Adrift 3: Rising (Adrift Series) (25 page)

Frank Mather hacked out a cough, and tasted blood.

It had been that way for months and, though he hadn’t ever been afforded the luxury of seeing doctors who might accurately diagnose what was happening in his lungs, Frank knew.

Cancer.

He welcomed the disease for what it was.

A blessing; not even remotely a curse.

Freedom at last.

For the better part of two decades, Frank had been a prisoner at a jail run by the insane. When he had first encountered Jennifer Craven, she had been little more than a girl, but her ruthless cruelty had been full grown. It was Craven herself who had punctured Frank’s body with bullets at a dig site in Kentucky; Craven who had overseen his laughably insufficient ‘treatment’ and recovery. In more than one way, Frank thought it was Craven who had bestowed cancer upon him. His once-strong body—muscles made wiry with the physical exertion of a hundred archaeological digs—was now withered; little more than a husk. Now in his mid-fifties, he looked more like a man of eighty.

He had spent years underground, moving like a ghost among the Craven family’s archives, working. Earning another day of life for a salary.

In that time he had, on occasion, seen others much like himself come and go: scientists who the Craven family had kidnapped and forced into slavery. He had watched them work until their last breath. Some had committed suicide. A couple had tried to escape, and their parting words to Frank—reassurances that they would bring the authorities—had been the last he ever heard of them.

There was no escape from Craven’s labyrinthine underground prison. Certainly not for a man as frail as Frank had been ever since the gun had inflicted such terrible damage on his torso. And so Frank did what Craven had asked of him. He worked.

The work itself was fascinating, of course—and had Frank stumbled on such a treasure trove during the course of his normal life, he would have been ecstatic. Uncovering information like that which he had at his fingertips every day now would have virtually guaranteed him the respect and adoration of the academic peers which he had once sought so fervently. Frank was now privy to the real history of the world; he could fill in the gaps that left the minds of other scholars blank.

Frank knew what had really happened to the Incas. He knew what truly befell the colony at Roanoke. Hell, he even knew where the inhabitants of far-flung Easter Island had gone.

Jennifer Craven and those who preceded her in her apparently hereditary insanity had been devout in their search for information on the creatures that Craven called vampires. The Craven archives contained an astonishing collection of facts scoured from around the globe across recent centuries; the secret history of mankind, and the enemy which it had been unknowingly pitched against for millennia.

A history that would sink back into the shadows when Frank’s shrivelled lungs finally collapsed in on themselves.

A terrible waste of all that knowledge.

He couldn’t fucking wait.

Frank was attempting—not for the first time—to decode a fragile parchment scrawled with an early bastardisation of Latin when he heard footsteps heading toward the research floor, and his heart sank. Nobody had bothered him while he worked in months: Craven was the only one who had ever visited the bunker and even she had given up on her routine checks for updates a long time ago.

Frank had lived in blissful isolation for a long, long time.

The approaching footsteps—more than one set—could only mean trouble.

He mentally braced himself, praying that this was nothing more than the delivery of some newly-discovered artifact; knowing in his weak gut how unlikely that scenario was.

When he caught movement in the corner of his eye, Frank glanced in the direction of the entrance, and arched an eyebrow in surprise when he saw who walked in, even as he felt hatred gathering momentum.

Andrew Lloyd. Craven’s laughably-monickered
Grand Cleric
. It was a role that Craven had once upon a time earmarked for Frank himself. He had turned it down without pause, despite the tempting promise of human contact. In his previous life, Frank had been an educator, and some part of him would always yearn for the company and energy of young, inquiring minds. But it wasn’t an educator that Craven wanted, not really. It was a brainwasher and a puppet, and Frank would have no part of that.

The real surprise, though, was that Lloyd was not alone. He wasn’t flanked by Jennifer Craven, nor by some armed teenager in ridiculous paramilitary attire, either, but by a woman wearing a torn and bloody British police officer’s uniform, and a huge German Shepherd.

Frank blinked.

Rubbed at his eyes.

The Grand Cleric and his strange companions were still there.

