Darkest Night

by Will Hill

  “I understand, sir,” he said.

  “Good,” said Turner. “Then I suggest you go and see her in the infirmary. That’s a far better use of your energy than attacking your friends.”

  “I will,” said Jamie. “I’ll go right now, sir.”

  Turner’s expression softened, ever so slightly. “I understand this is hard for you, Jamie,” he said. “I understand the concept of a vampire side, and that impulse control can be difficult. But you almost hurt someone you care about, and you caused an incident inside a Department that is living on its very last nerve. That can’t happen again.”

  “It won’t, sir,” said Jamie. “I promise.”

  “Fine. Go and see your mother. She’s been asking for you.”

  Turner turned and strode away down the corridor. Jamie stared for a long moment, then called after him.

  “Sir?”

  The Director turned back. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “It’s real, then?” said Jamie. “The cure, I mean. It’s really real?”

  Turner smiled. “See for yourself,” he said.

  Larissa woke from a deep, empty sleep and saw 06:13 glowing on the clock on her bedside table.

  She had only gone to bed four hours earlier – Haven was, unsurprisingly, a predominantly nocturnal community – but she had always been an early riser, and the morning was her favourite part of the day. She swung her legs out from beneath her duvet and floated towards the bathroom. As she showered and dressed, she ran through her mental to-do list.

  It was Wednesday, which was shopping day. There was a twenty-four-hour supermarket a fifteen-minute drive south on Highway 9, and making the trip in the community’s pick-up truck was a much sought-after responsibility; it offered the chance to interact with people from outside Haven, if only briefly, and the opportunity to make sure that the fridges were stocked with the kind of beer that you liked. Larissa was on the rota to go, but had already decided that she would trade her spot with somebody else; it was an easy way to make one of Haven’s residents happy, and it was no loss to her. She felt no great desire to go to the supermarket, or into town, or anywhere else for that matter.

  She had everything she needed here.

  Apart from the shopping, there were trees to be felled and sawed, foundations to be dug for the new row of cabins behind the big house, roofs to be tarred, grass to be cut, cattle to be bled, and a hundred other things that kept Haven running smoothly. She smiled as she buttoned her shirt and twisted a band into her hair; it was going to be a good day, she could just feel it.

  Larissa flew down the stairs and swooped round towards the kitchen. The house’s windows were all covered with pale blinds that had been nailed and taped to the frames, but the light was still bright and warm. At this early hour, Haven was blissfully quiet; even with her supernaturally powerful hearing, all her ears could detect was the rustling of tree branches, the chirping of birds, and …

  She smiled, and accelerated slightly; the scent that accompanied the gentle breathing she had heard was unmistakable.

  “Morning,” said Callum, as she flew into the kitchen. “Sleep well?”

  The Texan vampire was leaning against the breakfast bar, tapping an iPad with one hand and holding a steaming mug in the other. As usual, he looked like he had just fallen out of bed; his checked shirt was crumpled, his jeans were spattered with paint and tar, his long hair was pushed back from his face, and his cheeks were covered with fine dark stubble.

  “You’re up early,” she said.

  Callum shrugged. “It’s a beautiful day,” he said, and smiled. “Sleeping seemed like a waste. There’s coffee in the pot.”

  Larissa flew across to the counter and poured herself a mug. She put bread in the toaster and sipped her coffee as she waited for it.

  “What are you up to today?” she asked.

  “I think I’m done tarring roofs,” said Callum, his smile widening. “At least for a day or two. The rota says I’m felling trees, which suits me pretty well. You?”

  Larissa’s toast popped up. She transferred the slices to a plate and buttered them quickly. “Not sure,” she said. “I’m going to swap out of shopping, so I thought I might help dig the new foundations. But I’m going to take a walk before I do anything else. Fancy it?”

  “Sure,” said Callum. He stood up straight, and stretched his arms out above his head. His shirt rode up past his hips, exposing a strip of flat, toned stomach, and Larissa did her very best not to stare at it. He let his arms drop back to his sides and smiled at her. “Let’s go.”

  The two vampires walked round the edge of the lawn, keeping themselves safely beneath the canopy. The morning sun was low, and the strip of shade was barely two metres wide; it forced them to walk closely side by side, and every few steps her fingers brushed against his, sending a tremble through her and forcing Larissa to confront a simple truth.

  She was attracted to Callum.

  It was no use pretending that she wasn’t, or that the feeling wasn’t mutual; the evidence was in the gentle half-smile he seemed to reserve only for her, in the twist of excitement she felt in her stomach every morning when she saw him for the first time that day. Nothing had happened between them; she was still in love with Jamie, and even though he was more than three thousand miles away and she had no idea whether she would ever see him again, giving in to her attraction to Callum would have felt like betraying him. But in the back of her mind, her vampire side, the strident, aggressive part of her that she disliked but had so often relied upon, whispered two words with ever increasing frequency.

  Why not?

  And if Larissa was completely honest with herself, she was finding it harder and harder to come up with a good answer to that question. Jamie had made his feelings perfectly clear, and she was unsure how long she was supposed to keep punishing herself for leaving. She might never entirely stop loving him, and what would that mean for the rest of her life? That she was supposed to spend it alone, a voluntary spinster who rejected every opportunity for human warmth and comfort?

