by Will Hill
In his quarters on Level B, Jamie was roused from a thick, restless sleep by a heavy knock on his door. He swore, and swung his legs out of bed, and groaned. His head felt heavy and slow, and his limbs were aching, despite the litre of blood he had drunk before he fell into bed six hours earlier.
The second night of the distribution of the cure had gone slightly better than the first; there had been less panic, less frantic urgency among the queuing vampires, and no overt acts of violence. But it had still been long, had still taken careful management, and had left him in a state of exhaustion which was not entirely unwelcome; he had come back to the Loop and gone straight to sleep, where he could stop thinking about his friends, if only for a few hours.
Jamie hadn’t spoken to anyone about anything other than professional matters for two days. He knew it was petulant, and self-indulgent, but the Zero Hour Task Force briefing had devastated him. He was still struggling to believe that PROMETHEUS was real, and that Matt not only approved of it but had been instrumental in its creation, but he could see the strategic argument for the programme, even if he didn’t agree with it; what he could not reconcile with himself was that his friend had lied to his face, and had done so with the clear intention of using him if he saw fit to do so, in a way that he had never even been given the chance to agree to.
It was a betrayal that he simply did not know if he could get over. He had received almost a dozen messages from Kate since, entreaties for the three of them to talk, to sort things out, but he had ignored them all; for the time being at least, he didn’t want to talk to anyone.
The knocking came again. He forced himself upright, floated above the cold floor, and unlocked the door, a single thought pulsing through his mind as he pulled it open.
This better be good.
His heart stopped dead in his chest.
Larissa Kinley was standing in the corridor.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Jamie stared at her, his eyes wide, his body frozen to the spot. Larissa was wearing her Operator uniform and the only thought in his head, one that had burst unbidden from somewhere dark and unstable, was that the last six months or so had never happened; she hadn’t left, she had been here the whole time, and it had all just been a particularly vivid nightmare.
Stillness.
Silence.
Jamie’s body worked involuntarily, forcing his lungs to inhale, and he realised he had not been breathing as he looked at her. The breath broke his paralysis; he stepped forward, his arms reaching out towards her. She didn’t protest as he wrapped them round her shoulders and pulled her tight against him, but her body was stiff in his arms, and he realised something with instant, awful certainty; he didn’t know why she had returned, but it was not for this.
It was not for him.
The deep wound in his heart yawned open, releasing a wave of agony. He released her, stepped back, and forced a tiny smile.
“Come in,” he said, and stood aside.
She nodded, and walked into his room. Jamie closed the door as she took a seat on the edge of the bed, her back straight, as though she was waiting to be called in for a job interview. He pulled his chair out from beneath his desk and sat down. She stared at him, her face pale and expressionless, and he suddenly wanted to scream at her, to call her every awful, terrible name he could think of, to rant and shriek and smash the room to splinters, to show her exactly what she had done to him when she left.
But he didn’t.
“You just left,” he said.
“I know.”
“You didn’t even say goodbye.”
“I know, Jamie.”
He searched her expression for something he could take comfort from, something that even suggested she still cared about him, but saw nothing; she was as beautiful as ever, if not even more so, but her face was pale and empty. It felt like a robot had replaced his ex-girlfriend.
“Where did you go?” he asked.
She winced, ever so slightly. “I’m not ready to talk about that.”
“OK,” he said.
Jamie had imagined the moment of Larissa’s return so many times that he believed he had covered every possible scenario, from tearful joy to screaming hatred. But he had not allowed for the possibility that they would find themselves looking at each other, and talking to each other, like strangers; like people who had never even met before, let alone shared the experiences they had.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes. “For what?”
“For the night you left. The things I said.”
“It’s all right,” she said.
“No,” he said, and shook his head. “It’s not all right. I blamed you for something that wasn’t your fault, and I told you I didn’t trust you. I can’t blame you for leaving after that.”
Her expression softened, just a fraction. “That wasn’t the only reason I left, Jamie,” she said. “I knew that was what you’d think, but I left because of a lot of things. That night was just the final straw.”
“What things?” he asked.
“You knew I wasn’t happy here,” she said. “I mean, you did know that, right? You must have.”
Jamie nodded. “I knew. I think I just tried not to think about it.”
“So did I,” said Larissa. “I tried really hard. But it got to the point where I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror any more. More than anyone, you know what it takes to do this job, how you have to believe you’re doing more good than harm. I just couldn’t convince myself that was true any more, Jamie. What you said to me that night just finally tipped the balance.”
He looked at her, his mind churning with a potent mix of emotions. There was relief that it hadn’t all been his fault, but there was guilt too, and shame; how had he not realised how unhappy his girlfriend really was, until it was far too late? What kind of person did that make him?
Selfish, whispered a voice in the back of his head. Arrogant. Self-involved.
“So why are you here?” he heard himself ask.
