Battle Lines

by Will Hill

  Purple fire burst from the vampire’s features, and he screamed in high-pitched agony. Harker beat at his face with his hands, stumbling to his knees as he did so. The fire licked across his fingers, burning them red, as smoke began to plume from his body. Matt stared, his stomach churning, as Harker beat out the roaring purple flames and raised his head.

  What looked up at him was little more than a skull.

  One of the eyes was gone; the other swiveled madly. The skin of Harker’s face had dissolved, revealing thick muscle and gleaming white bone. His teeth were visible through ragged holes in his cheeks, and his scalp was burnt black where his hair had caught fire.

  Then slowly, almost unbelievably, the vampire climbed to his feet.

  * * *

  The pain was beyond excruciating; Albert Harker felt as though he was being sliced to ribbons with a thousand razor blades.

  His face burned with an agony he would not have thought possible, and his nostrils were full of the smell of his own roasted flesh. His mind was reeling with shock; he tried to form a single coherent thought and felt it slip away, over and over. Acting on nothing more than instinct, he lurched to his feet and looked around the loading bay with half of his vision dark. The printing press workers were staring at him with stricken expressions of horror on their faces. One of the Blacklight soldiers was still squirming beneath the fallen door, one was still backed against the conveyor belt, and the big one, the monster, was lying motionless on the floor. Pete Randall and Greg Browning were looking at him with disgust on their pale faces. And McKenna? Kevin McKenna was dead, his throat torn out by Albert’s own hands. The journalist’s blood had coated his skin until the purple fire had burned it away.

  Clarity swept through his damaged, broken mind, carrying with it the voices of his father and brother.

  Failure. Disappointment. Embarrassment.

  Harker threw back his head and howled, a harsh, jagged noise that sounded far from human. He had controlled the pain of what had been done to him for so long, using it as fuel to keep his desire for revenge burning, but now it ran freely through him, threatening to drive him to his knees.

  Useless. Black sheep. Second-best.

  He looked at the conveyor belt, at hundreds of copies of the newspaper he had killed to produce, and felt something tear open inside him. It was as though the flames had scoured his soul, leaving behind an empty husk that had brought damnation upon itself when it had spilled innocent blood.

  Godforsaken. Waste. Disgrace.

  Harker howled again, as the voices of his father and brother screamed at him, telling him that he had done nothing less than prove them right, that he had deserved everything that had happened to him. Kevin McKenna rose into his mind, his nervous, open face now harsh and accusing, his ruined throat gushing blood as he asked the question that he had asked so many times, the question that Harker had answered every time with lies.

  No one gets hurt, right?

  * * *

  The vampire staggered toward him, smoke rising from his head and neck. Matt dropped the spent beam gun and pulled his stake from his belt. He held it out before him in a shaking hand, his reason wiped away by the unrelenting horror that had unfolded around him.

  Albert Harker stopped before him, his breath coming in ragged whistles, his one remaining eye spinning in its socket, the distance between himself and the stake in the terrified teenager’s hand no more than a few inches.

  “Make them proud,” said the vampire, the words wet and strangled. “Tell my father and brother what you did. They’ll be so proud of you.”

  Matt couldn’t move. He was transfixed by the smoking, devastated chaos that had been Albert Harker’s face; he could not tear his gaze away from it.

  The vampire growled, then moved, his hands rising toward Matt’s neck. His mind unfroze, and he pushed the stake forward, but was too slow, much too—

  Crunch.

  Matt stared in amazement as his stake disappeared into Albert Harker’s chest. Blood began to pour from the wound, running down the metal barrel and soaking his gloved hand, but the vampire seemed not to notice. He looked down, the white of his remaining eye now red, the iris black. Then he looked back up at Matt, his mouth twitching at the corners.

  Smiling, thought Matt. It looks like he’s smiling.

  Then Albert Harker exploded in a thunderclap of steaming blood that soaked Matt from head to toe.

  * * *

  Matt Browning looked around the silent loading bay. The spreading pool of blood that had been Albert Harker glistened beneath the fluorescent lights. Kate was still trapped beneath the fallen door, but was croaking an incoherent stream of cheers and congratulations into his ears. Frankenstein was flat on the ground, his chest rising and falling steadily. The printing press workers were gathered around the forklift, alongside—

  His breath caught in his chest.

  In the midst of all the screaming, the violence, and the spilled blood, he had forgotten what had brought him and Kate on their headlong quest to confront Albert Harker. Now, as he looked at his father’s pale, drawn face, he remembered.

  Greg Browning was standing beside Pete Randall, identical looks of shock on both of their faces. The urge to run over and hug his dad returned, hotter and stronger than ever, but he forced himself to slow down, to think clearly. He took a deep breath, then ran across to where Kate was wrestling with the fallen door. He gripped the edge, heaved with all his strength, and held it up as she wriggled free. She clambered to her feet, then grabbed him in a long, fierce hug.

  “Amazing,” she said, her voice inaudible to the other men gathered in the loading bay. “You’re completely amazing. You got him, Matt. You got him.”

