by Will Hill
“You are most perceptive,” said Gregor. “And you are correct. I have taken steps to ensure my isolation. The people of this corner of the world are superstitious fools, and fear keeps them away. The forest is itself a natural shield, as satellites and planes find it hard to see beneath the green. And the wall stands before anyone with the determination to make it this far. You, my friends, are only the second people ever to find their way here.”
“There’s more, though,” said Larissa, ignoring the glare that Petrov gave her. “Isn’t there? My vampire senses don’t work here, not properly. Some of it is the forest itself, the darkness, the plants and trees. But I think some of it is deliberate. I think some of it has to do with your underground room.”
Gregor smiled. “You found the tunnel?”
“We did,” said Larissa. “What are the machines that are down there?”
“Communications disruptors,” said Gregor. “Signal blockers and scramblers. A white-noise generator. One or two other things.”
Larissa’s eyes flared. “A white-noise generator?” she growled. “So that’s why I haven’t been able to hear properly. I thought I was going crazy.”
“I am sorry,” said Gregor. “I’m afraid that is exactly why I installed it. To discourage other vampires, like yourself.”
“Yet you let Grey live,” said Petrov, trying to regain control of the exchange. “The old vampire you mentioned. Why? You must have known others would come.”
“It would have been easier to kill him,” said Gregor. “Far easier. But the truth is, I did not want to. I am not a fan of death.”
“You killed Albertsson,” said Engel. The words sounded like sobs.
“I occasionally make an exception,” said Gregor.
“And you didn’t really care whether anyone else came,” said Jamie. “We could have brought a thousand men in here and it wouldn’t matter. You know we can’t make you do anything you don’t want to.”
Gregor shrugged. “You are correct, of course,” he said. “Although such a prospect gives me no satisfaction. In my experience, little good comes from the use of violence.”
Jamie looked up at the old vampire, and realised something with sudden certainty. He smiled. “You’re not going to help us,” he said. “Are you?”
Petrov fixed him with eyes like daggers, but he ignored his squad leader; he kept his gaze fixed on the first victim.
Gregor shook his head. “No,” he said. “I am not going to help you.”
“Why not?” cried Engel. “You happily kill a man for some minor offence, yet you won’t help us destroy the greatest evil that has ever walked the earth? What possible reason could you have for refusing?”
“Why would I feel compelled to explain myself to you?” said Gregor. “You and your friends will fight Dracula, and I am sure you will fight well. I wish you success. But it is not my fight.”
“You’re a coward,” said Jamie, his voice low and full of anger. “That’s all you are. A bloody coward.”
Gregor turned to face him, a tiny smile of incredulity on his face. “What did you say?” he asked.
“You heard me,” said Jamie. “You know how powerful Dracula is, and you have more reason to hate him than anyone else on earth. If he isn’t stopped, if he’s allowed to rise to his full strength, then thousands of people will die, maybe millions. But you don’t care about them, do you? You only care about this prison you’ve made for yourself.”
“I admire your passion, my friend,” said Gregor, his voice suddenly low and dripping with danger. “I genuinely do. But I would advise you to think carefully before you speak again. I have made my feelings on rudeness clear.”
Jamie grunted with laughter. “Right,” he said. “You made it clear that you have no problem killing a man for insulting a woman, and equally clear that you won’t help us prevent a global genocide. So what am I supposed to make of that? Tell me.”
Gregor’s eyes churned with crimson. He growled, a low sound that rumbled through the forest floor.
“Lieutenant Carpenter,” said Petrov, his voice sounding eerily similar to Paul Turner at his angriest. “You will not say another word. Not a single one. Is that absolutely clear to you?”
Jamie faced the Russian, fury and bitter frustration roaring through him, searching for release. Engel and Van Orel were staring at him with wide, fearful eyes, Larissa with a fierce smile full of clear and obvious pride. He bit his tongue, hard, and tasted warm, coppery blood in his mouth.
