Department 19: Zero Hour (59 page)

It doesn’t matter what Jamie wanted!
insisted her vampire side.
Who cares? He doesn’t know what this is like, not really. He thinks it means you fly and punch things and never get old.
You
know better.

But it
did
matter what Jamie wanted; if she gave herself the authority to overrule his decision, where would that leave them? Not only would she be rejecting the only help the first victim appeared willing to give them, but she would also be betraying Jamie’s trust, overturning the huge, selfless gesture he had made, and making it count for nothing.

He’ll never forgive me,
she thought.
Never.

“You have nothing to say?” asked Gregor. “So be it. I will let you decide. I know you are fast, and if you clean his blood within the hour, perhaps the turn will not take.” He carefully laid Jamie’s unconscious body on the grass, and stepped back. “I leave it up to you.”

Larissa hissed involuntarily. Her vampire side was screaming that this was some kind of trap, but she didn’t believe that was the case; she thought it was something far neater, and far worse.

He’s giving me the chance to do the right thing,
she thought.
The selfless thing. So that if I don’t, I’ll have no excuses. It will be because I chose not to.

She took a half-step towards her boyfriend. “The others,” she said. “My squad mates.”

“I will take them out of here,” said Gregor. “Send your colleagues to where you made camp when you first arrived. Your friends will be waiting there.”

Larissa wasted no more time. She had no way of knowing with any certainty whether she could trust the first victim, but there was literally no time to lose; she would simply have to take him at his word and hope that he was telling the truth. Without taking her eyes from Gregor’s face, Larissa lowered the visor of her helmet and fastened it in place, taking care that every millimetre of her skin was covered. When it was secure, she walked slowly forward and picked Jamie up from the ground.

Then she leapt into the air, flew up through one of the wide beams of sunlight, and disappeared into the pale blue sky above.

Julian Carpenter screamed as he lurched up in his bed, clutching at his chest. He looked around at the dimly lit hotel room, his heart racing, his skin covered in a film of sweat, his arms shivering in the gloom. He felt sick, his stomach churning, his head thick and heavy, as terror pulsed through him.

Jesus,
he thought.
Oh Jesus Christ. That was so bad.

Julian pushed the covers off his lower body and staggered into the bathroom. He poured himself a glass of water, drank it, poured a second, and carried it to the window on the eastern side of the room. He pushed the curtains back and looked out at the flat grey expanse of the sea, feeling his heart begin to slow, and drained his glass again.

There was a tattered armchair beneath the window and he flopped down into it, still only half awake, feeling the last dregs of the dream pulling at him. As it faded, nausea hit him, and he doubled over, squeezing his eyes shut.

Infection,
he thought.
Poison.

When the nausea had abated, at least slightly, Julian unwrapped the bandage on his forearm and winced at what he saw. The skin around the incision he had opened up the previous day was red, and felt hot to the touch; thin tendrils of dark pink were making their way up his arm towards his elbow and down towards his wrist. Carefully, he rewrapped the wound, and wondered idly where he was going to get antibiotics from; the small doctor’s surgery in the village near his mother’s cottage would require him to register, to show proof of identity and address, items that he no longer possessed. He guessed he would have to go to Norwich, to the hospital or one of the walk-in centres, where he could get a prescription with a fake name that would go unchallenged.

Add that to the list,
he thought.
Like I don’t have anything else to worry about.

Julian got up, and was relieved to find that his legs felt capable of supporting him. He crossed the small room and switched on a tiny kettle that sat on a tray beside instant tea and coffee and shrink-wrapped biscuits. As he waited for it to boil, he allowed himself to tentatively think back to the dream that he had woken from, the one that had made him scream in his sleep.

He had been in the house in Brenchley, looking for something. He couldn’t remember what, but it hadn’t mattered; he had been possessed of the dream-need to find it, whatever it was, and had been searching through the sideboard in the living room when he heard the front door open behind him.

“Marie?” he shouted, because in the dream he had forgotten that his wife was a vampire, locked away in the bowels of the Loop.

There was no response from the hallway.

“Jamie?” shouted Julian. “Is that you?”

Silence.

He got up and walked across the living room, aware that it was now packed with the same round tables and plastic chairs that filled the Ops Room. He picked his way through them, rested his fingers on the handle of the door that led into the hallway, and he realised he was scared.

This house was where he had been his happiest, and should have felt safe. But he had died on the gravel drive outside, and it now felt alien and hostile. Dread squirmed through him, and he wondered briefly whether he should open the door. But dreams have an insistence, are capable of reducing a person to a mere passenger inside a story over which they have no control. His hand turned involuntarily, and the door opened with a click that sent a shiver up his spine.

The hallway was empty.

The dread did not leave him as he stepped through the door. There was no entrance to the kitchen to his right, as there should have been, and the front doors to his left filled a towering stone arch that looked as though it belonged in a castle, or an old château. But he recognised the carpet beneath his feet, the umbrella stand, the side table and its telephone, the pale green of the walls, the wooden staircase leading up to the first floor.