Larissa shrugged. “I don’t really know,” she said. “I told myself that Dracula isn’t my fight any more, if he ever was, but I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing while people I care about put themselves in danger.”
“The Director will definitely be glad you’re back,” said Jamie. “Although you aren’t as unique as you were when you left.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Ask Paul about PROMETHEUS next time you see him.”
“All right,” she said. “I will.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. Larissa’s frown remained in place, and Jamie recognised the expression with a burst of bittersweet nostalgia; it was the look she wore when there was something she wanted to say to him, but was still deciding whether or not she was going to say it.
“What about you?” she said, eventually.
“What about me?”
“Are you glad I’m back?” she asked, her voice low.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he said. “Am I pleased to see you? Like, right now, in this moment? Of course I am. But I don’t believe you’re really back, Larissa. Everything about you makes me think that if we manage to defeat Dracula then you’ll disappear again. Am I right?”
“I don’t know,” said Larissa. “Maybe. Probably.”
Jamie shrugged. “There you go then,” he said. “There’s not much point in me getting used to having you around again, is there?”
Silence settled over them once more. It was not as glacial as it had been when she first walked into his quarters, but it was still cold, still full of guilt and recrimination.
“I missed you, Jamie,” she said.
Pain stabbed at his heart. “Don’t say that,” he said. “Please don’t.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But it’s the truth. I don’t regret leaving, and I get that this isn’t what you want to hear, but I really did miss you.”
“I mis
sed you too,” he said. “For a long time.”
“And then what happened?”
“I stopped,” he lied.
Bob Allen stood at the edge of the displaced persons camp, staring at the cloud of dark smoke hanging over what was left of the city of Carcassonne. The fires had raged through the night, the sky pulsing orange, the heat uncomfortable even across miles of countryside.
Then, barely an hour before dawn, they had started to go out.
The satellites had been unable to pinpoint exactly what was happening – their cameras had recorded little more than bursts of movement in the darkness – but the inferno had rapidly begun to subside, as though it was being blown out by some vast celestial being. The new plumes of smoke from the dwindling fires had reduced visibility even further, leaving the men and women in the camp, along with the millions watching the unfolding disaster on televisions around the world, with no option other than to wait and see what remained when the sun finally rose over the eastern horizon.
Allen had waited with his colleagues and the charity directors, giving orders and discussing the unfolding situation at length, but his head and heart were somewhere else, although nobody he spoke to would have known that was the case; he was hugely experienced at hiding his true feelings from others.
Outwardly, he continued to appear the calm, highly capable American General whose leadership they could trust completely. Inwardly, he was wracked with pain at the death of Danny Lawrence.
There were many Operators back in Nevada more experienced than Danny had been, but Allen believed that none of them had been able to match the young Virginian for natural talent; the only one to come close had been Tim Albertsson, who had also died a violent death, many thousands of miles from home. Over the last year or so, Danny had been the Operator to whom Allen had entrusted the majority of NS9’s highest priority missions, and never once had he let him down.
And now he was dead.
Allen had listened to Danny’s final, shouted challenge to the vampires who killed him, his blood running cold, his body and mind frozen by helplessness.
Come on then! Come on then if you’re coming!
It had been the reason he had not slept for a single minute of the long, burning night; Danny’s last words had echoed endlessly through his head, bringing him to the verge of tears, particularly once he had gathered himself together enough to make the call he knew he had to make, to tell Danny’s friends that he was gone.
Kara, Kelly, Aaron and Carlos had managed to maintain what his friend Paul Turner would have called a stiff upper lip, but there had been no hiding the shock and hurt in their eyes, even as they immediately asked whether there was anything they could do. Allen knew at least two other people who were going to be devastated by Danny’s death, and had already asked the Blacklight Director to pass the news on to Matt Browning. He had no idea how to get in touch with Larissa Kinley; she had dropped off the radar months earlier, much to his professional and personal disappointment.
Across the wide fields to the east, he watched the morning sun attempting in vain to penetrate the acrid grey pall, trying his very hardest not to blame the Red Cross team for what had happened, despite their reckless disobedience of a direct order. He knew they had been trying to help men and women too scared or simply unable to leave the doomed city on their own; they had paid for their mistake with their lives, and there was nothing to be gained from speaking ill of the dead, although part of him wanted to.
Part of him really, really wanted to.
“Sir?”
Allen turned to see Luisa Ramirez standing a respectful distance away, her face pale.
“Is it time?” he asked.
“It is, sir,” she replied. “They’re waiting for you in the command centre.”
“Thank you,” he said, and nodded. “Tell them I’ll be there in two minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ramirez. She walked towards the middle of the camp as Allen turned back to face the smouldering ruins of Carcassonne. Less than five miles away, on a nondescript suburban street beneath the smoke and amid the ash and rubble, lay whatever remained of three of his Operators. And as he stared at the swirling cloud of black and grey, Allen couldn’t shake the certainty that Danny Lawrence and his squad mates were merely going to be the first of many, many deaths to come.
