Department 19: The Rising (53 page)

Oh, thank God, she’s alive. But she would have been next,
he thought, wildly.
If I hadn’t come down here, it would have been—

“Not another step, Mr Carpenter.”

The voice was pleasant, and familiar, and it stopped Jamie dead in his tracks.

He turned slowly towards the source of the voice; standing calmly by the airlock door, with a gun pointing steadily at Matt Browning’s head, was Professor Talbot.

“Shoot him, Jamie,” cried Matt. “Shoot him before—”

Talbot’s arm flashed out, and the barrel of the gun crashed into the back of Matt’s head with a sickening crunch. The teenager folded to his knees, a bright jet of blood erupting from his head, then he slumped to the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head. Talbot swung his arm and levelled the pistol at Jamie’s chest before he had the chance to take more than a single step towards the old man.

Jamie stared at him, incredulous, his MP5 trembling against his shoulder.

Professor Talbot was holding the gun steadily in one hand; in the other he was gripping a portable hard drive. He had a T-Bone slung over his shoulder, obviously the weapon he had been using to execute the captive vampires. His face wore a gentle smile, and a slightly sheepish expression, like that of a child who had been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“What are you doing?” asked Jamie, slowly. His voice was full of disbelief; he simply could not comprehend what he was seeing, could not believe this was happening again.

I can’t trust anyone
, he thought, and felt his heart throb with pain.
No one.

“Tidying up,” replied Professor Talbot, briskly. “I do hate to leave a mess behind me when I leave. Nothing worse than loose ends.”

Jamie’s eyes flicked down to Matt, who was lying motionless on the white laboratory floor. Blood was streaming out of his head, but his chest was steadily rising and falling.

“Who are you?” asked Jamie. “Really, I mean.”

“Names aren’t important, Jamie,” said Talbot, smiling at the teenager. “Actions are what matter. I can see you’re bursting to know what this is all about, and since I’m going to kill you before I leave, I don’t mind telling you. Everything you’ve seen down here, everything I’ve shown you—”

The barrel of Jamie’s MP5 twitched fractionally upwards, and he pulled the trigger. The report was deafening in the enclosed space, and a neat black hole appeared in the centre of Professor Talbot’s forehead. A bright spray of red blood and oatmeal-coloured brain splashed against the airlock door. Talbot fell backwards, a look of complete surprise on his face. He hit the ground hard, the pistol spilling from his hand and sliding across the floor.

Jamie sighed, a deep exhalation of throbbing pain and razor-sharp betrayal, and walked across the lab. He stood over the Professor, and looked down at him; the old man’s eyes were wide, staring lifelessly with a look of profound outrage.

“I don’t care,” said Jamie. “I don’t want to hear your story. I just don’t care.”

He heard a muffled banging to his left, and slowly turned his head. Patrick Connors was leaping up and down in his cell, his eyes blazing red; he was beating the thick plastic wall of his cell, a look of unbridled joy on his face. Jamie nodded at him, softly, then walked over to where Matt was lying.

He crouched down beside his friend, and wiped the blood from his hair. The cut beneath was not as bad as Jamie had feared, despite the spray of blood that had burst from it; it was little more than a deep graze. He pulled the field medical kit from his belt, and plastered a thick wad of adhesive bandage over the cut. As he pressed the dressing down at the edges, Matt began to groan, softly.

“Hey,” said Jamie, gently. “You OK?”

Matt’s eyelids flickered, and then slowly opened. The eyes beneath them were dazed, and unfocused, then he blinked, as they cleared. He looked up at Jamie, smiled and then suddenly his eyes widened with panic, and he lurched upright. He groaned, and grabbed his head.

“Take it easy,” said Jamie, slipping an arm round his friend. “Easy. Can you sit up?”

Matt screwed up his face with concentration, and pushed himself upright. The exertion clearly caused him pain, but he pursed his lips, and didn’t cry out. He breathed out, deeply, then caught sight of Professor Talbot’s body, and gasped.

