of enquiry that the project had moved on from, but which Matt had found himself strangely unwilling to drop.
The screen filled with data, with page after page of equations and genetic analysis. Several lines of text and numbers were purple, and Matt recognised them instantly; they were the protein pairs that had been extracted from the DNA in John Bell’s blood, the first reliable building blocks for what would eventually be the genetic blueprint of a cure for vampirism. Matt scanned the rest of the lines, reaquainting himself with the structure he had built, one of literally thousands that he had sent into the supercomputer array for testing over the last year or so. Forty-three per cent of the structure had been confirmed when he sent it in, which was about normal for a test formula; it didn’t sound like much, but the percentage had been a lot lower before Matt scraped John Bell’s blood and flesh up from the tarmac beneath the wheels of a truck.
Matt tabbed past the structural overview to the preliminary testing results, and sat forward to read them. He skipped the document’s first section, which was the Analysis Team’s assessment of the design he had submitted, confirming that it met all the criteria to be taken forward for testing. The second section detailed the results of their attempts to physically produce the gene itself, hundreds of lines generated by the sequencers and growth managers showing that this particular gene could be provisionally manufactured with ninety-seven per cent reliability. The third and final section showed what had happened when the gene was introduced into cells infected with the vampire virus, and was always the point at which hopes were dashed. Every set of test results had concluded with the word NEGATIVE, eight letters that every member of the Lazarus Project had come to both hate and expect.
But as Matt looked at the screen, he saw that this report was different; there were two words at the bottom of the document, rather than one, and they were words he had never seen before.
VIABLE REACTION
Matt was suddenly aware that his mouth was incredibly dry. He stared at the screen, trying to comprehend what he was seeing, trying not to let his brain go racing ahead of itself, then picked up the phone on his desk and dialled the number for the testing laboratory.
“Analysis,” answered a voice.
“Hey,” said Matt, trying to force himself to at least sound calm. “I sent a sample through three days ago and I’ve just got the results back. Can you tell me if these are simulated findings?”
“Which sample?”
“Submission 85403/B.”
“Hang on,” said the voice. “Let me just bring it up …”
Matt held his breath.
“OK, got it,” said the voice. “Those are real-world results. I’m looking at the production vials right now.”
Matt felt a shiver race up his spine. “You’re sure?” he said. “You’re absolutely sure? The computers really built this and this is really what it did?”
“I’m sure,” said the voice. “Why? What do the results say?”
Matt looked back at the two words at the bottom of the document, as if he was afraid they might have disappeared in the second he had taken his eye off them.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Thanks. I have to go.”
He hung up the phone, and took a deep breath. There was an unfamiliar feeling spreading slowly through him, one that it took him a moment to identify.
Hope, he realised. It’s hope. My God. This could change everything.
Max Wellens strolled through quiet streets, whistling a tune he had been trying to place all evening.
It was maddening; he was sure it was a television show theme, most likely from his childhood in the 1980s, but none of his friends had been able to identify it, not even Sam, whose knowledge of popular culture was usually encyclopaedic. It was a simple melody – duh-duh-duh-da-duh-dum-duh-da-daa – and it had settled comfortably into Max’s brain, with no sign of it leaving any time soon. The only consolation, as far as he was concerned, was that he had successfully managed to pass the earworm on to his friends; both Dan and Barry had left the pub humming it, cursing him as they went.
Max smiled at the memory as he turned off the high street and headed for the park gates. It had been a good night: United had won in the Champions League, the special had been pulled pork burgers, and everyone had been on good form, laughing and joking and mocking each other, as they had been doing for the fifteen years since they met on the first day of senior school. But, as it always did, the walk home from the pub filled Max with pre-emptive nostalgia; he had at least a couple of years before he needed to worry, but he knew there was going to come a time when his youthful appearance was going to raise questions that he could no longer answer with claims of yoga and a balanced diet. When that time came, he would leave Nottingham for somewhere nobody knew him and start again; he knew he would have the strength to do it, but the prospect, unavoidable as it was, nonetheless tightened his chest with sadness.
Part of him believed he should simply tell his friends the truth; he was sure they wouldn’t judge him, and it was far from an uncommon problem these days. But he knew it would change things. And he didn’t want things to change; he never had.
The sound of the cars and the yellow glow of the street lights on the main road faded away as he walked into the park, his footsteps clicking rapidly across the tarmac of the main path. Trees towered above him on all sides, and Max could hear the movement of animals in the undergrowth and the rustling of branches as they swayed in the gentle night breeze. He followed the path round the lake, past the boats tied up to a small wooden jetty, and out across the football pitches, their rusting goalposts gleaming in the moonlight. On the far side of the field, Max heard voices and laughter coming from the playground. He headed towards it, knowing what he would find: teenagers drinking cheap booze and smoking cheap cigarettes, exactly as he and his friends had done in a dozen similar parks when they were the same age.
“Mate, you got a fag?”
The voice came from the swings at the centre of the park, and Max turned towards it. There were five teenagers clustered round the metal frame and three actually sitting on the seats, as clear a social hierarchy as it was possible to imagine. The boy who had spoken was in the middle, wearing tracksuit bottoms and a thick hoodie, and staring at Max with an expression that he no doubt thought looked hard.
“Don’t smoke,” said Max. “Sorry.”
The teenager looked at him for a long moment. “Prick,” he muttered, the volume of his voice clearly intended to be audible to Max. Two of the girls giggled in approval, and one of the standing boys, clearly a member of the lower order of the playground hierarchy, clapped him on the back.
Max stopped. He had no doubt they were harmless, just as he and his friends had been, but he was full of a sudden urge to teach them a lesson, to make them realise that there were things in the night that were far more dangerous than kids full of cider-inflated bravado. And on a gut level, in the base part of himself that he kept hidden from everyone, he was hungry.
“What?” asked the teenage boy, getting up from his swing. “You got a problem?”
Max stared at him, feeling the first flush of heat behind his eyes. The boy’s acne-ridden face was pale in the moonlight, his mouth curled into an arrogant smile.
Don’t rise to it, he told himself. There’s eight of them. Too many.
“No problem,” he said. “Have a good night.”
He walked along the path towards the west gate without a backward glance, knowing the boy would stare daggers after him until he was out of sight; it would be no less than his