  “Penny for them?” said Callum.

  She looked round, roused from her thoughts. “They’re not worth a penny,” she said. “I was just thinking about this place. I still sometimes have to pinch myself to see if it’s real. You know?”

  Callum nodded. “I know,” he said. “But it’s real, Larissa. You and me and the others built it with our bare hands.”

  “I know what we did,” said Larissa, and smiled.

  They had reached the corner of the lawn, near the first of the row of cabins that led down to the riverbank. They strolled in comfortable silence as the sun dragged itself higher and higher into the sky, covering Haven’s wide expanses of green and brown with warm golden light.

  Callum stopped. “You hear that?” he asked.

  Larissa frowned. “Yeah,” she said. “I did.” It had been low and distant, but unmistakable; the sound of a number of voices crying out at the same time.

  The door of one of the cabins flew open and Emily Belmont peered out, a look of alarm on her lined, weathered face. She had been at least sixty-five when she was turned, and had been a vampire for more decades than she could remember; she was the oldest resident of Haven, which made her a strong contender for the oldest person in the whole of North America.

  “There’s been another one,” she said, fixing her small, beady eyes on Larissa and Callum. “Another video. It’s all over the news.”

  Larissa felt a shiver race up her spine. “Dracula?”

  Emily nodded.

  “Come on,” said Callum. “Let’s get back to the house.”

  Larissa looked at Emily. “Come with us?”

  “No need,” said the old vampire. “I’ll stay here.”

  Larissa turned and flew beneath the canopy towards the big house, Callum at her side, her mind racing. There had been no further word from Dracula since the release of his first video, more than six months earlier, and once the initial panic had died dow
n, much of the media had seemed to convince themselves that it was over, that nothing more was coming. She had never believed that, not for a single moment; she was absolutely certain that, wherever he was, Dracula was making preparations and plans, and that it was only a matter of time until he resurfaced.

  That time, apparently, had now come.

  She flew up on to the veranda of the big house and strode through the door. Callum followed her into the kitchen, where she turned on the television that hung above the breakfast bar and tuned it to CNN. She waited impatiently for a millisecond or two as the screen warmed up, and then the news network studio appeared; the anchor was talking into the camera as researchers and producers scurried in the background.

  The headline filling the lower portion of the screen comprised five words and made its point unequivocally: SECOND DRACULA VIDEO GOES VIRAL. Larissa turned up the volume and stood silently beside Callum as the anchor’s voice emerged from the television’s speakers.

  “… no comment yet from any official sources, although we are expecting a statement from the Department of Homeland Security later today. The new video appears to have followed the same pattern as the first, with a coordinated release across multiple platforms just after 10am Eastern time. For those of you just joining us, let’s take another look at what appears to be a second message from the vampire who calls himself Dracula, and which has already been viewed more than two million times in the last fifteen minutes.”

  The studio disappeared, replaced by a black screen that gave way to a shadowy shot of the vampire who, in what now felt like another life, Larissa and Valentin Rusmanov had once fought to a standstill. There was widespread public doubt about the identity of the vampire in the videos, and whether the threats he had made should be taken seriously, but she did not share it; she knew exactly who he was, and exactly what he was capable of.

  “Time grows short,” said Dracula, his molten eyes staring directly into the camera. “To each and every one of you, I say this: prepare yourself for what is coming. Those who kneel before me will be spared. Those who do not will die. The time to choose has come. My rise is now at hand. This will be my final communication.”

  The video faded back to black. There was a long, pregnant pause, until two familiar words appeared, ghostly grey rising to glowing white.

  “Eighty-two,” said Paul Turner. “Eighty-two successful tests. That’s incredible.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Professor Karlsson. “The reactions have continued to be violent, but the new precautions have prevented injury, and all eighty-two subjects show no trace of the vampire virus. They’re cured, sir.”

  Turner stared at the two men standing in front of his desk. He understood the Lazarus Director’s words, but he could still not fully accept their meaning; it felt somehow nebulous, as though if he let himself believe that what he had been told meant what it should mean, it would somehow all fall apart and drift away.

  “Eighty-two,” he said. “Eighty-two vampires cured.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Matt Browning. “The process appears to be stable.”

  Turner took a deep breath. “Would you recommend it for public release?”

  Browning frowned. Karlsson glanced over at him and shook his head.

  “Absolutely not, sir,” said the Professor. “Under normal circumstances, I would recommend at least a further year of double-blind testing, and that parallel testing be carried out in a minimum of four other laboratories around the world.”

  “But these are not normal circumstances,” said Turner. “As you yourself have often said.”

  “True,” said Karlsson. “And there have been precedents, although obviously not for anything exactly like this. There was an outbreak of the Ebola virus in West Africa not that long ago, and the World Health Organisation authorised the public release of an American drug that was still in its testing phase. But that decision was taken in the light of Ebola’s high mortality rate, as the infected had literally nothing to lose. I don’t know if the same could be argued in this case, sir.”

