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Jamie Carpenter walked along the corridor of Level 0 towards a meeting he no longer saw any point in.
The Zero Hour Task Force had been created specifically to deal with Dracula, and to attempt to prevent the passing of the Intelligence Division’s best estimate of when the first vampire would regain his full strength, the implication being that unless he was stopped before then, it would be unlikely he could be stopped at all.
Zero Hour had been six months ago.
Jamie reached the Ops Room, laid a hand on its door, and took a deep breath, steeling himself against the next thirty minutes or so. There had been a time when he had been proud to be a member of the Task Force, working on matters of the very highest priority alongside people he had respected. But Henry Seward was gone, Cal Holmwood was dead, he no longer spoke to Frankenstein, and Richard Brennan had turned out to be a spy who had tried to assassinate Kate and Paul Turner before he too had died. The Zero Hour briefings, once so full of purpose, had become meetings of misery, of decline and failure.
The release of Dracula’s video had initially shocked them, then given them momentary hope that it might provide clues to the first vampire’s location. But it had led nowhere, despite painstaking analysis of every frame; there had been nothing in the video to suggest where he was or what he might do next, and every other line of enquiry had turned as cold as ice. As a result, Jamie no longer believed there was any chance of finding Dracula before he wanted to be found, and was far from alone in that opinion. And with no updates on the vampire the Task Force had been created to stop, the Zero Hour briefings were now usually full of the terrible things that the public were routinely doing to vampires, and to each other.
The revelation of the existence of the supernatural had unleashed a wave of chaos and violence, one that showed no signs of abating. Patrol Responds, the routine missions that had once seen Operational Squads hunting down and destroying vampires, had become exercises in policing the human population as they hacked and clawed at each other, fear and paranoia hijacking their reason. On a seemingly daily basis, the government called for calm, the supernatural integration groups called for harmony, and those vampires who had been brave enough to put their heads above the parapet tried to explain to the frightened populace that the overwhelming majority of their kind were not dangerous.
But more than six months after V-Day, as the date of Gideon’s explosive appearance on Coffee Break had become known, the violence continued to escalate, and nobody seemed to have a clue how to stop it.
Jamie pushed open the door and nodded at the men and women already sitting around the Ops Room table. He spotted an empty seat next to Kate, avoided Frankenstein’s uneven gaze, and sat down at the same moment as Paul Turner got to his feet and walked to the lectern at the front of the room.
“Zero Hour Task Force now in session,” said the Director. “Apologies from Lieutenant Browning and Major Van Thal, good morning to the rest of you.”
There was a chorus of muttered greetings and a ripple of nodded heads.
“There’s nothing major that needs covering this morning, so I’ll keep it quick,” continued Turner. “Firstly, I’m—”
“You’re pleased to report that Dracula was successfully located and destroyed overnight?” suggested Angela Darcy.
Turner gave her a cold stare, then smiled and shook his head as the rest of the Task Force burst out laughing. And for a brief moment, the dull pain that had taken up residence inside Jamie’s chest was replaced by a bittersweet feeling of nostalgia. This was how it had been at the beginning, when he was first introduced into a world full of the fantastic and the terrifying, when the camaraderie of the Department had filled a hole in him that he had believed unfillable. The darkness had always lurked outside, but inside there had been laughter, and light.
Now all that remained was the darkness.
Most of the time, at least.
“Very amusing, Captain,” said Turner.
“Thank you, sir,” said Angela. “I do my best.”
“Clearly,” said Turner. “Anyway. As I was about to say, this afternoon I will be circulating the latest collection of statistics and reports that Surveillance and Intelligence have put together. They don’t make for particularly pleasant reading, but it is more important than ever that we fully understand what’s happening beyond the borders of the Loop. There will be a full briefing tomorrow, but in the meantime it goes without saying that I expect you to keep your teams informed, and maintain morale.”
Jamie’s good humour disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
That’s a joke, he thought. Surely it is. There’s no morale left to maintain. Most of the time it feels like fear of being court-martialled is the only thing stopping half the Department doing exactly what Larissa did.
Jamie winced as the pain rushed back to him. Where possible, he tried not to think of her, and had become better and better at not doing so as the months had passed, as it had become ever clearer that she was not coming back. But when someone said her name, or his mind unexpectedly drew her from his memory, the wound that he doubted would ever heal gaped open, raw and bloody. It was another reason that the Zero Hour briefings were always hard: her absence was impossible to ignore.
“As ever,” continued Turner, “my advice is that you not dwell unnecessarily on things beyond your control. We do what we can and we keep going, like always. Moving on, I have an update from the Security Division regarding the continuing search for—”
Something came loose inside Jamie, demanding release as heat rose behind his eyes. “What’s the point?” he heard himself ask. “Really, just what the hell is the point, sir?”
Turner narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant?” he said.
“Dracula’s gone,” said Jamie. “It doesn’t matter how many updates we get from Security, we still don’t have a clue where he is or what he’s planning. We’re only going to know what his move is when he actually makes it, and by then it’ll be too late. And while we wait for that to happen, the people out there are tearing each other to pieces and it seems like all we can do is stick our finger in the dam and hope it holds. So I’ll ask again, sir. What’s the point?”
He stared at the Director, refusing to drop his eyes from Turner’s famously glacial gaze, and waited for the explosion. Part of him was looking forward to it; he was hopeful it might make him feel something, even just for a moment.
But it didn’t come.
Turner stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “That’s a good question, Jamie,” he said. “And I wish I had a good answer for you. For all of you. I wish I had a speech that would make you feel better, that would fill you with fire and fury and send you on your way with nothing but righteous faith in your hearts. But Cal was far better at that sort of thing than I am. All I can tell you is the truth. So yes, things are bad. Despite our best efforts, they’re as bad as I’ve ever known them. Dracula’s move will come, sooner or later, and although many of the men and women in this base, perhaps even some of you in this room, believe that it’s too late to stop him, I don’t. I can’t. When the day comes, when we’re called to fight again, I will expect every member of the Department to be ready. So feel frustrated by all means, feel angry and helpless and like everything is pointless. Then deal with it, put it aside, and do your jobs. For now, that’s all we can do.”
Jamie stared at the Director as silence fell over the Ops Room.
“I don’t know, sir,” said Angela Darcy, eventually, a wide grin on her face. “As speeches go, that one wasn’t too shabby.”
Laughter rippled around the table, and Jamie felt a small smile rise on to his face.
“Thank you,” said Turner. “I’m delighted to have your approval. Now if I might be allowed to continue with this briefing?”