The Silent Legion

by P W Hillard

  In the darkness Jess could see a figure moving, it was coming closer. It stopped for a moment, clearly sensing her too. It stood motionless for a second, the time stretching in Jess’ mind forever, forming a single foreboding eternity. Reality snapped back into place as the figure moved again, angling itself straight towards her.

  “Hello?” she said, the words lingering as vapour in the air.

  “Hello, can I help you madam? Are you lost?” The voice was a mans, he stepped forward into a beam of moonlight pouring from a small window. He was wearing the pale green scrubs of an orderly and was carrying a plastic box under one arm. He smiled and spoke again. “You shouldn’t be down here; this part of the hospital is staff only. Truth be told we don’t even come here that often. It’s a bit spooky you know.”

  “I’m sorry, I was looking for someone,” replied Jess. Her fingers grasped the tiny glass bottle in her pocket tightly.

  The orderly laughed. "Well, you won't find anyone down here. Except for me and maybe more mice than the trust would like to admit." He looked at Jess, his gaze meeting hers. His eyes were dark green, his pupils were small, almost pinholes despite the dark. Jess knew this was him. She averted her gaze quickly. She took the small bottle from her pocket, gripped tightly between her fore finger and thumb and threw it onto the ground. It smashed, spilling a faint yellow liquid. The smell of vanilla filled the air, the tiny amount of vanilla extract was almost overwhelmingly pungent. Jess coughed, but for the orderly, it was too much. He doubled over and vomited. It was a sickening dark red, pure blood erupting from his body. He staggered, dropping the box, scattering ice across the floor. He fell sideways, catching his balance against the wall.

  “You’re under arrest,” said Jess, pulling an I.D badge from her pocket. Detective Constable Jessica Holden, Special Investigations it read. She stepped forward, pulled her handcuffs from under the back of her windbreaker, and then tumbled forward spinning in the air as she lost her footing.

  Brian's senses screamed. The vanilla smell assaulted his mind, the pain and nausea were agonising. He had seen the woman walk forward, police badge held before her. Then, almost in slow motion, she had stepped onto the spilt ice and had fallen forward. Brian wasted no time, he turned and tried to run but the stench was nearly too much for him and he stumbled awkwardly away, heading back to the loading dock and his van. He drifted across the corridor like a drunk, his balance failing him. Behind he could hear the policewoman cursing as she scrambled to her feet. Even in his shocked state, Brian knew he was faster. He had to get out, get to the van. He would move on, as he always had. Brian had lived a long life, travelled most of the country, working in one place until he was discovered, or sometimes just bored, before moving on the next. I’ll just move on again he thought to himself. Find another hospital, repeat what I've done here. They won't care where it comes from. Ahead he could see the light creeping from under the shutters. He smiled, picking up his pace. There was the flicker of a shadow, and then from under the shutter, a man clambered, straightening himself before Brian.

  “Not so fast there mate,” said the man in a thick London accent. “You are nicked, put your hands on the wall, nice and slow.” Brian scowled, he wasn’t a violent person, but once, every few decades he found himself in a situation where it was needed. He supposed it was a curse on his kind. Right now, this policeman stood before him and his precious cargo.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. Move aside,” said Brian. He stood upright, fighting against the lingering nausea. “Please, you don’t know what I am. I am more than capable.”

  “Oh, I know that,” replied the shadow blocking the shutter. He pulled a small glass bottle, identical to the one the woman had thrown. “Strong sense of smell you guys have, right? This proper stinks to us humans, for you, well I imagine its unbearable. Garlic is more traditional I guess, but vanilla extract is just much stronger.” Brian’s eyes darted at the bottle. He snarled. “Oh, didn’t like this did you?”

  “I warned you,” spat Brian. He stretched his jaw, and reached up, pulling a set of dentures from his mouth. He stood there, fake teeth in hand, mouth open wide to reveal bare gums. There was an unnatural tearing noise as rows of sharp teeth erupted from his gumline. Blood trickled down the side of his mouth, which was now filled with sharp jagged points, set into rows like a shark. He tilted his head and open and closed his jaws a few times, testing his bite. “I’ll give you one last chance to stand aside human.” His voice was deeper now, a guttural rumble behind it as he spoke.