*

“There is barely a culture that has ever existed which didn’t have some variation of the vampire myth,” Frank said quietly. “Mesopotamians, Persians, the ancient Greek and Roman empires. Vampires predate Christianity by a great distance, of course, though the word itself, as far as I have been able to tell, was originally coined some time during the seventeenth century. Still, creatures that feast on human blood—or on human souls—have been talked about for as long as humans have been talking. Of course, that phenomenon was always assumed by the academic community to be a straightforward case of shared subconscious fears. I know now that that is not the case.”

Frank coughed, and wiped hurriedly at his mouth with bony fingers.

Conny sat at Frank’s long, cluttered desk—grateful to be sitting on a chair again—listening to the old man deliver his gravelly history lesson.

She had been taken aback at first by the research lab: unlike the rest of the bunker, which mostly felt like a barely-decorated cave, the lab felt ultra-modern. Machines that looked almost like surgical devices and numerous computers were gathered around a central showpiece: a vast glass display cabinet, inside which sat the skeletal remains of a human.

And a vampire.

Just having the bones of the creature glowering over her made her feel uneasy. Remy felt it, too, she thought: the dog put his back firmly to the display case, but couldn’t resist shooting troubled glances back toward it.

In Frank’s presence, Andrew Lloyd somehow faded into the background. The old man, despite his withered appearance, had a magnetic sort of charisma. When he began to speak, on what appeared to be his favourite topic, it seemed there would be no stopping him.

“What is of greater interest is that—as written history became more reliable following the invention of the printing press—talk of vampires changed,” Frank continued. “No longer were the creatures depicted as monsters or demons, but as people. From the seventeenth century onward, the popular conception of the vampire has been very similar to what we still see today: humans, essentially, who are controlled by their lust for blood, and whose humanity has been stripped away, leaving them as
undead
.”

Frank waved his hands for theatrical effect, and chuckled.

“I believe that this image of vampires stems more from encounters with the people that the vampires control. Their familiars, if you will. The presence of a vampire does indeed strip away humanity, and those who are in thrall to them do have a lust for blood—or at least, they appear to, to onlookers. All of which means that most of the mythology surrounding the existence of vampires can be summarily dismissed. Whatever grains of truth there might once have been have since been washed away by the passage of time. What is left, here in these archives, is the propaganda that the vampires themselves have peddled, and it, too, must be questioned. In reality, the truth about these creatures is most likely whatever you, Miss Stokes, have seen with your own eyes.”

Conny nodded, though virtually everything that Frank Mather had just said had sailed straight over her head. She hadn’t slept, had barely eaten in days. Despite how much she was enjoying listening to Frank’s soothing voice, this was probably not the right time for a history lesson.

She stifled a yawn, and then smiled.

Bored
, she thought. It almost made her feel euphoric. She hadn't thought she could ever feel
bored
again, and yet here she was, feeling like this wrinkled old professor yammering on about Mesopotamians might put her to sleep.

She could have kissed him, if he hadn't picked that very moment to dissolve into a phlegmy coughing fit.

She dropped her eyes to her feet.

Remy was fast asleep, now.

Lucky bastard
, she thought, and checked her mental watch. Logan had been alone for a couple of hours now. Soon, she would have to head back up through the tunnels and find a place for them to sleep.

“What about the people who can resist them?” Conny said, nodding at the display case in the centre of the huge room.

Frank sighed.

“The Hermetics. That is Jennifer’s favourite subject, too.”

“Was,” Conny corrected.

Frank arched an eyebrow.

“Craven’s dead.”

Frank’s face split in a wicked grin. “Couldn't have happened to a nicer person. It hadn't occurred to me that she might have expired. I thought she was the only one who could open the door to this place.”

Conny’s brow furrowed. “You can tell when the door is open from down here?”

Frank nodded. “Oh, it's all
very
high tech down here, Miss Stokes. Equipment I could only have dreamed about back in my time as a professor. The archives were an obsession of Jennifer's, and of mine too, eventually. Everything is linked by computer, and this part of the facility runs on a separate power source to the rest. She was always worried about losing data.”

Conny nodded absently.

“So, what data
do
you have on these Hermetics?

“Not much,” Frank said, “and most of what I
do
have is stored up here.” He tapped his forehead. “The human skeleton you see in that case is completely unremarkable. If the person who rode those bones around had something unique about them, it was located in the soft tissue. What I have is no more than theories, I’m afraid.”