“Is he…”

“He’s dead,” said Jamie. “I shot him.”

Matt’s face curdled into a savage grin. “Good,” he spat. “He killed Dr Yen, Jamie, and all the others. He was going to kill me too.”

“I know,” said Jamie. “And me. But he’s not going to be able to now.”

Matt looked at the body, and then reached over and grabbed something out of the dead man’s hand. He showed it to Jamie; it was the black portable hard drive.

“He wiped all the machines,” said Matt. “After… when the others were dead. Destroyed all the data, everything they’d been working on.”

“Why?” asked Jamie. “Do you know?”

“He said he was finished,” replied Matt. “He copied everything on to this, and said he had to leave. He came in here to destroy all the vampires; he said it was the last thing left to do.”

“You can understand what’s on that drive,” said Jamie, softly. “Can’t you? You can find out what he was really doing down here.”

“I don’t know,” said Matt. “I can try.” He looked at his friend, and then his face crumpled, tears rising in the corners of his eyes. “Who was he, Jamie? I was so scared.”

“It’s all right,” replied Jamie. “You did brilliantly.”

Matt smiled, and tried to clamber to his feet.

“Easy,” said Jamie, quickly. “Just stay where you are, OK?”

“OK,” replied Matt. The trust on his friend’s face sent a lump hurtling into Jamie’s throat, and he turned away before he lost what was left of his composure.

He crossed the room to the first cell on the right-hand wall. Patrick Connors appeared to calm as he approached; he stopped leaping around the small room, and his eyes flared a deep, uncertain
crimson as Jamie stopped before him. His face still blazed with euphoria, presumably at the death of Professor Talbot, but it was also lined with fear, and worry, and Jamie realised he couldn’t allow himself to consider the reality of what the vampire had been through in his time down here in the basement of the Loop.

He searched for something to say, something that would have any meaning for the imprisoned man, that could even begin to apologise for having sentenced him to this nightmarish fate.

The teenage boy and the middle-aged vampire looked at each other for a long moment, separated by the few centimetres of unbreakable plastic standing between them. Then Jamie reached out and typed Admiral Seward’s override code into the panel beside the door to the cell. There was a release of gears, and the plastic wall rose silently into the ceiling.

If he attacks me, I’m dead,
thought Jamie, as the last of the wall disappeared.

For several seconds, Connors didn’t move. Then he stepped forward and did the last thing that Jamie was expecting. He wrapped his arms round the teenager and pulled him into a chest-crushing hug.

“Thank you,” whispered Connors, tears streaming from his eyes. “Thank you.”

Jamie hung in the vampire’s grip, his arms at his sides. He had no idea how to respond to this display of generosity, generosity that he felt utterly undeserving of.

“You’re… welcome…” he managed.

Connors released his crushing embrace, and held Jamie by his shoulders at arm’s length. Tears were cascading down the vampire’s face, but there was the beginning of a smile there too, a hard, narrow smile that was more victory than it was happiness, a smile
born out of nothing less than survival. Then suddenly Connors was moving. He let go of Jamie and ran across the wide white room, skidding to halt in front of the cell that contained Maggie.

Jamie watched as father and daughter pressed themselves against the opposite sides of the plastic wall, both crying, both whispering words of relief, their hands grasping futilely for each other.

He walked slowly across the room, and stopped beside the panel on the wall outside the cell. He entered the Director’s code again, and both vampires cried out as the plastic wall between them abruptly began to rise. It had barely reached waist-height when Maggie ducked beneath it and hurled herself against her father; he bore her to his knees and wrapped her in his arms, her head pressed against his chest, his eyes closed and streaming with tears as he felt her breathe against him.

Jamie watched them, his own eyes welling up, then became aware that Matt had arrived beside him. He turned to his friend, who was standing unsteadily, his face pale, his attention locked firmly on the crying vampires.

“Jesus Christ, Jamie,” he whispered, never taking his eyes off the Connors family. “What the hell was this place? What were they doing down here?”