  “You ever see one of these?” asked the man, apparently unperturbed. Brian stood there, confused at the policeman's complete disregard for the monstrous sight before him. He held a small black torch in his hand. "You can get one of these on Amazon for a few quid. It's a blacklight, pure UV. It's for looking over hotel beds or dodgy banknotes, but against a vampire like you, well it's really useful." He flicked on the torch, which shot a beam of purple-tinged light across the corridor. Brian screamed as it hit him. His eyes slammed shut, a natural response as his skin felt like it was burning. He dropped to his knees, clutching at his eyes as he felt the click of handcuffs around his wrists. “Three quid!” said the man. “Thousands of years of Vampire myth trumped by some batteries and a bulb.”

  Brian sat motionless in the back of the police car, perched on the edge of the seat like a gargoyle. He looked slightly ridiculous, his fangs had retracted, but he had not been allowed to replace his dentures. Though he looked mid-twenties to the eye he was as toothless as any pensioner. He had kicked and raged briefly after being cuffed before falling into sombre silence upon realising that modern handcuffs, metal rings set into tough black carbon fibre, were more than a match for above human strength. It was a pattern Jess and Mark were more than familiar with. Brian’s eyes drilled tunnels into the backseats, the stare of a man lost in thought.

  Detective Constable Mark Curren looked over to the man he had arrested. A pitiful shade of the vengeful creature that had loomed in the hospital doorway. Mark was peering around from behind the open van door at his dreary captive.

  “Think he’ll be ok?” he asked, rubbing his chin. “He looks a little morose.”

  “It’s just shock,” came the reply. Jess was leaning into the back of the van, one outstretched leg for balance sticking out into the night. She straightened herself, dragging a plastic box towards her. "He's just getting over the whole, I come to suck your blood, routine not working. Live long enough and you start to believe your own legend." She reached into the plastic box. "Fuck that's cold. Bottom of these are full of ice. Ok, let's see what we got." She pulled out a small plastic pouch, its wet red contents shimmering in the fluorescent light cascading from the police cars headlights. “Type O negative, type B negative, oh AB negative, tasty. Four bags here total, there’s another box in there and he was on his way for more. That’s a lot of blood.”

  “Well, the hospital did notice it, he got greedy and took too much,” Mark said, turning over one of the blood pouches in his hands. “This is a lot for one vampire. Think he was saving it at home for later?”

  “Can’t be. The amount reported missing; he has to be selling it on.” Jess leant over and pulled the other plastic container closer, it made a horrid scratching noise as it slid across the bottom of the van. “Can’t be easy to shift blood. This ice isn’t going to keep it cold for long. You would need a way of distributing it quickly. There must be a gang backing him up.”

  “Well,” replied Mark lifting one of the plastic boxes. “Let’s get this back to the hospital, and get him back to the station, then we can ask him a few questions.”

  Detective Chief Inspector Florence Weston watched the odd toothless man on the monitor in front of her, which flickered faintly. On the small black and white screen, her detectives were sat opposite the still handcuffed Brian. It wasn't normal procedure, but most people they brought in could be extremely dangerous if they wanted to be, even with their bare hands. Not that most
arrests were for anything remotely dangerous. Special Investigations dealt with any police matter even remotely occult, even if it was something as a simple as a faerie pickpocket or a disgruntled wight keying cars. She pressed down on the small intercom switch, listening in on the interview.

  “Come on Brian,” said Jess, “tell us how you were shifting the gear. Not got a long shelf life. We already checked your house, so we know you aren’t keeping it there.” That was a lie, they had taken him straight into the interview room from the car, not having enough time to arrange a warrant and a search.

  "I drank them all myself, every one of them." Brian was looking directly at the grey plastic veneer on the table before him, trying desperately to avoid eye contact. He needn't have bothered, both detectives were wearing large black sunglasses, almost novelty-sized. A necessary protection, holding a vampire's gaze too long risked being charmed.

  “I think,” began Mark, “that’s a lie. That’s a lot of blood. A lot. My vampire friend Nigel, you know Nigel right D.C Holden?” He turned to his colleague.