Then he nodded.
“I am asking you to reconsider,” said Petrov, turning instantly back to face Gregor. “You have made this place your home, and perhaps you think that nothing can touch you here. Perhaps you are even correct. But if Dracula rises, he will burn everything to ash. Can you be certain that you will be spared?”
The first victim sighed deeply. “I made a decision a long time ago,” he said. “An amount of time that you cannot imagine, that is only numbers to you. And that decision was to withdraw from the world that you inhabit. I watched everyone I loved grow old and die, even the ones who drove me away when it became clear what I had become. Wars have come and gone, some of them on my doorstep, and I have stayed here. Genocides have scarred humanity, time and again, and I have stayed here. Because, when you have lived a life measured in centuries, it is hard to care about petty squabbles. So I will not fight. Not for you or anyone else.”
Petrov didn’t respond.
“What if you didn’t have to?” said Larissa, suddenly.
“I am sorry?” said Gregor.
“Fight,” said Larissa. “What if you didn’t have to fight?”
The first victim narrowed his eyes. “Go on,” he said.
Larissa stepped forward, the eyes of Petrov and her squad mates following her closely. “We know more about vampires now than we ever have,” she said. “There’s a theory, named after a friend of mine, which I believe. It explains why some of our kind are stronger than others.”
Gregor said nothing, but gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head.
“Old vampires make more powerful vampires,” continued Larissa. “Something happens as we age, an evolution that alters the liquid that coats our fangs. I was turned by the vampire you met, who is believed to be the oldest in Britain. As a result, I am faster and stronger than most, even though it’s barely three years since I was turned.”
“Make your point,” said Gregor.
“Any human being turned by you would become an incredibly powerful vampire,” said Larissa. “Not instantly, but very quickly. Maybe even strong enough to fight Dracula, especially if there were more than one of them. All we would need would be samples of your blood and the plasma on your fangs. That might be enough. You could stay here, away from everything, and still have saved the world.”
“Maybe so,” said the first victim. “But I’m afraid my answer remains the same.”
“You animal!” shouted Engel, her voice high and wavering. “You cruel man!”
“What if I took them from you?” growled Larissa, ignoring her squad mate.
Gregor smiled gently. “You could not,” he said. “And you know you could not. Please do not try.”
“I feel sorry for you,” said Jamie. “I really do.”
The first victim turned towards him, his eyes darkening. “I have warned you once already,” he said, his voice a thunderous rumble. “Do not make me do so again.”
“What does it matter?” said Jamie, smiling narrowly. “If you don’t help us, Dracula wins. And if Dracula wins we all die. So pardon me for not giving a shit about your warning.”
Gregor growled, but said nothing. His narrow, glowing eyes had settled firmly on Jamie, who swallowed hard, trying not to let his fear show in his face or voice.
“You won’t fight,” he said. “Fine. If you don’t want to risk your life, you don’t think what’s coming is worth that, that’s up to you. No problem. But to refuse to give us even the slightest chance of an advantage, even thou
gh it would cost you nothing? That is cowardice. That is bullshit.”
Gregor tilted his head to one side. “You are truly not afraid?” he said.
“I’m afraid,” said Jamie. “I’m terrified. But not of you.”
“You truly would do anything to stop Dracula? To prevent his rise?”
“Yes,” said Jamie.
“No matter the cost?”
“Yes.”
The first victim smiled. “I believe you,” he said. “You have the insolence and stupidity of youth, and you would do well to learn to respect your elders. But I believe you mean what you say. And I cannot pretend not to sympathise with your cause, even though I will not allow you to milk me like some beast of burden. But I will help you.” He paused, looking directly at Jamie. “I will give you what you want.”
Jamie took a deep breath. At the back of his mind, a possibility was forming, cold and dreadful. But on some level he realised he had always been aware of it, even as the orders for the operation appeared on his console screen.
He had always known that it might come to this.