“I don’t know,” replied Jamie. “Terrible things, by the look of it. Really, really terrible.” He gave Matt as encouraging a look as he was able, then crouched down beside the vampires. “Mr Connors,” he said, his voice threatening to break with every word. “I didn’t know. When I sent you both down here, I didn’t know what they were doing. You have to believe me. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Patrick Connors turned his head, slowly, and looked at Jamie. His eyes had reverted to their usual pale blue, and he kept his daughter’s head pressed firmly against him.

“I believe you,” he said, softly. “I do. But that’s not going to bring back the men and women who died down here, or undo the things that monster did to them.” His eyes flicked to Talbot’s corpse as he said the word ‘monster’, a ripple of fear spreading across his face as he did so, as if he was suddenly worried the Professor might not be dead. Jamie looked around, saw the pool of blood expanding beneath Talbot’s head, and turned back.

“He’s gone,” he said. “He’s dead. He’s not going to hurt anyone else.”

Patrick Connors nodded. He held Jamie’s gaze for a moment, a moment in which the vampire didn’t say any of the things he might have said, then turned back to his daughter.

Jamie pushed himself back to his feet, and felt a hand land gently on his shoulder. He turned to look at Matt, whose expression was full of worry.

“What about Kate and Larissa?” he asked. “Are they OK?”

“They’re alive,” replied Jamie. “Beyond that, I really don’t know. But they’re alive.”

Larissa Kinley, Valentin Rusmanov and Cal Holmwood reached the edge of the shuffling, wandering mass of survivors, and moved among them. Several of them nodded in their direction as they walked, one or two said hello, or offered half-hearted hugs and handshakes.

God, there are so few of them
, thought Larissa.
How badly did Valeri hurt us?

Then she saw Kate, clinging hopelessly to Angela Darcy, and she ran towards her friend. She swept Kate out of Angela’s arms and held her tight.

“Oh God, you’re all right,” she whispered. “I’m so pleased to see you. Are you hurt?”

Kate didn’t respond, and Larissa set her down and looked at her. Her blonde hair was matted and dirty, and her eyes were wide; Larissa took in the entirety of her friend’s face and demeanour, and felt panic rumble in the pit of her stomach.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Kate? What is it?”

Kate’s mouth curled down at the edges, and her shoulders heaved.

“Is it Shaun?” asked Larissa. “Did something happen to Shaun?”

Kate looked at her friend, nodded and burst into a fresh bout
of tears. Larissa wrapped her arms round her again, and looked over her shuddering shoulders towards Angela, who was watching the scene with obvious distress on her face. Larissa grimaced and caught Angela’s attention; she raised her eyebrows in a silent enquiry, and felt her heart sink as Angela just slowly shook her head.

Please no. Oh, please no.

She felt a hand land on her back, and she craned her neck round to see who it belonged to. Jack Williams was standing behind her, looking at her with an expression of enormous relief.

“Thank God,” he said, and wrapped his arms round the two girls. “Oh, thank God you’re all right.”

“You too,” said Larissa. She hugged him back, tightly, although her attention was not really focused on Jamie’s friend. Her eyes were fixed on Kate. “How’s your brother, Jack? Is he OK?”

“Patrick’s fine,” said Jack, releasing his grip. A brief smile crossed his face. “He’s helping down in the infirmary. He’s OK.”

“That’s good,” said Larissa. “That’s really good.”

“Have you seen Jamie?” asked Jack. “He was looking for you. Did he find you?”

“I saw him,” nodded Larissa. “He’s gone to look for Matt. I need to go and help him.”

“OK,” said Jack. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Larissa shook her head. “I’ve got it,” she said. “But I need to go now.”

She turned away from Jack and put her hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“Kate,” she said, softly. “Can you hear me?”

“I’m not deaf, Larissa,” replied Kate, her voice torn and broken from crying. She took Larissa’s hand and squeezed it, and Larissa smiled at her friend’s resilience.