“Such as?”

Frank waited for another coughing fit to pass. “I think the Hermetics were a genetic mutation, specifically a mutation that affected their brain. Their minds were different to those of other humans, and the vampires either would not—or could not—break into their minds as a result.”

“Different how?” Conny said, her interest piqued.

“I suppose to you and me, it would look like a brain disorder of some sort. An illness.”

Conny’s eyes widened.

“Like Huntington’s?”

Frank scratched at his whiskery chin. “Possibly,” he said. “It could have been anything that alters brain chemistry and function. Something like Huntington’s would fit; the high mortality rate would certainly explain why the Hermetic gene hasn't spread to become prevalent throughout all humans. But Hermetics could be suffering with a whole range of conditions; it could be just one in particular; it could be none at all. There's no way to know, of course, not unless you put someone with Huntington’s in a room with a vampire.”

Over my dead body
, Conny thought. She stood, waiting politely as another coughing fit ripped through the old man’s body. “Thanks, Professor,” she said. “I’ll let you rest up. If there’s anything you need, I’ll be back soon, okay? You’re not alone in here anymore.”

Frank nodded.

“Thank you, Miss Stokes, though it’s not
Professor
anymore. Hasn’t been for a very long time. Oh, there is one thing I should mention: when you get up to the surface, be sure to check the front door for me, please.”

Conny frowned. “No need,” she said. “It's shut, I saw Andrew lock it myself when we all came in.”

Frank nodded. “Yes, but it was opened again an hour ago,” he said, gesturing to one of the computer screens on his desk, “and then relocked. It could just be a glitch, but if the outside world is as dangerous as you say, I don’t think the initiates should be taking any more trips outsi—”

Conny didn't hear anymore. She was already running, her heart leaping into her throat, her mind furiously roaring a single word.

No!

The whole world was shrieking.

The C-160 was making short work of the trip to Las Vegas, in no small part because it had climbed to its maximum altitude, far above the curving horizon, its engines straining; howling ferociously.

Not cruising speed.

Dropping speed.

When they were close enough, Dan, Herb and Mancini were going to leap out of the plane and fall the rest of the way.

The plane felt huge, despite the presence of half a dozen Army Rangers wearing parachute packs on their backs, along with the three
specialists
.

All the Rangers aboard the transport jet had stared suspiciously at Dan, Herb and Mancini as they had boarded, but they hadn’t questioned General Armitage when he informed them that three specialists would be dropping into Las Vegas with them to rescue a stranded Special Forces master sergeant from the basement of the Bellagio casino.

At least they hadn’t given
voice
to their questions, but Dan saw them written clearly in the rangers’ eyes.

Not so much when they looked at Herb or Mancini: both of those men, at least, looked like they fitted the profile physically: either could have passed for a military man, and Mancini in particular, was right at home among soldiers. He almost looked jaded by the prospect of travelling in the C-160.

Yet when they looked at Dan, taking in his too-thin arms and his unruly mop of hair, several of the Rangers aboard the plane looked deeply mystified.

The general hadn’t told them anything about vampires, and he had pulled Dan aside and quietly told him not to say anything, either. Not if he wanted to keep the men on side. This was to be strictly a rescue mission, at least in their eyes. Anything else would throw up questions whose answers might provoke mutiny.

Dan had nodded.

It didn’t matter.

Getting to Vegas and getting into the head of a vampire was the
only
objective. This Special Forces guy, this Jerome Mills? If he had been stuck in a building with vampires for the hour of flight time it had taken for the C-160 to reach Vegas, he was already long dead.

At the rear of the C-160, the hydraulic cargo door lowered, and the persistent whine of the engines became a deafening howl.

As the plane had sped across the Utah skies toward Nevada, Dan had been taken through a rudimentary crash course in what the Rangers called HALO jumps. High Altitude, Low Opening: the soldiers would drop most of the way like stones, opening their parachutes at the last possible moment to ensure they were visible from the ground for as little of the duration of the fall as possible.

It was, they assured him, easier than it looked. Nothing for him to worry about.
Just like falling off a log
.

They’d laughed at that one.

