Blood Type: An Anthology of Vampire SF on the Cutting Edge

by Watts, Peter

The sergeant looks us over and takes an instant dislike. “She’s not here. She’s out on police business.”

  “We’re involved in her current case. She called us over an hour ago, and at that time said she was returning here.”

  He turns to his assistant. “Is Caldicott back?”

  “No, sir,” the woman says, consulting her screen. “My last contact with her vehicle was twenty minutes ago.”

  “Call her.”

  We wait, and the sergeant starts to sweat. The woman finally shakes her head. “No reply, sir, and I’m getting nothing from the car’s tracker. They’re off the grid.”

  “Where did she go?” I ask.

  “Ealing, sir,” the woman says, after the sergeant nods his approval. “To a flat near Lammas Park. The last contact with the car was just west of Acton.”

  “Damn inconvenient time to go missing,” the sergeant mutters. “Most of my men have been drafted to the Embankment to police the New Year’s crowds, if anyone’s foolish enough to go out in this weather. Don’t worry, sir, we’ll send out a patrol to find the Inspector. Leave your details and we’ll inform you when she’s back.”

  Hoshi hands over the numbers and we go out into the cold. Our cab is still waiting at the kerb.

  “Can we find Caldicott?” I ask, as we climb in.

  Hoshi closes her eyes, consulting her implant. “I have Sinclair’s address. I’ll take us there along the shortest route. If they’ve broken down, it should be simple enough to discover where.”

  “It’s not a breakdown, or they would have called it in.”

  The cab heads west, keeping to the major roads. We turn south-west at Acton, pass a disused Tube station, then cross the old North Circular road. There are few streetlights out here, just infrequent, weak solar-powered ones, and even less traffic. We pass a cemetery and turn north, zigzagging through narrow streets. The cab comes to a halt in front of a row of inhabited houses on the south side of a park. The power is still out and some of the windows leak candlelight around their blinds.

  “We didn’t see them,” Hoshi says. “Do you want to backtrack?”

  “If you were setting an ambush along the route, where would you choose?”

  She frowns. “Before the burial ground there was a big open space, very dark and exposed, with mostly derelict houses along the roadside. I’d pick there.”

  “Take us back there.”

  As the cab approaches the area, I open its window. There’s a road heading south and we both catch the scent from that direction, faint but distinct, the tang of blood. Hoshi forces the cab into manual control; we do a U-turn and take the side road, creeping through the deep snow until we find the site of the attack.

  The police car has been forced off the road, into a fence. Its doors are open, its lights and engine dead. Three bodies lie tumbled in the road, their blood staining the snow crimson.

  “I’ll call for help,” Hoshi says. “Ambulance, then police–yes?”

  The two constables are unconscious. They tried to fight off their attackers, with taser and baton. The puncture wounds in their necks are leaking slowly, but whoever bit them didn’t take much. They’ll survive.

  Caldicott has lost more blood, yet her eyelids flicker as I kneel beside her. Her pulse is thready, and I’m amazed she’s still conscious. I make a pad of my handkerchief and put pressure on the bite over her jugular. “Who did this?”

  “Five of them.” She has trouble catching her breath. “Three vamps, two human. Are my men...?”

  “Alive? Yes, and in a better state than you. Help’s coming.”

  “Cold...” she says, so I take off my greatcoat and cover her. “Blankets, in the car.”

  Hoshi finds them in the boot, and spreads them over the uniformed men.

  “Must have followed us from the flat.” Caldicott’s anger burns hot, impotent fury at being overpowered swamping her pain. “Took Melissa...”

  “The leader, what did he look like?”

  “Tall, blond... You know him?”

  “I do.”

  “He’ll kill her...”

  My gut says the pendulum will swing the other way. “We’ll find her.”

  “Go now,” she says urgently. “Leave us...”

  I hear sirens, distant but heading our way. “Hold on. The paramedics will be here soon.”

  They arrive within minutes, two ambulances and a police car. I reclaim my coat and step back to let the professionals do their work.

  “What happened here?” It’s the desk sergeant, his lack of manpower pressing him into the field.