  “I don’t know if I did,” said Matt. “I think . . . I don’t know.”

  Kate pulled away from him, holding his shoulders in her gloved hands. “What do you mean?”

  “He said something to me,” said Matt. “He said I should make his father and his brother proud. And then he lunged, and I . . .” He stopped and took a deep breath. “He could easily have avoided my stake if he’d wanted to. I mean, I barely even moved it. It was more like . . . I don’t know.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would he do that, Matt?”

  “I have no idea. But just before he died, I could swear . . .”

  “What? You could swear what?”

  “I could swear he smiled, Kate.”

  “Jesus,” she said, her voice still little more than a croak. “That’s awful.”

  “I know,” said Matt.

  “But still,” she said. “You’re the operator who destroyed Albert Harker. No one’s going to care about the details. You’re going to be a hero.”

  “I don’t feel like a hero,” he said.

  There was silence between them for a long moment. Eventually, it was Matt who broke it.

  “What do we do now?” he asked, then nodded at their fathers. “What do we do about them?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “But there’s someone else we need to deal with first.”

  She took his arm and led him across the loading bay to where Frankenstein was lying. They crouched down on either side of him, as Kate took hold of his upper arm and shook him gently. The monster’s eyes flickered, and a low groan emerged from his uneven mouth.

  “Colonel?” said Kate. “Colonel Frankenstein? Can you hear me?”

  The monster’s eyes opened slowly. They revolved unnervingly, then fixed on the purple visors leaning over him.

  “I hear you,” he rumbled. “Where’s Harker?”

  “Dead,” said Matt.

  “Who got him?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Matt. “He’s gone.”

  Frankenstein pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked aroun
d at the carnage of the loading bay. “Forgive me,” he said. His voice was like distant thunder. “I let you down.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Kate. “We’re all still here, aren’t we?”

  “Just about,” said Frankenstein. He raised a hand to his chin and winced.

  “Can you call this in?” asked Matt. “There’s something we need to do.”

  Frankenstein frowned. Then he noticed the stationary shapes of Pete Randall and Greg Browning, and he grunted with understanding.

  “I’m not going to stop you,” he said. “Go. I’ll call it in.”

  Kate nodded, then reached out and took Matt’s hand. She lifted him to his feet and led him slowly back across to where their fathers were standing. He saw his dad’s eyes widen as they approached, saw him take an involuntary half step backwards, and felt shame rise through him.

  He’s scared of me, he realized. They both are.

  Beside him, Kate reached up and lifted off her helmet. She shook her head, and her blonde hair fell down around her ears. She took a deep breath and looked at her father.

  The color drained from Pete Randall’s face, as though he had suddenly been switched to monochrome.

  He clutched at his chest, and, for a terrible second, Matt thought he was having a heart attack. His friend stepped forward, her eyes widening in alarm.

  “Kate?” gasped Pete Randall.

  She nodded. “It’s me,” she managed, her voice cracking. “How are—”

  She got no further. Her father rushed forward and lifted her off the ground in an embrace that crushed her tightly against his chest.

  Matt watched, tears rising in the corners of his eyes, as Kate’s dad began to sob uncontrollably against her shoulder. Then he turned to face his dad, who was looking at his friend and his daughter with an expression full of more warmth and empathy than Matt had seen in the sixteen years they had lived under the same roof. He took a deep breath and lifted his helmet from his head. His father glanced in his direction, before returning his attention to Pete and Kate. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he turned back toward his son.

  “Matt?” he asked. “My God. Is it really you?”

  “It’s me,” replied Matt. “Hi, Dad.”

  Greg stared for a long moment, his eyes wide and unblinking. Then he stepped forward very slowly and wrapped his arms around his son.

  58

  AFTER THE HORSE HAS BOLTED

  Jack Williams led his squad through the blood-soaked reception and into the huge main room of the printing press.

  “Two dead here, sir,” said Todd McLean, pausing beside the bound and gagged bodies of the two in blue overalls.

  “Leave them,” said Jack, without even looking. “Harker is the priority. Ready One.” He strode down the space between the silent machines, his T-Bone set steadily against his shoulder. Angela Darcy followed him, and McLean brought up the rear, casting a final backward glance at the two corpses.

  Jack was fuming as he made his way down the long room. Their pilot had pushed his helicopter to its limits, extracting every last bit of speed from its rumbling, protesting frame, but he was depressingly sure it had not been enough. He had been an operator for a long time, and he trusted his instincts without question; those instincts were telling him that he was too late.

  He rounded a corner at the end of the long, stationary conveyor belt and instantly saw that he was right. Colonel Frankenstein was standing off to one side of the wide loading bay that had opened up before him, while five men in blue overalls huddled around a forklift at the opposite end. In the center, beside a huge spray of spilled blood, Matt Browning and Kate Randall were embracing two men he didn’t recognize. There was no sign of Albert Harker.

  “What the hell is all this?” shouted Jack, striding out toward them. “Browning, Randall, I want a report this instant.”