  “I know Nige, good bloke, handy at the pub quiz. Easy to answer questions on the middle ages when you were there.” She nodded enthusiastically as she answered.

  "Well, Nigel says you drink too many different kinds of blood too close together you get pretty sick. Like mixing drinks on a night out.”

  “Like swapping from beer to sambuca?”

  “Exactly,” agreed Mark. “Now Brian, I know that you were taking different kinds of blood. You don’t look sick to me.”

  “Not sick at all,” added Jess.

  “I…I drank it a while ago… this was replacements.” Brian’s voice was odd, his lack of teeth making the sounds of his words stretched out. He was sweating profusely.

  “Brian, you have to have had help. We know you did. Just tell us who it was. If you co-operate you’re probably looking at a suspended sentence. Maybe a tag.” Jess lent forward, arms on the table for effect.

  “I can’t,” muttered Brian. “You don’t understand.” He was trying to whisper, but his bare gums were sending spittle across the table. “They’re dangerous. They kept wanting more. More blood, more often.”

  “So, it’s organised then?” asked Mark.

  “I think so,” came the half-mumbled reply. “I just drop off the stuff where I’m told and take the money. I don’t know what they do with it after that.”

  "Who is we, Brian?" Jess interjected, leaning close to the small black box that was recording the conversation. “Be a bit more specific?”

  Chapter Three

  A thin dark blue tracksuit jacket and matching pants were proving a poor choice for the cold night air. Its wearer shivered and held his arms close to his body, bouncing on his heels impatiently. Brian was late. He hated people being late, found it downright disrespectful.

  “Where is this fucker?” asked the track suited man to his companion. He was also wearing a tracksuit, a mirror of the first man’s except it was a deep maroon colour. "You recruited him, Chet, so he's your responsibility."

  “Fuck off,” barked Chet. He squinted angrily. To the casual eye, the two men looked identical, their rounded faces and shaved heads making them look like oversized babies poured into knock-off sportswear. "You always blame me for everything. Everything is always Chet's fault. Fuck you, Carl."

  “Well it usually is your fault,” said Carl. He removed a rolled cigarette from where he had tucked it into his sleeve, tobacco leaking from the slapdash job he had done of making it. “There was that time on Majorca.” He placed the cigarette between his lips. “Still not allowed in Magaluf.”

  Chet scowled. It was a particularly painful memory. He still had the tattoo. "Whatever," he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box. A silver cylinder erupted from one side, tapering off into a mouthpiece, not unlike a flute. It was covered in buttons, looking like a cheaply made science fiction prop. He lifted it to his mouth and breathed deeply. A pillar of vapour blasted into the night air when he released his breath, the cloud smelled strongly of cherries.

  “You look like a wanker,” said his brother. Carl leaned backwards, resting against a lamppost. Their street corner illicit meeting place could only be more obvious if they had set out a sign.

  “You should try it, less nasty chemicals than fags.”

  “You look like you’re sucking Megatron’s dick.”

  “Beats dying young.”

  Carl stood there for a moment, perplexed. “Are you thick? We…are…vampires.” He rubbed his eyes with one hand. “We can’t die.”

  “We die plenty though?” argued Chet. “Sunlight, knife to the heart, cut off the head. Who’s to say fags won’t get us? Not like anyone is doing medical tests or anything.”

  Carl raised his finger, ready to berate his brother. He thought for a moment and then dropped his hand. “Gimmie that fucking thing,” he said snatching the vape-rig.

  Jess lowered herself onto the desk, resting her arm atop the small monitor. On the screen, Brian was sat alone in the interrogation room, head in his hands. She turned to Florence, who was sat in a cheap office wheelie chair. Mark leant against the doorframe.

  “So, we think he’s telling the truth?” Florence asked. She shifted in the chair, finding the cheap plastic and polyester cushions uncomfortable.

  “I think so,” replied Mark. “He seems pretty scared. He’s just a patsy really.” He stood up straight, taking his weight off the frame. “So Brian here,” Mark stepped over and tapped the monitor, “says he collects the blood, drops it off where he’s told and gets paid in bitcoin a few days later.”

  “Bitcoin?” said Florence. “Might as well be paying him in magic beans.”