“I have to go and look for Jamie and Matt,” she said. “Are you going to be all right if I go and do that?”

“I’ll be all right,” replied Kate, but Larissa felt her friend’s grip tighten round her fingers. It was only for a moment, less than a second, but it had been there; Larissa had felt it. “Go,” said Kate, letting go and stepping back. “Go and find them. I can’t lose anyone else today.”

Her face threatened to collapse again, and Larissa took a step towards her. Kate backed away, her hands up before her chest.

“Go,” she said. “Really.”

“I love you, Kate,” said Larissa, suddenly. She had had no idea she was going to say it, but she was instantly glad that she had. Kate smiled at her, a smile so small and weak that it almost broke the vampire girl’s heart. “I love you too,” replied Kate. “I’ll be here when you get back. When all three of you get back.”

Larissa smiled at her friend, then turned and ran towards the hangar and the medical containers of blood that would restore her to her full strength.

Jamie let the door of the infirmary hiss shut, his face pale at what was inside.

He had walked Matt slowly up out of the bowels of the Loop, and into the wide, usually spotless white room that housed the medical department of Department 19. Jamie had pushed open the door and been assaulted by a cacophony of noise, and a vision of something that resembled the First World War hospitals he had seen in the old films he had watched with his dad when he was young.

Every bed, and every spare centimetre of floor was covered in bleeding Blacklight Operators. A flurry of doctors and nurses, their white coats long since soaked red, ran among them, dispensing pain
relief, applying bandages and gauze, and in several horrible, desperate instances, administering CPR.

An Operator Jamie had once been on a mission to the Welsh valleys with, a man who was barely five years older than him, lay in the bed nearest the door, blood pumping out of his throat. A doctor was leaning over him, his hand inside the wound up to the wrist, and was futilely trying to pinch the arteries and veins closed with latex-covered fingers.

Jamie watched from just inside the door, Matt leaning against his shoulder, as the Operator’s heartbeat, weakly flickering on the monitor that stood beside the bed, collapsed into a flat, endless line, and a screaming beep from the machines he was attached to. The doctor pulled his fingers out of the man’s neck, and immediately began chest compression, alternating every five presses with a deep breath of oxygen into the stricken Operator’s mouth.

But it did no good. After several agonising minutes, a nurse put her hand on the doctor’s shoulder.

“He’s gone,” she said, softly.

The doctor stepped back and staggered, as though his legs would no longer hold him up. Then he set his jaw in a firm line, and moved on to the next wounded man who needed attention.

Jamie was horrified. He had seen men and women die in battle, had seen innocent victims murdered by vampires, but he had never seen anything as desperately sad as the last minutes of the young Operator’s life, had never seen someone’s body simply unable to cope with the damage that had been done to it, even as the finest doctors in the country fought to keep him alive.

“My God,” whispered Matt. “Jamie, there’s so many of them.”

“I know,” replied Jamie. “It’s really bad.”

Blood was running freely across the white floor of the infirmary,
and the air, made hot and sweaty by the presence of so many men and women, was punctured every few seconds by screams and deep groans of pain.

In a bed to the right of the two boys, an Operator stared at the ceiling, grinding his teeth together with a noise like chalk on a blackboard as he tried not to scream. His left arm was gone, pulled clean out at the shoulder. A nurse was cleaning and sterilising the wound; when she slid a large hypodermic needle into the ragged centre of the hole, the Operator lost his battle, and screamed at the ceiling, a howl of pain and anguish.

Black uniforms filled the room; a group of Operators were standing in one corner, staring around at their stricken friends and colleagues with looks of open disbelief on their faces. They were clutching broken arms and wrists, holding wads of bandage over cuts and gouges; they were clearly the Operators who had escaped with minor injuries, and Jamie told Matt to go and stand with them.

“Aren’t you staying with me?” asked Matt, panic in his voice.

“I have to go and help,” Jamie replied, softly. “You understand that, right?”

Matt looked at his friend, then pushed out his chin, his jaw set in a firm, straight line.