Five minutes later, Allen pulled open the door of his now greatly enlarged command centre and stepped through it. He could hear a low hum of conversation as he walked towards the centre of the structure, where Captain Guérin and Director Karla Schmidt of the FTB were waiting for him.
“We said nine,” said Schmidt, and looked at her watch. “It is almost quarter past.”
The German team, consisting of more than sixty Operators and almost as many support staff, had been at the camp for two days, but Schmidt herself had only arrived six hours earlier; she had been in Paris, liaising with the French government, since the crisis had begun. She had immediately sent one of her Operators to the command centre with a request to see him, but it had been barely forty minutes after Danny’s team were lost, and he had refused the request; he had been scarcely able to form a coherent thought, let alone bring another Director up to speed on a situation that was evolving faster than anyone could process. He had sent the FTB Operator away with a suggestion that Schmidt ask Guérin to brief her, a professional snub that he suspected he was paying for now.
“My apologies,” said Allen. “Shall we get started? Captain Guérin?”
The French officer nodded. “Before we begin,” he said, “I would like to say that I am very sorry for the loss of your Operators.”
“The FTB also offers it condolences,” said Schmidt. “I worked with Operator Lawrence on two occasions, and I thought very highly of him.”
“Thank you both,” said Allen. “It’s appreciated.”
Guérin nodded. “To business, then,” he said. “Unsurprisingly, details are very hard to come by. The Red Cross has given a final evacuation estimate of ninety-one per cent. UNICEF believes the figure is eighty-seven. As a result, we can say for certain that the city was not empty when it burned, and fatalities are now inevitable.”
“Perhaps as many as six or seven thousand,” said Schmidt. “If UNICEF turns out to be correct.”
Allen nodded. “An exact number is going to be difficult to come by.”
Guérin frowned. “Why can we not send volunteers in to search for bodies?” he asked. “The sun will not set for another nine hours.”
“Because it is not safe,” said Schmidt. “Apart from the high temperatures and the risk of collapsed buildings, you need to understand that vampires can go out during the daytime, as long as they keep their skin out of direct sunlight. It is perhaps unlikely that Dracula will have vampires patrolling the ruins, but it cannot be ruled out. His deadline for the city to be empty was very clear.”
“Then the bodies will stay where they are,” said Guérin.
“Let them,” said Allen. “There are more important things right now.”
“Agreed,” said Schmidt. “Do we have a damage assessment yet?”
Allen nodded. “I sent a drone under the smoke at first light,” he said. “My tech team finished a composite image ten minutes ago.”
“Have you looked at it?” asked Guérin.
Allen shook his head. “Not yet.”
He walked across to the bank of monitors, opened a new message and dragged the attached file on to the wide screen at the centre of the array. It opened, and he felt his heart lurch as Guérin and Schmidt gasped behind him.
The composite was grainy, and had been digitally brightened, but there was no mistaking what it showed. At its centre, the pale, concentric lines of the medieval city stood perched on their high hill, surrounded by a narrow ring of colour: green grass on the low slopes of the hill, grey tarmac roads, white painted lines, the orange roofs of buildings. After that, there was nothing but devastation in every direction; a vast circle of blackened earth with a r
adius of more than five miles. The roads were scorched lines of black, tracing through the remnants of the city like veins, and where there had once been thousands of homes and shops and offices there was now only a featureless landscape of smoking ruins.
“So little is left,” said Guérin, staring at the screen.
“The full assessment won’t be ready for a few hours,” said Allen. “But my tech team’s estimate is that close to eighty per cent of the city is gone.”
“Scheisse,” said Schmidt, her eyes narrow. “So much?”
“It makes Dracula’s strategy clear, if nothing else,” said Allen. “Once the smoke clears, there’s going to be no way to get anywhere near the old city without being seen. If we make an air approach, his vamps will knock us out of the sky, and he knows the hostages make it unlikely that we’ll take it out long range. What’s left is bad ground to fight on, and unless we think of something else, that’s exactly what he’s going to make us do.”
“So what is the plan?” asked Guérin, smiling thinly. “Leave him in there and hope he doesn’t do anything else?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Although hopefully we’ll be able to come up with something better than that.”
“We?” asked Guérin. “Who is we?”
“I’ve called a meeting of the supernatural Directors for this afternoon,” said Allen. “Two will be here in person, the rest joining us by video link. I will be attending both as the Director of NS9 and as the NATO Commanding Officer, so I would like you to attend as well, Captain.”
“Of course, General,” said Guérin, an expression of pride on his face.
“Who else is coming in person?” asked Schmidt. “Turner and Ovechkin?”
Allen nodded. “Correct,” he said, and returned his gaze to the composite image. “And we need to come up with an implementable strategy ASAP. Because we all know it’s only a matter of time until Dracula makes his next move, and the only question is whether it’s going to be even worse than his first.”