Red Eye - 02

by James Lovegrove

  Every now and then she paused from her labours to take out her BlackBerry and check her site. The hit counter on Tick Talk was starting to go up. On a normal day she could count on perhaps a half-dozen visitors, if that. It wasn’t surprising; it was early in the site’s life and, until now, there had not been much on it that was particularly earth-shattering.

  In the hour since she’d posted up the uncut vampire footage, however, she’d had over a hundred hits. And each time she checked, the total increased. Visitors were leaving comments, too. There were the predictable jaded cynics saying that it was faked, actors in makeup, contact lenses, prosthetic teeth, it was a performance art project or a teaser promotion for some upcoming found-footage Hollywood horror. But, for every one of these, there were three or four who knew the stuff was the real deal and vowed eagerly to tweet and blog about it to their friends.

  That was all Tina wanted. All she needed. Shares, retweets, links, hashtags, burgeoning interest. An exponential chain reaction in cyberspace that would see her video clips go viral and become a phenomenon. Once global critical mass had been achieved, there was no way she could not be noticed any more. Her time of rejection, of continually being overlooked, would be at an end.

  Eventually the interior of the bus was fully dark, not a chink of light coming in other than from in front of the steering wheel, where she had left an aperture the size of a standard envelope.

  The hit counter broke the 1,000 mark and kept on rising, far faster than she’d dared imagine, clocking upwards in leaps and bounds.

  She could feel it in her gut. It was happening. Her site was making waves, the ripples spreading far and wide. Tina “Tick” Checkley was on the brink of the big time.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  THEY MOVED IN a pack, but not as a rabble. Not like hounds or wolves. Organised. Their training was deeply ingrained and still held sway. At all times four of them maintained defensive quadrants around the fifth. The point man led. The rear man checked his six at regular intervals, walking backwards for a few paces.

  They crossed Central Park. Mostly they kept to the wooded areas, using rocks and the winter-bare trees for cover. At the reservoir they startled a jogger, who ran away screaming as fast as his legs would carry him. He didn’t get far. Two of them overtook and overpowered him, bringing him down and tearing him apart.

  Some teenagers having a snowball fight near the Belvedere Castle spotted them. They dug out their phones and started filming. It was the last thing they ever did.

  On the other side of the park, a police cruiser came to a halt. Its siren blurted. Two officers emerged, sidearms drawn. They weren’t quick enough to get off a single round. Their eviscerated stomachs steamed in the chilly air.

  Down the western side of the city, the soldiers loped. They were tireless. They were relentless.

  Not everyone who strayed into their path died. Some people were merely crippled, or knocked unconscious, or left on the critical list.

  Soldiers in Manhattan. Threading through the snow-packed streets. Leaving citizens sprawled and bloodied in their wake.

  Within themselves, though, they were more than soldiers. They were pure. They were free from doubts and concerns. They operated in a world of utter simplicity, life reduced to the fundamentals.

  Acquire objective. Eliminate interference.

  They reached the Hummer. Tracked it with a GPS locator. The stink of Jacobsen was all over the vehicle.

  They dug the Hummer out of the snow with their hands. The engine started first time. They hunkered inside.

  Jacobsen’s final journey was marked clearly in the air, his scent trail so vivid it almost had a colour.

  The Hummer drove, and all across Manhattan sirens were wailing and snow was stained red.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  ONE BY ONE the vampires darted across the dock from the loading bay to the back of the bus. They ducked through the rear door and huddled in the darkened interior. The sun was low and occluded and they were in the shadow of the factory. As long as they moved swiftly, the danger of combustion was minimal.

  When the last of them, Miguel, was safely inside the bus, Redlaw pulled the door shut and headed down the aisle to the front. Tina had bagged the seat directly behind the driver’s. Jacobsen’s stash of weapons lay heaped on the steps that led down to the side door.

  “All aboard the special needs express,” Tina said. “Next stop, music therapy class.”

  Redlaw shot her a look.

  “What?” she said. “What’s with the beetle brows?”

  “Poor taste.”

  “No sense of humour, some people.”

