Department 19, The Rising, and Battle Lines

by Will Hill

  “So why do you think—”

  “Instinct, Mr Carpenter,” interrupted Valentin. “Centuries of watching the way men and women lie, and cheat, and conceal. Glances, looks, body language. None of it matters now; I have told you the conclusion I have come to, as the vampire who now calls himself Grey told you. You can choose to believe me, or not.”

  Jamie absorbed what the vampire was saying; it seemed so loose, so tenuous, but he did not think the ancient monster would have mentioned it at all if he didn’t believe in the truth of what he was saying. Jamie was sure that being wrong ranked highly on Valentin’s list of least favourite experiences.

  “So you don’t think the key to stopping Dracula lies with Valeri?” he asked. “You think it’s out there somewhere?”

  “That’s what I believe,” replied Valentin. “But I would urge you not to get your hopes up too quickly, Jamie. If I am right, and there was a vampire turned by Dracula before my brothers and me, then he or she would now be more than five hundred years old, if they are even still alive. There’s every chance that they have been destroyed, and the chance to stop my former master is long gone.”

  “You don’t believe that, though, do you?” asked Jamie. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here. If there was no chance to stop Dracula, I mean.”

  “Think that if you wish, Mr Carpenter,” replied Valentin, smoothly. “But I have already told you why I’m here: because I have no wish to watch Dracula tear this world, of which I am very fond, to pieces.”

  Jamie hesitated, then asked the one question he really didn’t want to hear the answer to.

  “What will it be like?” he asked. “If Dracula is allowed to rise. Tell me the truth.”

  “It will be terrible,” said Valentin, simply. “When he was still a man, I helped him wage a campaign of terror across eastern Europe, for no other reason than his own lust for power, and the insults he believed he had received at the hands of the Turks. The things that were done beneath his banner, I cannot even describe to you; things that make my stomach churn at the memory of them, almost five hundred years later. His appetites for power, and for revenge, are beyond any I have seen in any other living creature. And for a while, after he was turned, they were sated.

  “We lived like kings in the shadows, in the dark places, safe in the knowledge that we were invulnerable to harm, or so we thought. Until Vlad began to become restless, and sought companionship. Valeri was disgusted when he announced his plan to move to London; he would never say it, but it was clear. He thought it a rejection of everything we had fought for, bled for. But Dracula was unmoved by my brother’s disapproval, and we went our separate ways. Until he was killed by the men who founded this very organisation, on the plains beneath his castle.”

  “But he wasn’t killed, was he?” said Jamie, in a low voice. “That’s the whole problem.”

  “Indeed. However, at the time, we had no way of knowing that was the case. It wasn’t until many years later, until the experiments carried out by Van Helsing himself, that we realised there was a chance our master could be revived. And by then it was too late; the remains were gone, and it took Valeri almost a century to recover them.”

  “But you said that Dracula was sated, before he died,” said Jamie. “You said he was on the verge of moving into society, of leaving behind his old ways. Why are you so sure he will want to terrorise the world now?”

  “I once saw my former master murder every single inhabitant of a small town in what is now northern Romania,” said Valentin. “And not just murder them. For three days, our army visited every torture you can imagine on these poor people, and plenty that I hope you can’t. We killed, and tortured; we made the streets run with blood. We forced parents to kill their children, brothers to rape their sisters, husbands to blind and maim their wives. When it was over, we burned the bodies and the buildings, and we salted the ground, so nothing could ever grow there again. And do you know why we did it?”

  Jamie shook his head.

  “Because as we rode through the town, the mayor’s wife did not bow deeply enough as Prince Vlad passed her,” said Valentin. His face looked haunted, the face of a man who knows he can never make peace with the things he has done, and has decided not to try. “For that one tiny unintentional insult, more than a hundred men, women and children died in agony. So I ask you this: can you even begin to imagine what Dracula will do as revenge for having lain dormant beneath the ground for more than a century?”

  Jamie stepped through the second door of the double airlock, his hair still fluttering from the rush of the gas that had billowed around him, and was not at all surprised to see Major Turner waiting for him. The Security Officer was leaning against the wall; he did not appear to have moved at all while Jamie had been inside the cellblock.

  “You made it then,” said Turner, the ghost of a smile on his narrow, empty face. “Well done.”

  “Thanks,” said Jamie, slightly unsteadily. The horror of the tale Valentin had told him had shaken him; its implications for the wider world if Dracula was allowed to regain his full strength were almost beyond comprehension.

  “The Director wants a full report,” said Turner. “Immediately.”

  Jamie nodded. He walked slowly past the Security Officer, who reached out a hand and gripped his shoulder, surprisingly gently. Jamie stopped, and turned to face him.

  “You did well,” said Turner. “I was listening. You should be proud.”

  “I don’t feel proud,” said Jamie.

  The two men looked at one another for a long moment, then Turner nodded, and removed his hand. Jamie turned away, and walked slowly to the lift at the end of the corridor.