  “Caldicott was bringing a woman to the station for questioning, the victim of an attack in which her assailant died. Whoever set this ambush kidnapped the woman.”

  “They were your kind.” He peers at me, looking for signs of guilt.

  “We didn’t do this. Caldicott will tell you that we came to help.”

  “If she survives.”

  The Inspector has been loaded into an ambulance, which departs with all speed, blue lights flashing. There’s a wide lake of blood in the snow where she lay.

  “That’s a pint and a half at worst, no more than that. Most humans can cope with losing that.”

  “You’d know, I’m sure.” The sergeant turns away.

  Hoshi’s leaning on the fence, wrapped in her fake-mink coat, eating a pyramid of bloody snow as if it was sorbet. She sees my frown and shrugs. “Seemed a shame to waste it. Will the Inspector make it, do you think?”

  “She ought to.” I glance over the chaos. “Andreas did this. Do you know where to find him?”

  “I can take you to his base, but there are other hideouts. It may take some time to track him down.”

  “We have the rest of the night.”

  The faithful robocab takes us across Vauxhall Bridge into the wilderness south of the river. The lights are back on here, patches of safety amid the rubble of ruined buildings. There are some communities, fenced and defended from thieves and beggars. Most of the humans in these parts are still feral.

  Andreas’ home in Camberwell is deserted, so we travel through New Cross, searching an abandoned public house, and a variety of rundown business and industrial units. At the fourth site, the sky to the north is briefly lit by fireworks, the red and gold bomb-bursts of costly rockets marking midnight and the turning of the year.

  Hoshi squeezes my hand. “Happy twenty-one hundred.”

  The seventh site proves to be that final stop. It’s a warehouse in Rotherhithe, desolate and tumbledown. I’m aware of bodies inside, some living, some not. The side door is unlocked. We enter silently. The roof has multiple holes; it wouldn’t be safe here during the day. The air’s damp, thick with the dank, rotting stink of the river.

  Andreas is at the far end, flanked by two young vampires and three of his human vassals, heavy-set men with empty, moronic faces, built of slabs of muscle. The waitress is tied to a chair, her head slumped forwards, her tangled hair hiding her face. There are bruises on her wrists and bare arms, and her blouse is torn. She’s crying, ceaseless, mechanical sobs.

  The two vamps growl, and Andreas swings round as we approach. “What are you doing here, Kenley? You weren’t invited.”

  “I’ve come to stop you torturing that woman.”

  “She killed the Count, so she deserves it. She won’t tell me how–she’s saying nothing at all.” Andreas lifts a finger.

  The man nearest his prisoner slaps her across the cheek. She yelps in pain.

  “Stop it!” Hoshi shares my disgust.

  “This is nothing, merely cosmetic damage.” Andreas bares his fangs, turning to display them to his victim. “You saw what I did to the police inspector, didn’t you, bitch? I can be much more inventive and cruel, I assure you.”

  Melissa moans in terror, struggling against the ropes. I know it’s an act. She’s pretty convincing, but her pulse is slow and steady. She isn’t afraid. Trapped in this terrible place, bound hand and foot, surrounded by evil men and monsters, a
nd still she isn’t afraid?

  “Cut her free and let her go.” I suspect Andreas won’t heed my advice. “This nasty charade is a waste of time–”

  “We have until dawn. I can inflict a lot of damage on her pretty body before then.” He smiles in grim appreciation. “Now, what to do next? Shall we carve your cheek open to the bone, snap your little fingers one by one, or gouge out one of those cute green eyes? What would be the most amusing?”

  “No, don’t!” Melissa’s voice quavers, filled with fear, and she’s trembling. “Please don’t hurt me!”

  She’s a talented actress, but I see a flash of contrary emotion behind the mask, a sudden spark of anger. It chills me, and I almost feel human again, as cold and helpless as I’d been in the Arctic. Andreas is toying with her, as a cat torments a mouse, misled into thinking he holds all the power here. He’ll never suspect that his poor mouse is a tiger, not until the moment that she rips off his head.

