  “I need blood,” he said. The guard started to ask him a question, but Jamie was in no mood for it. “Now,” he said. “On Admiral Seward’s authority. Check with him if you like, but I don’t think he’ll appreciate being disturbed.”