“Just follow my lead,” the captain of the group had said. “Do what I say, when I say it and you’ll be fine.”

Captain Smalling was a serious man. He looked to be around Dan’s age, but their lives had clearly taken
very
different paths. Smalling was all business, all duty, all muscle. He looked unhappy about the prospect of obviously-civilian
specialists
tagging along for the ride, but was devoted enough to duty and protocol not to say so.

Dan glanced at the captain. Smalling stared straight ahead as the plane’s drop-door opened, his square jaw clenched like a fist, his eyes focused. He looked like he was ticking off a checklist in his head.

Dan followed his gaze.

Outside, he saw the last scraps of daylight slipping over the curved horizon. When they hit the ground in Vegas, it would be evening.

Darkness.

Someone jammed a helmet onto Dan’s head, making him flinch. The helmet was too big; it wobbled crazily around his skull until a grinning Ranger appeared in front of him and tightened the chin strap, locking it in place. The Ranger slapped the side of the helmet, almost knocking Dan over, and moved aside.

Suddenly, he could hear their voices clearly. Fragments of sentences. The soldiers who were preparing to throw themselves out of an aircraft seemed to speak mainly in sharp bullet points.

“Nine jumpers. Ready.”

“Approaching at thirty-thousand feet.”

“Ten seconds.”

“Las Vegas airspace.”

“Looks like something Afghanistan threw up down there.”

Laughter. They didn’t laugh because it was particularly funny, Dan thought, but because it reaffirmed that they were alive. It diffused the horror of the landscape below. It helped keep the fear they surely felt at bay. Not fear of the jump; he was sure they all had plenty of experience of
that
.

Fear of the landing, and what might await them on the ground.

Mancini appeared right in front of Dan.

“You ready for this?”

“I have to be.”

“Just remember everything you’ve been told. Dive out and away from the plane, drop your head. The fall will do the work for you, just keep your arms and legs splayed. Control your descent.”

Control my descent,
Dan thought.
Easy as that.

A voice in his ear said, “Five seconds.”

Dan felt a spike of anxiety lodge in his gut, but he pushed it aside. On any other day, in any other life, jumping out of a plane with no more than ten minutes of advice about what a HALO jump was and how he should stay alive through one would have made him fall apart with terror. Hell, it would have unnerved anybody.

But not today.

There was nothing to fear from the fall. Not even death. At least, if he kissed the Earth at terminal velocity, it would be instant, painless. And, unlike the stoic Rangers, Dan felt no fear about the landing, either. His nerves fizzed with anticipation. He couldn’t wait.

The only negative for him was that one of the Rangers had pointed out that if he tried to perform a HALO jump while carrying a machete, he’d be picking it out of his liver about ninety seconds later.

He’d miss the blade.

Didn’t even get a chance to use it.

“Three,” the voice in his ear said. He envisioned the jump going horribly wrong. The chute not opening, the ground rushing up to meet him.

Dying isn’t the scary part.

“Two.”

Living is.

“Jump.”

The Rangers ahead of Dan shuffled forward and leapt out of the C-160. No fuss, no ceremony: they just filed toward the exit like lemmings and dropped out of his sight. There was only a second between each jumper leaving the plane, maybe two.

No more time to think.

A hand shoved him from behind, pushing him forward.

“Geronimo,” a voice said, and another jumper disappeared.

And then, like no time at all had passed, Dan was standing on the edge of the world, looking down at infinity.

Stepping out into the howling void.

The world below lurched crazily as he plummeted away from the C-160, and his body threatened to start somersaulting. He got a view of the plane above, and of the last of the jumpers—Mancini—being fired out the back of it like a cannonball, and had time to think that the plane couldn’t possibly be
that
far away already, when the ground below zipped back into view.

“Nine jumpers clear,” a voice from the plane said dispassionately.

“Dan, arms
out.
” This time it was Mancini’s voice in Dan’s ear.
That’s the first time he’s called me something other than Bellamy or Asshole
, he thought, and he took Mancini’s advice, throwing his arms wide.

The rocking, pulsing world below steadied a little, and, for the first time, he had a chance to really take in the view.

“Good, Dan. You got it.”