Then the first victim moved, at a speed that was impossible to follow with human eyes, and an arm, impossibly strong, as immovable as a tree trunk, looped round his neck, pushing his chin up and back.
Jamie’s eyes widened.
Time slowed, thickening to something viscous as the figures in the clearing waded through it.
He saw Larissa’s mouth fall open in a silent scream.
Saw Petrov turn and raise his T-Bone.
Saw Van Orel take an unsteady, stumbling step backwards, his eyes wide, and, at the same moment, the reality of exactly what was about to happen crashed into Jamie.
He felt a body that seemed to be carved out of stone press itself against his back, and a single hot breath in his ear.
I don’t want this, he suddenly thought. I thought I did, but oh God, I don’t want this. Somebody help me, please. Please.
Then he felt a pain so sharp it was almost sweet as the first victim’s fangs slid through his skin and into his neck.
Larissa was already moving as a scream burst from her open mouth, her eyes billowing with red-black fire, her fangs erupting from her gums.
From some vast distance, she heard her squad mates cry out in shock and fear, but the sounds barely registered; her gaze was locked on her boyfriend, his feet helplessly kicking the air as the first victim lifted him off the ground, blood squirting down his neck from the holes the ancient vampire’s fangs had made.
God no. Oh please, please no. Not him. Not this. Oh please.
She thundered towards him, her scream mutating into a terrible howl of fury, her hands curled into claws, her mind pounding with hate, her vampire side in complete control. She reached out, ready to sink her nails into the first victim’s eyes, to rip him to pieces with her bare hands, to rend and tear and kill.
At the last possible millisecond, Gregor moved with a speed that seemed to defy reality, even when seen through Larissa’s supernatural eyes. His face wore an expression of apparently genuine surprise as he held Jamie out of her reach with one hand and swung the other in a tight, compact arc. It hit her in the chest with the force of an exploding bomb.
The impact was beyond anything she had ever known, the power behind it far greater than that of even Valeri Rusmanov. It sent her rocketing up and back, towards the distant wall of trees, and, as she flew helplessly through the air, her eyes rolling, her limbs shocked limp, a single thought filled her reeling mind.
He pulled that punch. That wasn’t even close to what he’s capable of.
Jamie felt his body start to shake uncontrollably as he hung in the first victim’s grip.
The pain in his neck had disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, but had been replaced by something worse: an unscratchable itch that was spreading through his body, hot and sharp and hungry. It felt like a million tiny ants had hatched in his bloodstream and were now marching through his veins, slashing and tearing at his insides, breathing fire and spitting poison.
His eyes rolled in their sockets, his hands clenched and unclenched, and his tongue felt too big for his mouth, huge and thick and alien. His legs spasmed in the cool forest air, drumming ineffectually against the vampire’s chest and stomach.
He tried to form a coherent thought, to force his mind into motion; he thought that he had heard Larissa scream, thought he had heard her cry and then fall silent, and he tried to focus on her, tried to use the image of his girlfriend to drag himself free of the quicksand that was pulling him down.
Then, through the nausea that was tightening its grip on him, he heard someone – he thought it might have been Arkady Petrov – shout ‘Go!’
Kristian Van Orel was, quite simply, more scared than he had ever been in his life.
He had been frightened by the dead animals that had welcomed them the previous morning, by the forest itself, huge and dark and unnaturally empty, by the brutal murder of Tim Albertsson that had taken place mere metres from where he had been sleeping with a head full of nightmares, and now by the ancient vampire who had bitten his squad mate. But despite the terror coursing through him, years of training took over when he heard the shouted command of his squad leader, and he threw himself into action.
Van Orel had watched as Larissa was sent flying, so instead of rushing the first victim, closing the space and playing into the hands of the vampire’s enormous strength, he took three quick steps backwards, drawing his MP7 as he did so. He raised it to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger, sending a volley of bullets in Gregor’s direction. The ancient vampire was still holding Jamie Carpenter in one hand, but his wide back was between Van Orel and his squad mate, so he had aimed directly at it.