  “I didn’t quite catch that. What did you say?”

  “Nothing. Just grumbling under my breath. About you.”

  Redlaw settled into the driver’s seat. “You seem in an unusually good mood, Tina.”

  “I’m perky. Nothing wrong with being perky. Coach trip. Yay.” She pumped her fists in the air like a cheerleader with pompoms. “Anyone know any songs? How about ‘Bingo Was His Name-oh’?”

  Grimacing, Redlaw fired up the engine. He crunched the gearstick noisily into first.

  “Hey!” Miguel called out. “Easy on the old girl. You’re going to strip a cog, you keep doing that.”

  “If they’d just put the stick on the correct side...” Redlaw hunched forward and peered through the slot in the cartridge paper. “Well, World War Two tank drivers managed.”

  He bore down on the accelerator and the bus drew away from the building.

  Ahead, the factory gates lay askew, dangling off their hinges. Redlaw had bulldozed through them on the way in, much as he’d done with the depot gates. He gentled the bus into the gap. One of the gates buckled and bent under the nearside wheels.

  The bus trundled out along a narrow approach road lined with industrial units.

  “Everyone all right so far?” Redlaw asked over his shoulder. “Don’t expect a quick ride. We’re never going to be travelling much faster than this, not with the restricted view I’ve got.”

  “We’re cool,” said Denzel.

  “Just relieved to be on the move at last,” said Diane.

  “Yeah,” said Anu. “It’s good not feeling like sitting ducks any more.”

  “Mr Redlaw?” little Cindy piped up. “Where are we going to, exactly?”

  “Out of Manhattan,” Redlaw replied. “I haven’t thought ahead much further than that. We’ll find somewhere to pause and take stock eventually. Consolidate our plans there. For now, I just want to put the immediate danger behind us. Get us out of the line of fire.”

  A car was coming the other way along the road. It was squat and dark grey, one of those military-style vehicles that rock stars and movie stars seemed to like. Redlaw couldn’t see into its windows.

  His hands tightened on the steering wheel and he squeezed a little more speed out of the accelerator.

  The car definitely seemed to be on the prowl. Looking for something.

  It passed by, disappearing from Redlaw’s sightline. Automatically he glanced in the rearview mirror, before remembering that the mirror was useless. He could see nothing at the back but black paper. He refocused his attention on the road. The snow had more or less stopped falling by now, but it lay thick and he could feel its resistance against the bus’s wheels. The tyres had snow chains on, but still the bus seemed ready to slew at any moment unless he kept a firm grip. It felt more like being at the tiller of a boat in a sea swell than driving.

  The car was nothing. He couldn’t afford to think about the car. He had a bad feeling about it, but he couldn’t let that distract him. Concentrate on driving. Keeping on the road. Trying not to—

  CRASH!!!

  An immense impact at the rear of the bus. The whole vehicle resounded with it. Everyone was jolted forward in their seats. The wheel bucked in Redlaw’s hands. The bus swerved. He fought to straighten up and stay on course.

  The vampires were yellin
g in consternation.

  Tina cried out, “What in the name of hot holy fuck was—”

  CRASH!!!

  A second shuddering bang. The bus leaped like a horse that had been slapped on its hindquarters.

  “Someone’s ramming us!” Patti squealed.

  “No shit. You think?” Tina said.

  “Who is it?” said a fretful Andy Gregg. “Is it them?”

  Redlaw floored the accelerator.

  “Redlaw? I said, is it them?”

  “I don’t know. Probably. A car just went past a moment ago, one of those Hummers, I think they’re called. It must have turned back. Our blacked-out windows gave us away. Now shut up, everyone, and sit tight. I can—”

  CRASH!!!

  The Hummer must have really poured on speed this time, and come in at an angle as well, because the bus rocked as though a landmine had gone off under its rear axle. It was thrown round, back end slewing outwards wildly.

  Redlaw hauled on the wheel, turning into the skid to counteract it. He’d done a driver-training module with the Met, years back. He knew a trick or two. But a clunky Starcraft school bus was a very different prospect from a police Vauxhall Vectra, and then there was the snow to consider. Half the rules he had learned no longer applied.