Dan couldn’t respond. The panorama laid out below him had stolen his breath away. Las Vegas was an island of fire in a flat sea of darkness. The city looked smaller than he had expected, and not just because he was viewing it from thousands of feet up in the air. It seemed that the entire of Las Vegas gathered close to the city’s centre where, he supposed, the casinos were located. Beyond that spot, the Nevada Desert crept in at the edges of town with surprising speed.

Other than the enormous fires that were raging out of control through the centre of the city, everywhere Dan looked, he saw darkness.

There was nothing else out here for miles.

“Bellamy, pull your chute on my mark, okay?”

Captain Smalling’s voice.

Already?
Dan thought. It felt like he had left the plane just seconds earlier.

His fingers found the handle of the ripcord, closing around it.

“Three…two…mark,” a distant voice said.

So serene up here
, Dan thought. He shut his eyes for a moment, drinking in the emptiness. Dropping from the sky like a meteor, there was none of the pain and fear that life on the ground had given him. No time to think, to worry, to obsess. There was only the wind slamming into him and the vast, never-ending sky. A rare fragment of peace in a broken world of suffering.

“
Now
, Dan,” Mancini roared.

Dan’s eyes flared open.

The burning city was rushing up to meet him
fast
.

He yanked on the cord, and couldn’t help but let out a gleeful yell of triumph as the chute deployed and pulled hard on his harness.

Below him, the chutes of the Rangers who had been first to jump were already open. They traced a graceful line through the night sky, winding down toward the city. In less than fifteen seconds, it would all be over.

Dan counted down, relishing every moment.

Wishing it would never end.

*

He hit the water like a skipping stone, coming in at an angle that was a little too flat; a little too fast, and as soon as the water brushed against his boot, it was all over.

His descent halted suddenly and painfully, the impact jarring up his legs and into his spine. The water made him twist as he landed, it filled his mouth; it wrapped him in paracord.

It pulled him under.

He began to struggle, thrashing against the cord that bound him, tightening and gripping him like quicksand with every effort he made to free himself, and just when he resigned himself to the fact that he was going to die, pathetically, in the only way Pathetic Dan Bellamy
could
die, strong hands hauled him out of the water, slapping his back and making him cough out a lungful of cold liquid.

Herb stood in front of him with a small knife, cutting away the paracord.

“
Now
that
was a landing,” Herb said, grinning madly. “You sure you never jumped before?”

Dan shook his head, trying to get his brain to stop tumbling and rolling and falling. After a moment, he realised where he had landed. He’d seen this very shot in a hundred movies.

The fountains outside the Bellagio. Right outside the front door.

Bullseye.

Dan shook the fall from his mind, clearing his head, and looked around. Without power, the fountains were just a still pond, now, and beyond the water, he got his first proper look at the famous Las Vegas Strip.

The city belonged to the dead.

He had half-expected to leap into a warzone, but in Vegas at least, the war looked to be already over. There were no minds left for the vampires to take. Perhaps there
were
still people out there, cowering in buildings, hiding in closets as Master Sergeant Jerome Mills supposedly was, but out on the streets there was no sign of life.

Only signs of death.

If the vampires were still here, they were out hunting. Rounding up the stragglers.

His mind flitted back to the first time he had laid eyes on the creatures, in the incredible man-made park at the centre of the cruise ship. There, the vampires had exploded like a bomb, causing massive damage instantly, and then they had fanned out, determined to hunt down and kill every last soul aboard.

They’re still here
, he thought grimly.
They have to be. Out there somewhere. Hunting.

Feeding.

He wondered if, even now, glowing red eyes were observing the humans who had dropped from the sky into Vegas; watching their progress with inhuman hunger.

The Rangers converged on his position silently, communicating with gestures. Dan didn’t understand most of it, but when they started scampering through a field of corpses toward an open doorway to the left of the fountains, he understood enough. He exchanged a glance with Herb, and set off after them.

The soldiers regrouped at the top of a flight of steps inside a long, curving corridor which acted as an overpass. Full of walkways and now-dormant escalators, the corridor had allowed pedestrians to cross the sculpted Bellagio gardens below and head into the hotel itself. More importantly, it got the group of soldiers out of the open, and away from prying eyes.