  He got out on Level A, and made his way slowly towards Admiral Seward’s quarters. The euphoria he had felt during the early part of his conversation with Valentin, as he heard about his grandfather’s exploits in New York, as he began to allow for the possibility that he was not to blame for Frankenstein’s death, had been replaced by a crushing weariness and a sense of terrible foreboding. Valentin’s description of the things he had done on the orders of Dracula, the details of the first vampire’s sadism and thirst for revenge, had filled him with horror; he had first thought about his mother, happily busying herself in her cell, then about Larissa, and Kate, and Matt. What would become of them if Dracula was allowed to rise?

  He wondered, not for the first time, if he was putting them in danger by merely being their friend; he was certain that Dracula would be taking a special interest in him once he discovered that it was he who had destroyed Alexandru.

  I’m putting them in harm’s way, he thought, as he trudged along the corridor. They’d be safer without me around.

  He attempted to push such gloomy thoughts from his mind as he approached Admiral Seward’s quarters. The guard Operator nodded at him as he passed, and then Jamie knocked on the heavy door. It unlocked almost instantly, and the Director of Department 19 called for him to enter.

  By the time Jamie was standing in front of Admiral Seward’s desk, the exact same spot where he had been standing only an hour or so earlier, where he felt like he had spent an awfully large amount of time since he had arrived at the Loop, the Director’s face was a mask of even professionalism. But as the door had been swinging open, Jamie had seen, for just a split second, a look of open relief on the Admiral’s face.

  “Lieutenant Carpenter,” said Seward. “Good to see you made it. How was it?”

  “It was… interesting, sir,” replied Jamie, carefully.

  “I’ve seen a transcript of the conversation,” said Seward. “Do you believe what he told you about Dracula? About how to destroy him?”

  “I’m not sure, sir,” replied Jamie. “I think he believes it. But I don’t know. Like he said, sir, even if he’s right, it would have taken place so long ago that I don’t see how there would be anything we could do about it.”

  “Nonetheless,” said Seward, “you were sitting there with him, looking at him as he spoke.
Do you think there is anything to his claim?”

  Jamie considered for a moment, remembering the look on Valentin’s face as he explained his theory, a look that was almost smug, full of delight in his own superior knowledge.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, eventually. “I think there might be.”

  “Then I’ll have it investigated,” said Seward, making a note on one of the many pieces of paper that cluttered the surface of his desk. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that—”

  “Everything Valentin told me is Zero Hour classified,” said Jamie. “I understand, sir.”

  Admiral Seward nodded. There was a look of slight discomfort on his face, as though he was about to do something he didn’t really want to.

  “I also have to investigate his claims about your grandfather, Jamie,” he said, softly. “You understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Jamie. “I knew you would. And I need to know if what Valentin said was true.”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” promised the Director. “And whatever happens, I won’t let anyone sully John’s memory. He was one of the best we ever had; nothing is going to change that.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The two men sat in silence for a long moment that wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but was thick with the secrets of the past. After a moment, Jamie sought out safer ground.

  “Do you want to hear my initial report, sir?”

  “No need, Jamie,” replied Seward. “I have the transcript, like I said.”

  Jamie frowned.

  “Sir, Major Turner told me that—”

  “I know what Major Turner told you,” interrupted the Director. “He told you what I ordered him to tell you. There’s something I need to share with you, but I don’t want to get your hopes up unnecessarily.”

  Jamie felt a tingle of excitement run up his spine.

  “Hopes up about what, sir?”

  Seward reached out and plucked a folder from the top of a teetering pile of identical folders. He held it in the air for a moment, as though debating the wisdom of handing it to the teenager. Then he sighed, and extended his arm; Jamie took the folder eagerly from his fingers, opened it and looked down at the cover sheet.

  MEMORANDUM

  From: Marcus Jones MD, County Coroner (Northumbria)

  To: Sergeant Richard Threlfall, Northumbria Police

  Jamie raised his eyes to Admiral Seward, a look of confusion on his face.

  “Just read it,” said the Director.

  Jamie nodded, and turned his attention to the second document in the folder.

  Dick,

  One for the curiosity files I suspect, but thought I should let you know anyway.

  Last night I carried out the autopsy on the body that was found in the cave at Bamburgh (shock horror! – wrongful death. The neck was broken intentionally, and the trachea and larynx are crushed almost flat, from where the assailant gripped the throat – full report attached). As I was stitching him shut, something odd happened.

  My initial estimate is that the body had been in the cave for several months, and it was in an extreme state of decay; but all of a sudden thick black hair started to emerge from the remaining skin, as coarse as animal fur. I’m not making this up, I promise you! I was the only one in the office, and this morning when I took my assistant in to verify the phenomenon, it was gone. I really have no explanation for it; perhaps some kind of anomalous follicular stimulation, or some genetic twist I’ve never seen before.

  Anyway, I doubt it’s of any particular importance, but I thought I’d let you know in case it’s any use to you in terms of identification.

  See you on Sunday – tee time is at 7.45. Love to Judy.

  Marcus

  Jamie read the short letter twice, then looked up at Admiral Seward.

  “Where did this come from?” he asked.

  “It was intercepted by the Northern Outpost,” replied Admiral Seward. “It’s three and a half weeks old. It got sent down here as a matter of course, and the Intelligence Division pulled it out.”

