Thirty-eight men died in the SPC control room in less than three minutes.
The vampires struck with dizzying speed, emerging from the swirling snow, biting and clawing and tearing, and the men of the night watch and the BPR were slaughtered side by side. They never stood a chance; they were blinded by the snow and numbed by the freezing cold, and Valeri’s followers butchered them where they stood. Two BPR soldiers ran for the access corridor, and made it into a lift. They survived, huddling in the mess hall on the second subterranean level, with the scientists and doctors and general staff that kept the SPC running on a daily basis.
When the control room was clear, the ancient vampire stepped out on to the frozen ground and hauled the door back into its frame. It no longer fit properly; it had been bent and twisted when he had pulled it free, but it stopped the worst of the wind. The snow dropped to the floor in drifts, piling up against desks and chairs, covering the bodies of the fallen SPC officers, turning pink where it settled over pools of blood. The horde of vampires, most of them streaked red, their eyes blazing, gathered quietly behind Valeri, and followed him into the base.
General Petrov set his back against the door to vault 31, raised his Daybreaker, and pointed it at the lift doors. The radio on his belt periodically buzzed into life, issuing forth screams of pain and snarls of violence. He did his best to ignore the sounds, and concentrate solely on the metal doors that stood closed at the other end of the corridor. Eventually the radio fell silent, and he pulled an encrypted satellite phone from his belt. He typed a message on the glowing screen, nine short words, and sent it. Then he replaced the phone, and waited for them to come.
Even though he was expecting it, the doors slid open so quietly that it took him by surprise. Vital milliseconds passed, and then he pulled the trigger of the Daybreaker, aiming into the confined space of the lift. A vampire roared out of the open doors and took the charge in the shoulder. A second later it exploded, spraying the walls, floor and ceiling crimson. Two more clambered through the spilt blood of their companion and suffered the same fate, before a fourth shot went wide, clanging off the wall and attaching itself harmlessly to the ceiling. Petrov’s fifth shot caught a vampire girl in the forehead, and destroyed her utterly down to her knees. Petrov fought down rising bile, and fired his final shot. For a fleeting second the grey-haired head of Valeri swam into view amidst the smoke of the explosives, but he was gone again before the charge had left the Daybreaker’s barrel. Instead, it thumped into the chest of a vampire woman, who cast an imploring look into the lift before the explosive annihilated her. Petrov threw the spent weapon to the floor, pulled his ancient AK47 from his shoulder harness, levelled it at the lift, and prepared to fire.
There was a moment of calm, as if he had succeeded in discouraging the vampires, but then they swarmed out of the lift again, and Petrov knew he was lost. There were too many of them, far too many; they crawled up the walls and across the ceiling, and bounded along the floor, their mouths open, excitement and sadistic joy etched on their faces. He pulled the worn trigger of his rifle and the corridor was filled with acrid blue smoke. The heavy rounds blew off limbs, punched holes in heads and torsos, but still they came. He was screaming, although he couldn’t hear himself above the rattling din of the gun, and he fired and fired until the hammer clicked down on an empty chamber.
General Yuri Petrov lay on the metal floor.
Something wet was trickling down his back and pooling along the ridge of his belt, and he could see only red through his left eye. He realised with detached curiosity that he couldn’t feel either his arms or his legs. There was no pain, which surprised him, because he was dying; of that he had no doubt.
Vampires stood quietly all around him. He tried to raise his head to look at them, and found that he was unable to do so. Valeri stepped away from the door to vault 31, where he had been examining the fifteen-digit keypad set into the wall beside it, crouched down in front of the stricken officer, and smiled at him.
Petrov forced a smile in return, and found that he could still speak. “It’s… no use,” he said, his breath whistling as it struggled to form the words. “I will… never give you… the combination.”
Valeri’s smile widened, and one last clear thought rang through the General’s faltering mind.
We are betrayed.
Petrov’s smile faded as Valeri stood up. He watched the vampire in the black greatcoat step across the corridor and tap rapidly on the keypad next to the door of vault 31. There was a long beep, and then the locks released with a series of clicks and thuds, and the door hissed slowly open. For a brief moment, Petrov had a clear view into vault 31, and he laid his dying eyes on something that only a handful of human beings had ever seen.
There were only two objects in the vault. In the middle of the metal floor stood a square steel cube, each edge a metre long, and on top of the cube stood a clear plastic tube with thick black metal lids at each end. The container was three-quarters full of a grey powder, and had a label that Petrov couldn’t read pasted on to its side. Then Valeri stepped into the vault, blocking the contents of vault 31 from view, waving a hand over his shoulder as he did so.
With a chorus of snarls, the vampires fell on Petrov.
He had enough time to scream, once.
Chapter 38
LOVE BURNS
For the second time in less than eight hours the general alert rang through the Loop. Operators who had flopped into their beds on the lower levels less than forty minutes earlier were dragged back to the waking world, swearing and cursing as they pulled their uniforms back on and fastened their weapons into place.
Admiral Seward was in the main hangar, directing the sluggish men and women of Blacklight. Out on the runway two EC725 helicopters sat on the tarmac, light blazing from their open passenger compartments as technicians pulled hoses from trapdoors in the ground and filled them with fuel.
“Where’s the jet?” Seward shouted. “Damnit, we’d be there in forty minutes.”
“Cal Holmwood took the Mina II to Nevada three days ago, sir,” replied a passing Operator. “He’s running a training exercise with the Yanks, sir.”
Seward swore heartily, and turned his attention to the line of Operators forming behind him. He spoke to Paul Turner, who was overseeing the mobilisation.
“You, me, and the first eighteen men to report,” he ordered. “Comms and weapons check, then load them up. I want to be in the air in five minutes.”
“Yes sir,” replied Turner. He strode over to the reporting men, and began checking their radios and weapons. When an Operator was equipped to Turner’s satisfaction, the Major jerked his thumb towards the waiting helicopters, and the soldier ran out on to the tarmac and climbed up into one of the choppers.
Admiral Seward left him to it and walked quickly through the corridors towards the Ops Room. He was about to open the door when his mobile phone buzzed into life. He hauled it out of the pocket of his uniform and checked the screen.
NEW SMS
FROM: PETROV, GEN. Y.
VAULT 31 ABOUT TO BE COMPROMISED. HURRY OLD FRIEND.
YURI
A chill raced up Henry Seward’s spine.
How do they know about 31?
He shoved the Ops Room door open and stepped inside. Jamie, Frankenstein and Morris were gathered around a desk in the middle of the room, the teenager holding his radio in a slightly shaking hand. They looked up when he entered.
“Colonel Frankenstein, Lieutenant Morris, Mr Carpenter,” he