Scott Mariani - Uprising

It didn’t take much for localised panic to spread and rumours to circulate like wildfire through the blogosphere. When that happened, VIA field agents were deployed to deal with it.

Which wasn’t a frequent occurrence. The Federation generally had things tightened down pretty well, and Rumble’s operations map normally didn’t feature more than one or two red flags at any given time.

But what Alex was looking at right now was a mass of them, clustered across Europe, spreading east to west.

‘That’s definitely unusual,’ she said.

‘More than unusual. It’s unprecedented.’

‘You told me we were getting a rise in rogue activity. You didn’t tell me it was this bad.’

‘I was hoping it’d level out,’ Rumble said tersely. ‘But that isn’t happening.

Reports are just flying in. Dexter in Copenhagen, an hour ago. Carbone in Barcelona late last night. I don’t even want to think about what’ll happen if the human media get a hold of it.’ He paused, anxiously chewing his lip. ‘The strangest thing is—’

‘What?’

He swivelled his seat away from the desk and looked at her. ‘These attacks are happening at night. All of them. It’s as if they were avoiding the daylight. Why aren’t they using the Solazal the Federation provides them with?’

‘I’ve had a feeling for a long time this might happen,’ Alex said. ‘A Trad uprising.’

‘A what?’

‘It was only a question of time before the Traditionalists started a backlash against us, Harry. Our glorious Federation may have done its best to stamp out the old ways, but I’ve always wondered how many of the die-hards were still out there, waiting for their chance to get back at us.’

Rumble looked pointedly at her. ‘Come on. Even if you’re right, there’s no way a few scattered malcontents could organise themselves into a significant threat. Not on this kind of scale, and so fast. It’s not feasible.’

‘We were there when the Federation took over, remember? Not all vampires were happy about it, if I recall. All they needed was a leader. Maybe they’ve found one.

The Trads and the Feds, fighting it out.’

‘The Trads and the Feds? Give me a break.’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe the time’s come, Harry.’

The mighty Thames river snaked through much of England, yet in places it was little more than a muddy stream crowded by banks of reeds.

Dawn wasn’t far away, and the riverbank creatures were beginning to wake. A solitary swan glided over the misty surface of the water; then swam for the refuge of the vegetation as a small rowing boat appeared.

Seymour Finch’s gnarled fists were tight on the oars, propelling the boat along through the murk with powerful strokes. The quiet, dark places were where he most loved to be, far from prying eyes. And he had a job to do, now that Mr Stone and his inner circle had retired to their rest.

Finch manoeuvred the rowing boat into the bank, so that it nestled among the rushes. He shipped the oars then reached down for the bundle that lay between his feet. He smiled as he thought about what was inside, wrapped in plastic and sacking cloth.

Mr Stone had let him do what he wanted, once the others had finished. Finch’s intense terror of his employer was matched only by his deep devotion. He was honoured to have been set the tasks he had. He would carry them out to the letter. He would have his reward.

Finch’s strong fingers closed on the folds of the sacking cloth. He hauled the bundle upright against the inside of the boat, then drew out the sheath knife from his belt and cut the rope so that the contents spilled out overboard and splashed into the water.

Finch watched the ripples, then reached for the oars. He was about to start turning the boat around to head for home, when he saw the swan a few yards away.

He stared at it. The first rays of the dawn were beginning to melt through the mist, and shone like gold on the majestic bird’s white plumage as it glided like a galleon across the water.

He wanted to tear its head off and eat its flesh.

You could cover a lot of distance very quickly on a bike like the Hayabusa, and Joel had been riding around for most of the night. His route had taken him all around Oxfordshire, and, as the fog had lifted in the hours before dawn, he’d sought out fastest, twistiest sections of country A-road where he knew the speed cameras were few and far between. His advanced police motorcycle course had made him a very quick and very safe rider. He knew exactly how far he could push the machine before he reached the very limit of his concentration and reflexes — and the faster he sliced through the countryside bends, the further from his mind he could drive the haunting remnants of the nightmare’s memory.

The first light was creeping over the horizon when he pulled up in a layby on the edge of a sleepy village. He killed the engine and sat back in the saddle, taking a few moments to soak up the tranquil silence. Feeling much better now, restful, clear headed and ready for another day, he peeled back the sleeve of his leather jacket to check his watch.

It was time to go to work. He fired the Suzuki back up and pointed it towards Oxford and Thames Valley Police Station.

As Joel walked in off St Aldates and into the station foyer, the blonde station duty officer gazed admiringly at the Detective Inspector’s lean six-foot frame. But he was too deep in thought to notice the look she was giving him. He waved distractedly as he walked past the front desk and headed for the staff canteen.

The place was nearly empty, just a few uniformed coppers coming off their late shifts and a handful of early-bird civilian personnel sitting at the plastic tables over tea and pastries. The police were always run ragged by the party mayhem and endless alcohol-related violence of Hallowe’en night. It got worse with each passing year, and today most of the officers looked pale and tired and ready for their beds.

Joel knew the feeling. He ignored the trays of doughnuts and Danish pastries, grabbed a coffee and went over to a corner table. The coffee was the same old thin, insipid brew that only came to life after the fourth sugar. He sat sipping it, gazing out of the window at the rising sun.

At a table a few yards away, three constables, two male and one female, were relaxing over a pot of tea. Joel knew them all well. The balding skinny guy was Nesbitt, the woman was Gascoigne, and the one doing all the talking was Macleod. Big Bob Macleod, two years from retirement, a pork pie of a man, a wheezing, red-faced heart attack waiting to happen. He was coming to the end of some anecdote or other that had the other two grinning broadly. Far away in his thoughts, Joel hadn’t caught a word of it.

‘Give me a break, eh?’ Macleod chuckled in his gravelly voice. ‘I mean, like we didn’t have enough bollocks to deal with in this job.’ He flipped his fat wrist over and winced at his watch. ‘Look at the time. I’m off home for some kip.’ He heaved himself up from the table, grabbed his hat and started off towards the exit.

‘Hey, Bob,’ Nesbitt called after him. ‘Watch the Count doesn’t get you.’

‘Better start eating garlic,’ Gascoigne said.

Macleod’s face twisted in disgust over his shoulder. ‘Bugger that.’ He reached the exit, then turned suddenly and did a comic snarl at them, showing yellowed teeth.

‘Yaarrghhh!’ There was no mistaking the Christopher Lee Dracula impression. The other two constables fell about laughing as Macleod left the canteen.

Joel turned to them. ‘What was that all about?’

Gascoigne stared for a moment, as though surprised that the DI was taking an interest in their jokes.