Julian stood in the half-familiar house, his stomach knotted with fear he couldn’t have explained, his arms and back crawling with gooseflesh. Then a voice floated down the stairs, and he found himself fighting back tears.

It was Marie’s voice, high and soft as she sang Jamie’s favourite lullaby, the one that had always persuaded him to sleep, when everything else had failed. The words, so achingly full of the past, were carried on the air and brought a lump to Julian’s throat.

Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop,

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.

Beneath the words, Julian heard a gurgling sound, the happy almost-laughter of his infant son. He wanted to rush up the stairs, throw open the door of the nursery, and sweep his family into his arms.

But he couldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot, and could do nothing but listen.

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,

And down will come baby, cradle and all.

Tears spilled from his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t force air into his chest; it felt like his heart had swollen to a size that meant there was no room inside him for anything else. He listened as his wife began the lullaby again, wondering how long the dream would allow him to enjoy this gift, this precious moment his subconscious had conjured for him.

Drip.

Something landed on his shoulder, just hard enough to make a sound.

Drip. Drip drip.

Julian turned his head. It moved at the contrary speed of dreams, always too fast or far too slow. On the shoulder of his jacket, the grey morning coat he had worn when he married Marie, and which he hadn’t even realised he was wearing, four drops of red were merging together. His head began to lift, and for a millisecond or two, Julian fought it to a standstill; he didn’t want to look up.

He didn’t want to see.

Pain raced up the back of his head and his muscles overcame his authority. His head rose up and back, and he looked, unable to shut his eyes.

Spreadeagled on the ceiling was his son.

Jamie stared down at him with eyes that glowed the colour of lava. Fangs, impossibly huge, protruded from his mouth, bright white and dripping with poison. The lower half of his face was soaked in blood, and his mouth was twisted into a grotesque smile, an animal smile.

“Too late,” growled Jamie, blood spilling from his mouth and falling on to Julian’s face. “Too late, Dad.”

The kettle boiled with a rattle of plastic and a plume of steam. Julian tipped hot water and coffee granules into a mug and stirred it quickly. The dream was already fading, the details melting away, leaving behind a profound sense of unease that seemed to go all the way to his bones. He carried the coffee across to the chair and looked out again at the sea.

I’ll drink this, then I’ll get moving,
he told himself.
Lots to do.

On the seafront, a teenager dragged a protesting dog against the wind. The sea crashed in dirty grey-white waves against the beach, leaving silt and seaweed behind. Julian watched, waiting for the uneasiness to pass, aware that it seemed reluctant to do so.

Ridiculous,
he told himself.
Snap out of it, Julian, for God’s sake.

It was just a dream.

Larissa touched down on the concrete floor of the hangar, gasping in pain, her mouth full of her own blood, her unconscious boyfriend in her arms. Two of the Department’s doctors ran towards her, pushing a stretcher between them, but she snarled at them to get out of the way, hoisted Jamie up, and flew towards the double doors that led into the rest of the Loop.

Her flight from Romania had been almost an hour of constant agony. She was sure the first victim’s punch had broken something inside her, something fundamental; it hurt to breathe, let alone move, and she was coughing up blood at an alarming rate. She had radioed the Loop as she crossed the North Sea, explained what had happened, and ordered them to have a transfusion ready when she arrived. But there had been a second reason for her call; she wanted the Surveillance Division to track her approach, as she had started to seriously doubt that she was going to make it home. Jamie was a dead weight in her arms, and she found herself unable to fly at anything like her usual speed; by the time she crossed the foaming grey breakers where the sea met the east coast of England, it was taking all of her strength to simply stay in the air.

She was not worried for herself; as horribly painful as her injuries were, she knew they were nothing that a litre or two of blood would not fix. But she was terrified for Jamie; if she fell from the sky, and nobody came to find them, the chance to stop his turning might disappear forever. And despite Gregor’s words, despite the guilt and shame that filled her, as bitter and sharp as the physical pain radiating from her chest, she simply could not let that happen.

The doors slammed against the walls as she pushed through them and headed for the lift at the end of the Level 0 corridor. Halfway there, her strength finally failed her, and she stumbled to the ground. She growled, the light in her eyes glowing weakly, and tried to push herself back into the air.

Nothing happened.

She tried again, feeling tears of frustration welling up inside her, and again.

Nothing.

Larissa let out a great sob of pain and misery, and staggered slowly towards the distant metal doors. Each step was agony; the pain had spread from her chest to fill every part of her, from her shoulders and legs to the tips of her gloved fingers. Jamie moaned in her arms, his face contorting at whatever nightmare was running through his unconscious mind, and she redoubled her efforts.

One step at a time,
she told herself.
One foot, then the other.

She walked forward, as halting and unsteady as a ventriloquist’s dummy. When she finally reached the lift, she pressed the button marked C and slumped against the metal wall, letting Jamie’s feet down to the floor and leaning him upright against her, giving her screaming, protesting muscles a tiny moment of relief. Then the lift slid to a halt, and as the doors opened to reveal the long central corridor of Level C, she realised she could go no further on her own. She twisted the dial on her belt that controlled her helmet’s microphone, raised the volume to full, and screamed for help.