“Of course I do,” he said. “I’ll be fine down here. Go and do what you can.”

Jamie hauled his friend into a rough bear hug, then released him.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll come and check on you as soon as I can. I promise.”

“I know you will,” said Matt. “Just go, all right?”

Jamie nodded, and pushed open the infirmary door. He ran along the grey corridor, and rattled the CALL button beside the
lift. It seemed to take an eternity to arrive, and Jamie had to stop himself hopping from one foot to the other with impatience. Then he heard the lift car slow to a halt, and watched the doors slide open in front of him.

Larissa was standing in the lift.

Her eyes were blazing red, and she had her Glock 17 in her hand; her shoulders were tensed, and she was floating a few centimetres off the ground. It was a look Jamie had seen before, on countless missions, but it had never made him as happy to see it as it did right now.

Larissa’s eyes flared as she saw him. She opened her mouth to say something, but Jamie didn’t give her the chance; he hurtled into the lift and wrapped his arms round her, and held on to her as though his life depended on it.

Sleep, when it eventually came to the Loop, and the survivors of Valeri’s attack, did not come easily. Exhaustion, both physical and mental, finally drove the Operators who had either been uninjured, or had been discharged from the infirmary, to their quarters and into their beds, where nightmares awaited them.

The Loop was alive with rumours of the worst kind; no one knew how many Operators had died in the attack, how many were wounded, or turned. Everyone knew that Admiral Seward had been taken by Valeri Rusmanov, and everyone knew that Jamie and his team had brought Frankenstein home; this was news that on any other day would have been cause for celebration, but the Colonel’s condition had merely added to the sense of fear and desperation that permeated the Department 19 base.

There was one question being asked more than any other, throughout the wide, shockingly quiet corridors of the Loop, a
question that everyone who had survived agreed needed answering quickly, and well: who was going to lead them with Henry Seward gone?

Jamie and Larissa slept curled up against each other in Jamie’s narrow bed. It was a violation of Blacklight protocol, and their own rules, but neither of them cared; they had been apart as the world had descended into chaos, each of them fearing they would never see the other again, and they had no intention of being parted again so soon.

Matt slept next door, his head swathed in bandages. He had waited patiently in the infirmary until the early hours, until the doctors had tended to the critically and seriously injured Operators, of which there were a frighteningly large number.

Kate lay awake in her bed, far from the sweet void of sleep, her mind racing with images of Shaun, a cruel slideshow she appeared powerless to stop. She had watched, feeling utterly useless, as Paul Turner had carried his son into the Loop, with Cal Holmwood at his side. She had wanted to offer to help, to offer to share the Security Officer’s grief, but she had not been able to make herself do so; instead, she had merely watched.

Colonel Holmwood sat at the desk in his quarters, working. He had finished video calls with the Chief of the General Staff and the Prime Minister, bringing them up to date on what had happened, and answering their panicked questions as honestly as he was able. He had set a watch on the grounds of the Loop, had scrambled the sensor arrays and kept the entire Department at Ready One. Now he was trying to make sense of what had happened, of how things had fallen apart so completely.

Frankenstein slept heavily in a cell on Level H of the huge base; the heavy sedative that Jamie had injected into his throat had still
not worn off, and he had shifted back to his human form without waking, sparing him the agony of transformation. He slept curled in the corner of the heavily locked and guarded room, his grey-green chest rising and falling slowly, his face twisted with the pain of bad dreams.

Out on the grounds of the base, two-man patrols walked slowly round the long perimeter, T-Bones at their shoulders. The men were exhausted, to the point of collapse, but they did not complain. Their thoughts were with their friends, their colleagues, lying injured in the infirmary or cold in the morgue, and they would not let them down by dropping their guard.

Eventually, with incredible, painstaking slowness, the watery yellow sun hauled itself into the sky to the east, and the Loop let out a collective sigh of relief.

The long, seemingly endless night was over.

Now would come the morning after.