  Matt and Kate pulled away from the strangers and turned to face him.

  “Jack,” said Kate, frowning. “What’s the—”

  “I asked you for a report, Lieutenant Randall,” said Jack, his voice seething with anger. “Start with the whereabouts of Albert Harker, then follow that with a damn good explanation for why you decided to go after this particular priority level 1 target without informing your superiors.”

  “Calm down, Jack,” said Frankenstein, his voice low.

  “I will not calm down!” shouted Jack, making everyone jump. “My squad was put in charge of destroying Albert Harker! Cal gave me the responsibility and . . . and . . .” He sighed deeply, the fire going out of him as quickly as it had flared up. “Just tell me what happened, Kate.”

  “Harker’s dead,” she said, pointing at the wide pool of blood. “Matt destroyed him.”

  “Matt did?” asked Jack, turning to face him.

  “I suppose so,” he replied. “He’s dead, in any case.”

  “McKenna?”

  “Dead,” said Frankenstein. “That’s his blood in the reception. Harker killed him.”

  “Okay,” said Jack. “Harker’s dead, McKenna’s dead. Anyone else?”

  “The security guard who was manning the reception desk,” said Frankenstein. “Three employees.”

  “At least you three are alive,” said Jack. “Who are these two?” He pointed at the two men standing beside Kate and Matt.

  “Pete Randall,” said Kate’s father, stepping forward. “Who are you?”

  “Who am I?” said Jack, incredulous. “What the hell are you doing here, Mr. Randall?”

  “I thought I was helping Kevin McKenna expose vampires to the public,” said Pete. “I didn’t realize this was about Albert Harker’s revenge until it was too late.”

  “We were helping him,” said Greg Browning, stepping forward. “We both were.”

  “I’m assuming you’re Matt’s dad?” said Jack.

  “Greg Browning. That’s right.”

  “Of course,” said Jack, feeling the absurd urge to laugh rising through him. “Of course you are. Great. Is there anyone else here? Anyone else who was involved in this complete and utter shambles?”

  “No,” said Pete. “Me and Greg, and McKenna and Harker. These men had nothing to do with it.” He pointed at the five men in the blue overalls, who were watching the conversation with complete confusion on their faces.

  “Okay,” said Jack. “I’ll have a Security Division team sent here to explain the situation to them. No harm done.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said Pete. “Not exactly.” He walked across to the conveyor belt, picked up one of the vandalized copies of the Globe, and passed it to Jack. He frowned, read the front page, and felt his heart stop in his chest.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, and held it up for everyone to see. “What the hell did you do?”

  “It wasn’t them,” said Frankenstein. “It was Albert Harker.”

  “No,” said Pete Randall. “We knew what we were doing. Nobody twisted our arms.”

  “Jesus Christ,” repeated Jack. “I can’t believe this. Are you telling me these are out there?”

  Pete nodded.

  “How many?” he asked, his voice rising. “How many copies have left this building?”

  Pete looked over at the printing press workers. One of them shuffled forward, a nervous look on his face.

  “A hundred thousand,” he said. “Give or take.”

  59

  WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN LOST

  When did the first truck leave?” asked Jack.

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Where was it going?”

  The man in the blue overalls shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” said Jack. “Don’t you have shipping records? Schedules?”

  “Normally,” replied the man. “Normally, there are eight of us, not five. And norma
lly, there isn’t a bloody monster flying around threatening to kill us.”

  “Goddamnit,” said Jack. “Are you telling me there’s no way you can find out where the trucks you loaded are going?”

  “I’m sorry,” said the man.

  “There’s something else you need to see, Jack,” said Frankenstein.

  Jack looked at the monster. “What is it?”

  “Come with me,” said Frankenstein. “It’s in the editorial department. I’ll show you.” He cast a sharp glance at Matt Browning, who nodded—he knew exactly what the monster was doing.

  He’s buying us time. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen to our dads, so he’s buying us some time.

  “Jesus,” sighed Jack. “All right. Darcy, McLean, secure the perimeter. Any new trucks turn up, stop them and hold them. Nothing else leaves this building unless I say so. Randall, Browning, you and your fathers wait here. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Kate.

  Matt nodded, and waited as Operational Squad F-7 dispersed across the loading bay and Frankenstein led Jack Williams away between the silent machines. When they were gone, he turned to face his dad, anger bubbling up through him. He was intending to ask his dad exactly what the hell he thought he had been doing, if he understood quite how much damage he had done by helping to print the newspapers that were piled behind him, but the outrage died in his throat when he saw the look on his father’s face.

  Greg Browning was looking at him with an expression of utter fury.

  “You left us,” he said, his voice trembling. “Your mother, your sister, and me. You left us, and you didn’t say a bloody thing. We thought you were dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Matt, a lump leaping into his throat. “I really am, Dad. But I had to. I had a chance to do something important, and it was something I couldn’t tell you about.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Greg. “You’re one of them? One of the people that took you away?”