by Will Hill
“Right,” said the newsreader. “Did you get a look at the man who threatened you?”
“I don’t know if they were men or women,” said Hollison. “All three of their faces were covered by visors, like the ones riot police wear. Except these were purple.”
“Purple?”
“Purple,” said Hollison, firmly. “Like McKenna said.”
There was a pause. “You’re referring of course to the late Kevin McKenna, who published an editorial in which he claimed not only that vampires existed, but that the British government maintained a secret organisation that policed them. Do you believe that’s who you encountered tonight?”
“Yes,” said Hollison. “I think everything Kevin McKenna wrote was true. I watched them murder a man in cold blood, they threatened to bug my parents’ phones and emails, and told me and my friends that we were going to be followed and watched for the rest of our lives to make sure we never told anybody what we saw. But you don’t have to take my word for it. You can just watch the video.”
“Chris Hollison, thank you very much,” said the newsreader. “We’re going to have more on this story throughout the night—”
Cal Holmwood muted the screen and looked at Jamie, his eyes full of disappointment.
“That’s not what happened, sir,” said Jamie, his insides burning with fury at the way Chris Hollison had spun the evening’s events. “We didn’t murder anyone. We destroyed a vampire that had just attacked him, for God’s sake. And everything I said to him followed protocol.”
That’s not strictly true, is it? whispered a voice in the back of his head, but he pushed it away.
“It doesn’t matter, Lieutenant,” said Turner, his voice as smooth and cold as ice. “What you just heard is the narrative that is being picked up by every newspaper and television station in the world. We cannot defend you without confirming that Kevin McKenna was telling the truth.”
“But the footage doesn’t show anything,” said Jamie, aware that his voice was rising with emotion. “There’s nothing that confirms vampires are real, or that anything he said was true.”
“It doesn’t matter,” repeated Turner.
There was a heavy moment of silence, in which Jamie’s outrage disappeared and was replaced by an awful, creeping dread.
This is really bad, he told himself. This is so much worse than I realised.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Lieutenant?” asked Cal Holmwood, the colour in his face at last beginning to fade.
“Only that losing Chris Hollison was my mistake,” Jamie said. “I want it clear that it was no fault of Ellison or Qiang. And that I’m sorry, sir.”
“I’ve heard that from you before, Lieutenant Carpenter,” said Holmwood. “I’m starting to get tired of it.”
Jamie didn’t respond.
“You will remain on the active roster, but only because I can’t afford to bench you,” continued Holmwood. “When all this is over, when we reach Zero Hour and whatever comes after it, you can expect to be asked to revisit your actions of today. Do I need to tell you how incredibly disappointed I am?”
Jamie shook his head, as a lump rose into his throat and settled there. “No, sir.”
“Fine. Then you may consider yourself dismissed. Get out of my sight.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jamie, his voice little more than a croak. He turned away, noting the unchanged expression on Paul Turner’s face as he did so, and walked stiffly towards the door. When he rounded the corner of the main Level A corridor, he sagged against the grey wall, his hands on his knees, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Well done, you stupid, stupid boy. What if he means it this time? What if he court-martials you? You bloody deserve it.
Jamie couldn’t breathe. His chest felt like it was being constricted in a vice as he fought back the cyclone of rage and shame that was boiling inside him.
How many times has Paul Turner tried to warn you? How many times has he told you that you can’t just do whatever you want and expect to get away with it? How many times has he tried to save you from yourself?
“Shut up,” he whispered, dragging air into his lungs. “Shut up, just shut up.”
He knew, deep down, how tolerant Cal Holmwood, and Henry Seward before him, had been with him, how far they’d indulged him. But rather than being grateful, rather than learning from his mistakes and moving on, what had he done? Convinced himself he was invincible, that he would never receive anything more than a slap on the wrist. He had abused their faith in him, their trust, and this was where it had got him: on the verge of tears outside the Interim Director’s quarters, with his Blacklight career hanging by a thread.
Jamie lurched down the corridor towards the lift. As he pushed the call button, he said a silent prayer, asking a God he didn’t believe in to ensure that the lift was empty when it arrived, and waited.
The doors slid open with Jamie holding his breath in front of them. Mercifully, the metal box was empty.
Thank you.
He stepped inside, thumbed the button marked H, and leant against the wall as the lift began its descent.
When it slowed to a halt, Jamie was through the doors before they were even halfway open, walking unsteadily into the airlock that sealed the detention block. Gas billowed around him, the light turned green, and he was moving again, his footsteps echoing loudly, his gaze fixed on the last cell on the left.
With the last of his composure, Jamie walked out in front of the ultraviolet barrier that formed the fourth wall of his mother’s cell. She looked up at once, and the expression of concern on her face was enough to send him over the edge; he staggered through the barrier, his face collapsing into a mask of misery and shame, and began to cry. Marie Carpenter flew up off the sofa she had been lying on and wrapped her son in a hug that lifted him off his feet, but which felt to Jamie like the gentlest embrace in human history.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, her voice low and soothing. “Are you all right? Is someone hurt?”