  Jess nodded in agreement. “I think at this point he does it because he’s scared of his handlers. Took a while to coax it out of him. We got the location of the drop from him and asked Rajan and Aasif to take a look, but my money is they will have bailed by now.” Jess pulled a small black notebook from the top pocket of her dark blue suit jacket. She swept aside her vivid red hair, her ponytail having draped over her shoulder. Jess was a tall woman, her face thin and pointed. Her simple trouser suit hid an athletic frame. “We do know that whoever was buying the blood were also vampires. Twins apparently.”

  "Can't be many sets of twins who are also vampires out there," stated Florence. She was stony-faced as usual. Florence Weston was a serious hard-nosed woman. An iconoclast in a silver perm.

  “Sadly, none in our records. I’ve put requests in with the other departments, see if they know of any twins arrested for mundane thefts maybe.” Mark shrugged. He had dispensed with the grey woollen coat he normally wore once inside the station, revealing khaki chinos and a white shirt underneath. His face was covered with thick stubble. His dark brown hair was flecked with grey, a look Jess had jokingly called "badger" more than once. His eyes were piercing azure pools of blue. "Never know, supers get brought in all the time by other coppers without them being any the wiser.” Supers. It was an acceptable term for supernatural minorities. Monsters was considered offensive. Special Investigations and its work were a closely kept secret, so the department kept its own records. Not just of arrests but of any supers they were aware of, criminal or not. It was a huge breach of information laws, but a necessity. In Marks experience, everyday humans were often more dangerous to the supers than the other way around. "It's a start at least. We'll ask around. Vampires are rare and there is no way they are just giving the blood away from the kindness of their hearts."

  “I think,” began Jess, “that we start with Tara. I would bet good money they’re trying to push it as a luxury product.” Mark and Florence both nodded in agreement.

  “Right well, you get on that,” said Florence, “I need to check in with Beecham and Clarke. Nasty stabbing out west.”

  Detective Sergeant Sandra Beecham lifted the thin cotton sheet and wrinkled her nose. Even in the cold of the morgue, the body had started to smell. It wasn't like mos
t bodies, the dark hairy thing was emitting a sweet sickly slightly nutty smell, like thick marzipan. Her partner Detective Sergeant Gemma Clarke stood opposite her holding a clipboard.

  “Seventy-eight individual stab wounds,” Gemma said, “whoever did this Sandy must have really hated her.” Someone had called Sandra “Sandy”, making the obvious joke with her name when she had joined the force. Somehow it had followed her from placement to placement.

  “Her, or what she was. We got a good idea of that yet?”

  "Yeah," Gemma reached into her pocket for her phone. She slid her finger across the screen to unlock it. "From what I can tell she was a brownie. It's a kind of, well not a fairy, but similar. They help with household chores in exchange for cream. Apparently, they leave if you give them an item of clothing.”

  “Like Dobby?” asked Sandra

  “I mean, I guess? It’s a fairy tale as old as Britain. Not a potter fan myself."

  "Oh right, well, I doubt this is what the author had in mind." Sandra gestured to the body on the table, at its black wiry hair and bat-like features."

  "Local police think this isn't the homeowner. That's listed as a Gloria Adcock, apparently a fair-skinned blonde woman in her late forties. Currently suspected missing." Gemma put the clipboard down and crouched closer to the body.

  “I’m thinking glamour,” said Sandra. “What are the chances of someone coming to bump off Gloria and coming across a super and bumping that off as well?”

  “It’s not impossible, but I think you’re right.” Gemma stood up from her crouch and leant over across the body. She took a pen out from the top pocket of her jacket with her gloved hand. She slowly and carefully pushed the pen into a stab wound on the brownies chest. “I can’t imagine many people would accept help with the house if you looked like this.” Satisfied, Gemma stopped pushing the pen downwards. “Look how deep these wounds are. And thin too. It must have been a serious heavy-duty weapon. No kitchen knife or switchblade did this.” She slipped the pen free from the corpse, congealed blood hung from it like jelly. She scrunched her face at the sight of it, then walked over to a yellow plastic bin marked “medical waste” and dropped the pen inside.