  I edge forwards, until I’m closer to Melissa than her tormenter. “Who are you? No, that’s the wrong question, isn’t it? What are you, and how did you kill Count Volkov?”

  Melissa shakes the hair from her eyes and sits straighter in the chair. Her tears cease. She isn’t acting anymore. Game over.

  “I didn’t kill him.” She presses her lips together in a frown. “Well, perhaps I did, indirectly, without intending to. He attacked me, took me by surprise. I told him not to feed on me, but he did.”

  “And your precious, special blood burned him?” Andreas laughs. “Hit her again!”

  His henchman lifts a hand to obey, then Melissa looks into his eyes. No more than that, just a steady, level gaze, but the man’s arm drops to his side and he turns away.

  “I gave you an order–hit her!”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t.” The man looks miserable, knowing he’ll be punished.

  “Hit her–or I’ll rip your throat out!”

  “Stop playing the moody tyrant,” Hoshi says, pantomiming a yawn of boredom. “You’ll never get good help if you threaten them.”

  Andreas scowls. “So I should be kind and weak, like your master?”

  “Being a bully isn’t strong. Under the act, you’re just a coward.”

  She surprises me, my little Star. She isn’t usually so outspoken. I think Andreas will set one of his immature vamps on her, to curb her insolence, but he backs down. Melissa watches the performance with amusement.

  Andreas redirects his anger. “Why are you looking so happy, bitch? You won’t get out of here alive. I’ll rip your skin off, then drain your blood–”

  “That would be a bad idea,” Melissa says. “Really bad, not to mention pretty dumb. Did you see what happened to the Count?”

  “Are you threatening me? Do you dare even that, you stupid, fragile piece of human shit? You’re meat to my kind, nothing else–”

  She lifts her head, humour touching her apple-green eyes as she smiles. “Bite me!”

  Andreas snarls and pounces, ripping fabric to reach her neck. Melissa laughs as his fangs break her skin.

  “Hoshi, cover your eyes!” I’m not sure it will do any good, but I take my own advice. Andreas lets out an ugly, gurgling scream as the blood scalds his mouth. The sunburst is so bright that I see the bones of my hand through the flesh for an instant, then I feel the terrible heat of it through my clothing, burning on my skin. Hoshi shrieks in terror and I’m too weak to help her. I fall to the damp floor and lose my grip on consciousness.

  ~

  When I wake, I’m still in one piece. My eyes still work; I look for burns on my hands and feel for blisters on my face, but find none. Hoshi is beside me, making little mewling sounds like a scared kitten. She’s also miraculously intact. I touch her shoulder and the pathetic noises cease.

  “Are we alive?” she asks, and her voice shakes.

  “We’re still undead, sweeting.”

  The thing that calls itself Melissa Sinclair sits in the chair, free of the ropes, which lie like snakes coiled around her feet. There’s a heap of clothing and ash in front of her–Andreas. The other two vampires are cremated remains, and the three henchmen are sprawled on the ground.

  “The humans are only stunned,” the monster in the guise of a woman says. “They’ll wake in an hour or so.”

  I ask the only relevant question. “Why didn’t you burn us?”

  “They were evil, irredeemable. You, the lost sailor and his bright protégé–you might be saved.”

  “We aren’t innocent,” Hoshi says. “We drain our prey, and kill sometimes.”

  The Melissa-thing makes a sweeping gesture, encompassing the chaos that litters the floor of the warehouse. “It would be hypocritical of me to condemn you for that.”

  “What are you? You wear human shape, yet your blood is fire–liquid sunbeams, inimical to vampires.”

  She smiles, her eyes a little sad. “I’ll keep my mystery, thank you. ‘Other’ is a good enough name for what I am.”

  We watch her leave, still too weak to rise to our feet and follow. At the door she turns, and although it’s a whisper, I catch her final words.

  “Be kind.”

  Gillian M. (Jilly) Paddock's earliest published works were in the field of medical research in the mid-70s. One of which, she presented at a conference in London in 1975.

  She's been writing science fiction and fantasy stories for as long as she can remember. Having taken early retirement from the National Health Service, she decided the time was right to resurrect her writing career.