  The rear offside wheel struck the kerb. The bus juddered back the other way. Redlaw instinctively wanted to apply the brakes, but that was more likely to lose him control than gain it. He eased off on the accelerator instead, allowed the steering wheel to reorient itself, then stamped hard. The bus jerked forward, finding purchase again in the snow.

  The road terminated at a T-junction. Redlaw threw the bus into a sweeping left turn. He had no time to check if any traffic was coming from either direction, and his scope for doing so was severely limited anyway. He just assumed the way would be clear. Given that the blizzard had brought New York virtually to a standstill, it seemed a safe enough bet. If not... Well, it wasn’t as though he had much choice.

  A horn blared ahead. The viewing slot was filled with an oncoming municipal snowplough truck.

  Redlaw plunged the bus into the opposite lane. He had no idea how narrowly he missed the snowplough truck; he only knew that he did. From behind he heard a faint but heavy thunk and inferred from this that the Hummer hadn’t been so successful. It must have been following the bus so closely that the driver hadn’t spotted the snowplough truck until the last moment, when the bus peeled left and revealed it.

  Was it too much to hope that there had been a head-on collision and the Hummer was now out of action, front end impaled on the blade of the snowplough?

  A just God, surely, would have made that happen.

  But you couldn’t always tell whose side He was on.

  Bullets whanged and gonged into the rear of the bus.

  So much for that hope.

  “Down! Keep down!” Redlaw shouted.

  The vampires, screaming, ducked in their seats.

  “Tina! Bullet holes. Are there any?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Look, damn you.”

  Tina peeped over her seat headrest. “One or two.”

  “Low down?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then our passengers should be all right. For now. Fraxinus don’t have the penetrating power of ordinary bullets. The bodywork should take most of the velocity out of them. But if they start shooting at the windows...”

  They did. Glass shattered. Rounds punched through the cartridge paper. Spears of milky daylight lanced in. The vampires crouched still further down.

  “Brace yourselves!” Redlaw ordered.

  He didn’t give any more warning than that. He hammered down on the brake pedal. The bus went into a straight-line skid, as though on skis. The Hummer pounded right into the back of it, propelling it forward even faster. The two vehicles bobsledded along the street in tandem, locked together. Redlaw held the wheel in the central position with all his might.

  Then he jammed on the accelerator, wrenching the bus away from the Hummer. He prayed to God that he had done some significant damage to the car by forcing it to hurtle headlong into an almost stationary object. Hummers were tough things, but maybe he had cracked the radiator or even bent the front axle...

  No more shooting. For a few blissful moments Redlaw was able to believe that their troubles were over. The Hummer had been disabled. The bus could carry on sailing down the street, unmolested, unpursued.

  Then the revving of the Hummer’s engine returned, growing louder. The car appeared to be pulling alongside the bus.

  And then a muffled thump on the roof.

  Someone was up there. Someone had leapt from the Hummer to the bus.

  Without taking his eyes off the road, Redlaw pulled out his Cindermaker, racked the slide one-handed on his thigh, aimed over his shoulder and blasted six rounds into the ceiling. He ran the shots in a row down the midline of the bus. One found its mark, as he heard a shrill girlish wail followed by a succession of rolling thuds—the sound of a body tumbling along the roof and toppling off the end.

  The roar of the Hummer faded. It was drawing back, no doubt to pick up the fallen soldier.

  “Tina. Patch those holes.”

  “What?”

  Redlaw pointed behind him to where rods of daylight descended from ceiling to aisle. Flakes of snow from the roof were sifting in. “The holes. Stick tape over them.”

  “I’m busy.” Tina had her camcorder out and was popping the lens cap.

  Redlaw snatched the camera off her and shoved it down in the pedal footwell. “Not now. Later. Priorities.”

  “All right,” Tina huffed like a teenager. She rummaged in her rucksack for what was left of the parcel tape and began tearing off small strips with her teeth.