  “What about voluntary consent?” asked Turner. “If those who wanted the cure signed releases stating they understood the risks?”

  Karlsson shrugged. “It’s a possibility,” he said. “But this is uncharted territory, sir, for all of us. I do know one thing, however. An application for a WHO exemption couldn’t come from us. It would have to come from the government.”

  “Let me worry about that,” said Turner. “How quickly can you give me a report on the tests you’ve carried out so far?”

  “We’re keeping a running report, sir,” said Browning. “I can put a top sheet on it and have it to you in an hour.”

  Turner nodded. “Excellent,” he said. “Truly excellent work, gentlemen. I can’t overstate my gratitude to you both, and all of your team. Professor Karlsson, I need to talk to Lieutenant Browning for a few minutes, so you can consider yourself dismissed.”

  The Lazarus Director narrowed his eyes, but nodded and headed for the door. Turner watched him step through it, then faced Matt as soon as it was closed behind the Professor.

  “Do I need to tell you what this is about, Lieutenant?” he asked.

  Matt shook his head. “PROMETHEUS,” he said.

  “That’s right,” said Turner. “It’s time.”

  “Why me, sir?”

  Turner frowned. “Why you what?”

  “Why is PROMETHEUS something you want me to work on, sir?” said Matt. “There are people more qualified, and far more senior. Especially for something so important.”

  “Lieutenant Browning, you’re the only person who is both a member of the Lazarus Project and a serving Blacklight Operator,” he said. “Which means you’re perfectly placed to develop PROMETHEUS. Karlsson could handle the science, but he would not understand the military need. I could give it to Angela Darcy, or Jack Williams, but the science would mean less than nothing to them. And more importantly than all of that? I trust you, Matt. This needs to remain classified at the very highest level until we’re ready to begin implementation, and I trust you to do what needs to be done. Is that good enough for you?”

  Matt smiled. “I appreciate your faith in me, sir.”

  “I’m glad,” said Turner. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  “Who do you want me to use, sir? With Larissa gone, we’re down to two options.”

  The Director shrugged. “Use whoever the results suggest will be best,” he said. “The infirmary and the cells are full of cured vampires, more than enough for you to thoroughly test them both. Get started straight away, and don’t mention a word of this to anyone but me. That includes Jamie Carpenter and Kate Randall, and even Natalia Lenski. Is that clear, Lieutenant?”

  Matt frowned. “What am I supposed to tell Jamie, sir? He’s going to want an explanation.”

  “Tell him whatever you want,” said Turner. “As long as it isn’t the truth. I want to see results no more than five minutes after you do, no matter how preliminary they might be. I want you to bring them to me in this room, in person. Is that understood?”

  Matt’s face was pale, but he nodded.

  “Understood, sir,” he said.

  The Blacklight Director allowed himself a brief moment after Browning was gone in an attempt to let his mind catch up. Things were moving so quickly that it was becoming a struggle just to keep all the information in his head, let alone process it and arrive at conclusions.

  Decades of fighting, he thought. Hundreds of lives lost, thousands, in every dark corner of the world, and the answer to it all is a blue liquid in a plastic bag. I wonder what the founders would have made of that.

  He suspected that Abraham Van Helsing, who had carried out the first research into vampires and vampirism, would wholeheartedly approve. What Harker and Holmwood and the others would think, he couldn’t begin to imagine; they had lived in a world in which antibiotics were a distant dream, let alone genetically engineered viruses that could rewrite the very building bl
ocks of a human being.

  Turner wished he could tell Henry Seward about the cure; he was sure it would hearten the former Director to know that the Lazarus Project, which he had founded, had succeeded so spectacularly. But he knew he couldn’t; Henry was recovering well from the tortures he had suffered inside Château Dauncy, under the strict, watchful eye of his wife, Emma, but was no longer a member of Blacklight. His retirement had been agreed several months earlier, and with the end of his military career had come expiry of the security clearances required for any kind of access to the Department.

  Turner leant back in his chair and closed his eyes, relishing the sensation of an emotion that was rare and unfamiliar.

  Hope.

  He savoured the moment, then opened his eyes and tapped rapidly on the keyboard of his terminal, launching the communications application on the wall screen. He selected NEW, scrolled down to the Prime Minister’s name, and clicked CALL. The system applied its series of checks, encryptions and security measures; after what seemed like an eternity, the call began to ring. There was a click as the connection was established, and then the politician’s voice echoed from the speakers set into the walls.

  “Major Turner,” said the Prime Minister. “This is a surprise. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until our regular call on Friday.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Turner. “But I think you’ll be pleased when you hear what I have to tell you. I’m calling with good news. Very good news, in fact.”

  “That makes a change,” said the Prime Minister. “What is it?”

  Turner took a deep breath. “I need you to apply to the World Health Organisation, sir. For special exemption to release a new drug into the population.”

  “Why would I want to do that?” asked the Prime Minister.

  “I’ll explain, sir,” said Turner. “But I suggest you sit down first.”

  Janet Delacourte stood in her garden and watched the Sentry descend towards the runway that stood barely half a mile beyond her fence, the familiar pain beginning to build in her ears.