  “Why?” asked Jamie. He was confused; he could not see what the Director clearly wanted him to see in the short, affable letter.

  “Three and a half weeks ago was the last full moon,” said Seward, softly. “And Bamburgh is about five miles north of Lindisfarne.”

  Realisation bloomed in Jamie’s mind, as huge and bright as the sun.

  “My God,” he whispered. “It’s the werewolf, isn’t it? The one that went over the cliff with Frankenstein.”

  “We believe so,” said Admiral Seward. “I’ve sent a team to collect the body. They’re due back within the hour. We should be able to confirm it as a lycanthrope once we have it in the labs.”

  “It was alive when it went over the cliff,” said Jamie, his voice trembling. “It howled all the way down to the water. I heard it, sir.”

  “I know,” replied Seward. “I read your report, and those of the other survivors.”

  “So it died after it fell,” said Jamie, working it slowly through in his mind, trying not to jump to the conclusion that was screaming in the front of his brain. “Its neck was broken by human hands. Hands big enough and strong enough to crush its throat.”

  “So it would appear.”

  “That means Frankenstein survived the fall,” said Jamie, slowly. “He was still alive when he hit the water, and still strong enough to kill the werewolf.”

  “That seems likely.”

  A surge of emotion burst through Jamie, so strong it turned his legs to water and he felt for a second as though he was going to collapse to the floor of the Director’s quarters. He felt tears well in the corners of his eyes.

  “He could still be alive,” whispered Jamie. “That’s what you’re telling me, isn’t it, sir? Frankenstein could still be alive.”

  Seward stared at Jamie for a long moment, then slowly nodded his head.

  36

  VISION QUEST, PART I

  HOPI RESERVATION, NORTH-EASTERN ARIZONA, USA FOUR DAYS EARLIER

  The man who was calling himself Robert Smith stopped for a moment, swaying in the heat of the pounding desert sun. Dizziness had suddenly come over him, but the feeling passed as quickly as it had arrived. He took a long, slow drink from the water bottle on his belt, wiped his brow and continued up the steep slope of the mesa.

  The brown dirt slid beneath his feet as he climbed, rattling away behind him with a soft sound like running water. Tall grasses sprouted from the dry ground in tight clumps, their leaves brown and cracked like ancient skin, and he picked his way cautiously between them, assessing the placement of each foot, allowing his body weight to settle before moving again. Slowly, carefully, he made his way up the last of the slope, and crested the ridge.

  Before him, standing silently at the edge of the flat top of the mesa, was one of the oldest inhabited settlements on earth, a Hopi village almost a thousand years old.

  Old Oraibi. This is where I’ll find answers.

  Smith had paid a pilot instructor in Salt Lake City to fly him into Polacca Airport, a barren strip of asphalt in the middle of the Hopi reservation, flanked by a single row of trailers. From there he had hiked up on to Route 264 and begun walking west, hoisting a thumb at every passing car and truck. After an hour or so, he got lucky; a college student, heading home for the weekend from the University of Arizona in Tucson, pulled his battered, dusty pick-up truck over to the side of the road and shoved open the passenger door. Smith ran up and climbed in, thanking the student as he settled into the worn seat.

  “No problem,” replied the kid. “What’s your name, friend?”

  “Smith. Robert Smith.”

  “Good to meet you, man. I’m John. John Chua.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Smith.

  “What, John?” replied the kid, smiling at his passenger.

  Smith laughed. “Chua. What does Chua mean?”

  “It means snake,” answered the kid, and without wa
rning, a chill surged up Smith’s spine. It was fleeting, less than a second, but John Chua saw it, and frowned momentarily.

  “So where are you heading?” he asked. His voice had lost a touch of its warmth, and Smith realised that the kid was starting to regret picking him up.

  “Not far,” he replied. “Old Oraibi.”

  A tiny wave of relief flickered across John Chua’s face.

  “Cool,” he said. “I’m going to Kykotsmovi. Oraibi’s only a couple of miles further on, on third mesa. Should only take you half an hour to hike up there.”

  Smith settled into his seat, and watched the barren rock and sand of the desert as it flew past his window.

  “That sounds good,” he said.

  John Chua had been telling him the truth. It had only taken him thirty minutes to hike across the dusty, green-brown plain that lay between Kykotsmovi village and the bottom of the slope that led up on to third mesa. But it had taken him another forty to circle around to the south-west, and pick his way up the treacherous surface to the point where he now stood, atop the mesa’s ridge. He had not wanted to follow the highway up to the main entrance of the village; it felt exposed, and obvious. Part of it was experience, and part of it was overcaution, but the upshot was simple: Smith did not want to be seen before he chose to be.

  Slowly, he made his way to the back of the row of buildings standing before him. The village was arranged in uneven rows. To the north, closest to the road, stood modern houses of concrete and sheet metal in varying states of disrepair. Pick-up trucks stood outside one or two, beside propane tanks and overflowing trash cans. He could hear the scurrying of rats and smell the caustic, bitter scent of crystal meth on the warm air. The place was thick with deprivation, and desperation.