  She has several highly praised books available on Amazon Kindle. The title story of her short story collection, 'The Dragon, Fly', written on a creative writing course, received high praise from the tutor, the late, great Iain (M.) Banks. 18th Wall Productions will be reprinting the story in the upcoming anthology, 'Lying in a Wounded Wood'. She will also have a brand new story in Pro Se Presents #19.

  Pro Se will be publishing and republishing several of her works soon. Starting with her first novel, 'To Die a Stranger' and further volumes in that series. And her other regular characters, 'Afton and Jerome', from the Kindle ebook, 'The Spook and the Spirit in the Stone' will return in a new volume as well.

  Her contribution to this volume, in aid of the Cystic Fibrosis Trust, brings her neatly back to her writing roots.

  She lives in a small, untidy house in the flat bits of East Anglia in the UK, which she shares with an editor and reviewer, and an insanely large number of books and CDs.

  OCCUPATION

  James Ninness

  When the door to her cage fell open, Twenty-Seven found herself atop an enormous photovoltaic rig with nothing but ocean and daylight on all sides.

  There was a loud click above her head as the helicopter disconnected from the thick chain that carried her container. The chain fell, rattling along the roof. Her earpiece crackled as the helicopter began to fly away. "Number Twenty-Seven, copy?"

  "I hear you."

  Her eyes scanned the surface of the rig. There were several hundred solar panels a few steps from the landing pad, each black square was ten feet by ten feet, mounted on swivels to follow the sun. Currently they were positioned fifteen degrees off focus. Whatever knocked the system offline happened several hours ago.

  Her earpiece crackled again, pulling her attention to the fleeing helicopter, "You have five hours to clear the rig. If you're not back atop-"

  "I know the drill," she muttered, her eyes dropping from the aircraft to the rig where her cage sat open. There was another behind it, also open. "I'm not the primary?"

  "Irrelevant. Parameters remain consistent. Consider all entities hostile."

  Twenty-Seven walked back into her cage, grabbing her arsenal off the wall: Two .45 caliber semi-automatic pistols, an AAR 22 assault rifle, a machete, and two smaller hunting knives. Every weapon had a stripe of red tape to match her uniform, black and blood, the colors of Capital City.

  Once she was geared up, Twenty-Seven climbed down the steps of th
e landing pad, through the forest of solar panels to the large hatch in the center of the platform. The sun was bright and the sea was calm, but the platform moved up and down with a soft consistency that made Twenty-Seven uneasy. Though she had cleared photovoltaic rigs before, she never felt easy on the ocean. She preferred something under her feet with less influence.

  The hatch popped open and a quick, stale gust of air burst outward. Twenty-Seven clicked a flashlight on the side of her AAR 21 and poked it around the entrance before jumping into the darkness.

  She landed on the ground twenty feet below and backed against the wall, waving her rifle across the small room. She kept her eyes on the shadows; her gun firm in one hand while her other felt the wall for a control panel. She moved down until she found it and entered in the command code without looking.

  The hatch above her closed automatically. Some of the lights flickered to life; others remained off. They dead ones left blackness over shards of glass on the ground where someone had broken the bulbs.

  Twenty-Seven made her way down the hall, her AAR tucked into her shoulder, leading her through the patches of light. The corridor was about six feet wide with aluminum lining. This was a great deal nicer than any of the other rigs she had cleared, which were typically much more narrow and three-quarters the overall size.

  When she reached the end of the passage she turned right, toward Control. Left would take her into the belly of the station.

  The photovoltaic rigs were massive constructions, built just before The Decline several decades ago. A few hundred floated in the ocean along the equator where they could pull maximum energy from the sun. Each rig was designed to mediate an output of up to one gigawatt. All of the rigs linked together to produce more than enough power for Capital City.

  Control was destroyed. All of the terminals were shattered and there was a long streak of blood strewn along the wall across from the door. There were no bodies.

  "This is Twenty-Seven."

  "We read you, number Twenty-Seven. Go ahead."

  "Control is lost. This rig won’t be collecting again, not without extensive refitting."