  No sooner were the holes blocked than the Hummer returned, pulling level on the left-hand side again.

  Redlaw veered towards it. The two vehicles touched, flank to flank. Metal squealed. Scraped. Groaned.

  The Hummer drew away, then returned the favour by shouldering sidelong into the bus. A couple of windows broke, but the cartridge paper held fast. Tina had made a good job of the daylight-proofing, Redlaw had to give her credit for that.

  He hared across a four-way intersection, running a red light. The Hummer stayed abreast. The bus was doing a mean 30mph, far too fast for snow as deep as this. Redlaw felt only half in control. The rest was up to providence.

  Another of those muffled thumps overhead. A second soldier was attempting to succeed where his comrade had failed.

  This one didn’t mess about. He opened fire immediately, riddling the roof with bullets. Everyone in the bus started yelling and screaming, save Redlaw. Fraxinus rounds raked the interior. There was a howl as one of them struck home.

  The shooting stopped.

  Clip empty. Redlaw waggled the steering wheel as much as he dared, in order to keep the soldier off-balance and prolong the time it took him to reload.

  “Who’s hit?” he called out.

  “Me,” said an anguished Miguel. “My goddamn leg. Hijo di puta!”

  “A graze?”

  “No. It’s gone right in. Deep. Hurts like a bitch.”

  There was nothing that could be done for him, then. A graze from a Fraxinus was survivable, if you hacked around the wound with a knife straight away and gouged out all of the flesh that had come into contact with the bullet. But since this bullet was lodged in Miguel’s leg, its ash-wood would already be poisoning him, contaminating his system. The rot would spread outwards like high-speed, red-hot gangrene. Miguel was doomed.

  He knew it. His face was wan, his already sallow complexion now gone the grey of oatmeal. His eyes were dark and lost, filled with dread.

  “I need both hands free,” Redlaw told him. “You’re the professional busman. Take the wheel.”

  Miguel understood what was being asked of him. He didn’t have long. Might as well put his last few minutes to good use, even though he and Redlaw w
ere both aware that it was going to cause him further suffering. He limped up the aisle, through the crisscrossing bars of dim sunlight. Each beam singed his skin like a brand.

  Redlaw sprang from the driver’s seat and Miguel slid in to take his place. The bus decelerated momentarily but Miguel soon had it up and rolling again.

  “Won’t be for long,” Redlaw said. “Just so that I can deal with the bloke on top. Can you hang on?”

  Miguel peered into the slot as though it were a portal into the heart of a nuclear bomb blast. The skin around his eyes had already begun to redden.

  “Wish I had some shades,” he said. “Yeah, I can hold on. Just be quick.”

  “Keep her steady as you can.” Redlaw patted Miguel on the shoulder, then dived for the AR-15. Holding the rifle vertical, he strode down the aisle, firing upwards at random. He didn’t expect to get as lucky this time as he had the last, but he wanted the soldier on the hop, unsure.

  “Stay right down,” he ordered the vampires. “Yet more light coming in.” He flung open the rear door, slung the rifle over his back by its strap and swung himself out. Using the backs of the rear seats as footholds, he clambered up onto the roof.

  In front of him, ankle-deep in trampled, pockmarked snow, was one of the largest human beings he had ever laid eyes on. The soldier was at least six-five and massively muscled, with the proportions of a bodybuilder. His sleeves and trouser legs strained to contain his immense knotty limbs. Whether he was white, black, Asian, whatever, there was no way of telling. Not an inch of his body was exposed. Battle fatigues, helmet, goggles, face mask and gloves covered all.

  He was braced with a semiautomatic rifle pointing downward, ready to send more bullets into the bus. Then he straightened. He turned. His augmented sensorium had alerted him to a presence behind him.

  Redlaw threw himself flat, bringing the AR-15 to bear at the same time. He tried to line up a shot, but the soldier leapt, landed right in front of him, and booted the rifle out of his hands.

  Rather than go to retrieve that gun, Redlaw grabbed the soldier’s gun by the barrel. He twisted it to the side as hard as he could, hauling himself upright at the same time.