“I did something stupid, Mum,” said Jamie, between sobs. “Something really stupid, and I’m in trouble.”
Jamie Carpenter took a seat at the far end of the long Ops Room table and found that he couldn’t meet Cal Holmwood’s eye.
Yesterday was yesterday, he told himself, as he studied the surface of the desk. Nothing you can do about it now. You just have to get on with today.
He had stayed with his mother for a long time the previous night. When his tears had stopped, he had been instantly ashamed of himself; it was appalling, a Blacklight Operator crying to his mum when something went wrong, and he had said so. His mother, who was a strong contender for the most patient person he had ever known, whose natural instinct, with the sad exception of Larissa, was to see the very best in everyone, had lost her temper with him for maybe only the seventh or eighth time in his life. Her eyes had flared red, and she had told him that he needed to stop thinking that he could handle whatever the world threw at him.
“You’re still just a boy,” she said. “You do a man’s job, and Holmwood and all the others treat you like one because that’s what they need you to be, but you’re not a man yet. I’m so proud of you, of all the things you’ve done, and if you tell me you’re ashamed of yourself again I’m going to get very cross with you. Do you hear me, Jamie?”
He had told her that he did, and she had hugged him so tightly that for a moment he couldn’t breathe. When she let him go, they had talked for almost an hour, about nothing in particular, the way they used to before the darkness had infiltrated their lives.
“Zero Hour Task Force called to order,” said the Interim Director. “All members present.”
Jamie knew that membership of the Task Force was a privilege, and it was one he didn’t take lightly; the group had been set up explicitly to deal with the prospect of the return of Dracula to his full, ungodly strength, and to develop and implement a strategy to try and prevent such an unthinkable horror. But while memb
ership was a source of great pride, it was also an endlessly gruelling responsibility.
Zero Hour, the Intelligence Division estimate of the point at which Dracula would regain his full power, was now less than a week away, and they were no closer to either locating the ancient monster or devising any way of stopping him if the date came and went. Everyone inside the Loop knew what was coming, but only the men and women of the Zero Hour Task Force really, truly understood; they were privy to details that were classified from everyone else.
Sometimes I wonder if it would be better not to know, thought Jamie. Perhaps ignorance would be bliss.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Larissa looking at him, her eyes narrowed. He had not messaged her the previous night, as he had promised to; by the time he’d left his mother’s cell, grateful for, but unconvinced by, her insistence that everything would be all right, he had been completely drained, capable of nothing more than heading to his quarters and falling into a shallow, dreamless sleep.
He looked at his girlfriend. She tipped her head to one side and widened her eyes, the question in the movement clear.
Are you all right?
Jamie gave his head a single shake, and forced the thinnest of smiles as Paul Turner stood up and joined Holmwood at the head of the table.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice as flat and empty as ever. “As per the agenda, Lieutenant Randall will now brief you on the findings of the Intelligence Division report that Security commissioned, and which will be sent to you all later today. I warn you now, it does not make for comfortable reading.”
There’s a surprise, thought Jamie.
“Thank you, sir,” said Kate, getting to her feet as Holmwood and Turner took their seats. She seemed calm, at least as far as Jamie could tell; her face was pale, her hands steady, her eyes clear and focused. “The report is entitled Provisional Forecast of Losses and Damage in the Event of the Establishment of Supernatural (Type V) Social Dominance. I don’t think I need to explain what that means to anyone here?”
There was a moment of silence, before she continued. “Good. The report is based on a number of models and simulations, and attempts to allow for possible variations in Dracula’s actions if he is allowed to complete his rise, what his motivations and ambitions may be, and their effect on the wider vampire populace. All variables are addressed in depth in the full report, so as a result the figures I’m going to give you now should be treated as best estimates. The situation we are facing is entirely unprecedented, and is too fluid to be modelled with any great degree of certainty. That said, I have some headline numbers that you should take on board. It goes without saying that these are fully Zero Hour classified, and not to be shared or discussed with anyone outside this room.”
Kate looked around, checking for any dissent or lack of understanding.
“All right,” she said. “The Intelligence Division projects, based on an amalgamation of the various models, that the unchecked rise of Dracula will result in the deaths of between twenty-five and thirty million people within twelve months.”
There was a sharp intake of breath around the table.
“Christ,” said Patrick Williams, his voice low.
Kate nodded. “I know,” she said. “Trust me, I do. The second projection is harder to quantify, as it deals with the potential spread of vampirism. The evidence provided by Valentin Rusmanov under interrogation confirms that prior to his death, Dracula operated a strict policy of allowing no new vampires to be turned. However, we cannot assume that this will remain the case, or how possible enforcement of such a rule would be. Given that, Intelligence projects a rise in global vampire numbers of almost twelve hundred per cent in the two years following Zero Hour, at a cost of approximately eighty million human lives.”
Jamie fought back the urge to laugh. The number was so ridiculous, so impossibly huge, that it was incomprehensible.
Eighty million people. All dead, if we don’t stop him.
“I should reiterate,” said Paul Turner, “that these are just numbers, for now at least.”