The bullets thudded home, sending plumes of scarlet blood into the air from holes punched in the first victim’s flesh. Gregor whirled round, his face contorting with fury, then threw back his head and bellowed in pain. The noise was unearthly, and Van Orel took another step backwards, this one involuntary. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Petrov and Engel circling away from him, trying to surround the ancient vampire. Van Orel sighted down the barrel of his gun, intending to force the first victim back towards his colleagues, but before he could tighten his finger on the trigger a second time, the vampire leapt towards him in a blur of impossible speed.
Something hammered into his wrist, numbing it instantly. The MP7 flew from his grip, sailing away into the distance. Van Orel had a millisecond to register that his gloved hand was pointing ninety degrees in the wrong direction before pain rushed into him like water from a breaking dam, and he screamed.
Gregor appeared before him, as though materialising from thin air, grabbed him by his collar, pushed him backwards until he was suspended above the ground at almost forty-five degrees, then stamped a foot down on his right leg. There was a horrible sound, like the branch of a tree snapping, before agony so huge it was incomprehensible swept through Van Orel’s body, and he vomited as he floated to the ground, his eyes rolling back in his head, his mind overwhelmed.
Arkady Petrov saw bone tear through the black fabric covering Van Orel’s lower leg, saw his squad mate scream and collapse to the ground, and allowed for a possibility that had only previously occurred to him in the abstract.
I might be about to die. Right now, right here in this place.
Over the course of his career, Petrov had seen many friends and colleagues die, including the uncle he had loved like a father, the man who had first introduced him to the twilight world of the SPC. He had found himself in situations where the odds of survival had seemed slim, been caught in ambushes and traps, the victim of bad intelligence or changing circumstances. But he had never found himself in a situation that, deep down, he didn’t believe he could handle, that his intelligence and skills and experience couldn’t get him out of.
Now, with his squad in tatters around him, Petrov’s unshakeable faith in himself cracked for the first time. Gregor was remarkably, alm
ost unbelievably, powerful, and he was not at all sure that the vampire could be defeated, at least not by him. But as he drew his T-Bone he made a promise to himself.
Die like Yuri did. No surrender. To the last.
The first victim was standing over Van Orel, Jamie Carpenter dangling from his fist like a toy, and looking down at the South African with a curious look on his bearded face; the palpable fury that had momentarily appeared as bullets crunched into his back had given way to what looked like sadness, or possibly even disappointment. Beyond the vampire, Engel was staring wide-eyed at the stricken Van Orel, the sudden, violent collapse of the situation written across her face. Petrov forced himself to ignore her; he took a deep breath, aimed his T-Bone at the vampire’s armpit, and fired.
There was a rush of exploding gas as the metal stake rocketed towards its target; he waited for the crunch of shattering bone, for the sight of blood in the cool morning air. Instead, there was a ripple of movement, followed by the awful sight of Gregor gazing coldly at him, the metal stake held easily in his hand. Petrov stared, frozen to the spot, unable to comprehend what the vampire had done. Then the first victim flicked his wrist, as casually as if he was swatting a fly. The stake tore through the air with a loud hum, and crashed into Petrov’s helmet.
The hardened structure held, saving the Russian’s life.
The armoured plating cracked in a wide, jagged fissure, but the metal stake didn’t reach the fragile skull beneath; it rebounded up into the air, spinning wildly. Petrov’s knees gave way beneath him and he slumped to the ground; it had felt like being hit in the head with a sledgehammer.
He fought for breath, trying to hold on to consciousness, if for no other reason than to face death head-on, as his uncle had done. Through a field of vision that was mostly grey, he saw the first victim carry Jamie forward and pluck the metal projectile out of the air a second time. Gregor turned, raising the hand that held the stake like a man about to throw a javelin, and faced Greta Engel.
Engel stared at the gleaming stake in the vampire’s hand and felt the last of her courage leave her.