The air in the Ops Room seemed suddenly cold; it was as though Kate’s words had sucked the vitality out of it. Jamie stared at the tight, pale face of his friend; she returned his gaze as the rest of the Zero Hour Task Force sat in silence, struggling to digest what they had just been told.
“The report makes a final prediction,” said Kate, her calm tone eerily similar to Paul Turner’s. “It suggests that if Dracula is allowed to rise unchecked, and the second projection proves accurate, vampires will outnumber humans within eight years of Zero Hour. That they will be the dominant species on the planet in less than a decade.”
She sat down, not meeting anyone’s eye. There was stunned silence around the table, full of palpable horror.
Nobody thought it would be that bad, thought Jamie. Not in a million years. My God.
Cal Holmwood got slowly to his feet. His face was ashen.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Randall,” he said. “Copies of the report will be sent to you all later on today. Read it, understand it, but be aware that as of right now, it changes nothing. Our goals and priorities remain as before. The purpose of this Task Force has always been to stop Dracula from rising, and this should do nothing but sharpen our focus and strengthen our resolve. If we fail, people will die. That is the responsibility we bear, and now we know the numbers. But if we do our job, then maybe numbers are what they will stay. I don’t want anyone to be disheartened, or demoralised. We know the stakes now, nothing more. We know precisely why we cannot allow ourselves to fail.”
Jamie felt the icy horror crawling within him recede, just a little.
He still believes we can stop this, he thought. If he does, then I have to.
“All right,” Cal said. “I’m sure many of you have little stomach left for bad news, but I’m afraid the reality is what it is. Major Turner?”
Paul Turner stood up again and cast his empty gaze across the men and women of the Task Force. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Operators, please direct your attention to the screen.”
Jamie watched as the wall screen at the head of the Ops Room flickered into life. Turner tapped rapidly on his console, first opening a window then expanding it to fill the screen. It showed an area of forest beside a straight road, in the centre of which burned a large campfire. Beyond the flickering orange flames, he made out half a dozen tents, with smoky silhouettes wandering between them. At the side of the road, facing a camera they presumably had no idea was watching them, a dozen men and women stood in a neat line, drinking from steaming travel mugs and holding a series of brightly painted signs and placards. What was printed on them was clear, and Jamie’s heart sank as he read.
BLACKLIGHT = FASCISTS
VAMPIRES ARE PEOPLE TOO
THE MILITARY ARE
THE REAL BLOODSUCKERS
“What you are looking at,” said Paul Turner, “is public land beyond the border of the Loop, approximately seven hundred metres outside the authorisation gate. This is live footage.”
“Outside the border of the Loop?” said Patrick Williams. “This is a classified facility, for God’s sake. No one knows it exists.”
“No longer true,” said Turner. “Yesterday an email was sent from a Cambridge University laboratory. It contained a series of digital images, and quickly went viral. The Surveillance Division estimates that in the last sixteen hours it has been forwarded more than ninety thousand times and posted to social media sites on almost half a million occasions. It is already impossible to stop the spread of the images and the information attached to them.”
“What are the images?” asked Jack Williams, his face as pale as a ghost’s. “For Christ’s sake, spit it out.”
The Security Officer turned his head and fixed Jamie’s friend with a look that would have sent most men scuttling under the table to hide. Jack didn’t flinch; he returned the stare with a cold, determined one of his own.
“The images, Lieute
nant Williams,” said Turner, “were taken by a commercial imaging satellite four months ago, to be used for GPS mapping. They show the detonation of the ultraviolet bombs that ended Valeri Rusmanov’s attack on the Loop.”
“Jesus,” said Angela Darcy. “The coordinates.”
Turner nodded. “The sender of the email, who if I have my way will spend the rest of his life in prison, was clearly aware of the story that Kevin McKenna published before he was killed by Albert Harker. Whoever they are, they traced the ownership of the land in the images through the Land Registry, and included the record in the email. It shows the purchase of the land, this land, that we are sitting at the centre of, by the Ministry of Defence from a charitable organisation called the Lux E Tenebris Foundation. That organisation had Jonathan Harker, Albert Holmwood, John Seward and Abraham Van Helsing as its original board of directors.”
“Shit,” said Jack Williams.
Turner nodded. “For those of you who have not seen the news this morning, last night, an Operational Squad conducting a Patrol Respond was secretly filmed by a civilian using a mobile phone. Before you all start shouting at once, which squad was involved is not important, and will remain classified information. And all things considered, the footage could have been worse. It does not conclusively prove the existence of the supernatural, nor does it reveal explicit detail about this Department. But when placed alongside an email showing ultraviolet detonations at this location, a location linked to the men named in Bram Stoker’s novel, the case against us starts to become compelling.”
“We’re caught, aren’t we?” said Angela, softly. “They know we’re here.”
“Yes,” said Turner. “And video surveillance suggests they are not happy.”
“This is outrageous,” said Jack Williams. “What the hell do they think they’re doing?”
“Is it allowed?” asked Angela. “The protesting, I mean. They can do this?”