Scott Mariani - Uprising

The Chinook flew on and on. The night ticked slowly by. There was a landing that Alex guessed was for fuel, and then the chopper took off again. None of the prisoners spoke. Alex began counting the hours since she’d taken her last Solazal. Just before two in the afternoon, she remembered, which meant that the effect would start to wear off sometime in the early hours of the morning. She’d have bet that none of the others had taken any much later than that. None of them would survive the sunrise.

Gabriel Stone was forcing them to remember what it was like to live as real vampires. The thought almost made Alex smile.

As the hours ticked by, she knew that Harry Rumble and the Supremos had the dawn on their mind, too. Gaston Lerouge seemed especially nervous. Then, with still time to spare before the first rays of the sun began to lighten the sky, they felt the chopper begin another descent and then settle on solid ground. The rotors slowed and the hatchway opened abruptly. The same black-clad vampire guards who’d loaded them on board hauled them out one by one into the cold night air.

Alex looked around her. Moonlight shone on distant mountains and the high stone walls around them.

‘We’re in a castle,’ she whispered to Rumble.

They didn’t have much chance to talk as the guards grabbed them and separated them. Alex was shoved at sword-point through a barred doorway and down a narrow arched passage to a cell.

She breathed a sigh of relief. No windows. At least Stone hadn’t devised a little barbecue session when the sun came up in a few hours’ time. He clearly had other plans. The cell walls were about four feet thick, solid rock, and the steel door was too tough even for a vampire to get through. There was little else to do except hang around to find out what Stone’s plans might be.

Alex curled up in the corner of the cell, and the long wait began.

Bucharest, Romania

1.32 p.m. local time

The freezing rain was turning to sleet and the pavements outside the airport were gleaming and slippery. Joel’s spirits were sagging as he waited in a huddled queue for a taxicab. A rattling, grime-streaked Peugeot lurched up and he loaded his rucksack and the metal case in the back seat. The dashboard was littered with junk and the smell of the sickly air blasting through the vents didn’t help Joel’s stomach much. He’d almost been sick twice on the plane, but he’d eaten so little in the last twenty-four hours that he had nothing to throw up.

The driver jerked his head back at him and said something in Romanian. Joel pronounced ‘Gara de Nord’, the name of the city’s railway station, as best he could; the guy nodded and sped out of the airport to join the heavy traffic heading into Bucharest.

They fell into a stumbling conversation, but Joel’s Romanian was even more rudimentary than the driver’s English. After a few minutes of pointless grouching about the shitty weather, the guy concentrated on swearing at other drivers and Joel slouched back and numbly watched the beat of the wipers. His hand rested on the case on the seat beside him.

He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

It was a wild ride through the city. Romanian drivers seemed to consider the rules of the road as only suggestions, and the taxi had several near misses as it hammered over the potholes and ruts on the way to the railway station. Bucharest must have been pretty once, but the architectural legacies of Ceauşescu’s harsh Communist regime stood like squatting concrete toads among the classical buildings and baroque facades. Stray dogs seemed to be everywhere, sauntering casually across the path of the speeding, honking traffic, in no hurry to get to the other side. Joel was glad when the taxi pulled up with a screech outside the columned entrance of the Gara de Nord Bucureşti.

He checked the train timetables — he had half an hour to wait. He found a quiet café inside the station and took a table in a corner. The coffee was stale, but at least the place was warm and dry and he could sit a while and think before he set out on the next leg of his journey. He unzipped the document pouch on the front of the rucksack and took out the page he’d torn from Dec’s friend’s atlas. He slid his coffee cup to one side to unfold it across the table.

The sick feeling in his stomach came rushing back worse than ever as he gazed at the ragged line of dried blood that ran across the paper. The fingerprints had turned crusty and brown. Some bits had flaked off and fallen onto the table when he’d unfolded it; the sudden thought that they were crumbs of congealed vampire blood made him swipe them away with a frisson of horror.

He took another slurp of coffee and tried to focus his thoughts. The fact was, he still didn’t know exactly where he was going. Avoiding Kate Hawthorne’s blood, he traced his finger across the map for the hundredth time since yesterday, staring at names like Brasov, Târgu Frumos, Râmnicu. They meant nothing to him. As for the name he’d managed to force out of the doomed girl, there was no mention of it anywhere — not here on the atlas, not in his guidebook, not on any map he’d found online during his rushed research before leaving Britain. But it had to be here somewhere, among the horrible fingerprints that clustered around a zone of the Transylvanian Alps about a hundred and eighty miles to the northwest of Bucharest.

Had to be. He’d come too far to let himself be shaken by doubts. And so his best plan — right now his only plan — was to travel blind into the rough area marked in blood on the atlas page. When he got there, he could start asking questions and hope they led him somewhere.

Through the café window he could see his train now winding its way into the station. He checked his watch, stuffed the page back into his rucksack, grabbed his stuff and went to catch his train.

The rolling hills, dramatic mountainscapes and sweeping pine forests weren’t enough to keep Joel awake as the train lurched and ground its way steadily northeastwards during the next few hours. When he awoke from his dark dreams it was nearly three in the afternoon and the train was slowing for its approach into the medieval town of Sighişoara. In the street outside the railway station he passed hot food vendors selling grilled meat and pastries, but still couldn’t bring himself to eat anything. The sky was pale grey and the rising wind had a cold, hard bite. He pulled up the collar of his jacket, shouldered his rucksack and clutched the precious metal case tightly under his arm as he wandered the town.

The old part of Sighişoara was a fortified medieval stronghold perched on a hill.

The streets were cobbled and the towers and steeples of Orthodox churches dominated the skyline. He knew from his guidebook that at the height of the season the streets would be full of tourists eager to visit the ancient seat of Transylvanian royalty, former home of Vlad Dracul, father of the legendary Impaler. He passed a sign for a museum of torture, and then the abode of Vlad himself, now converted into a restaurant. Even here, as far as the modern world was concerned, things had moved on; legends that had once struck terror were now just tourism marketing gimmicks. It made him feel all the more foolish as he loitered uncomfortably about the half-empty street, eyeing each passerby as someone he could potentially collar and ask about the whereabouts of this

‘Vâlcanul’. How would he appear to them, this damp-sodden, wild-eyed guy who’d travelled all this way searching for vampires to kill? Like some kind of nut, most likely.

He was beginning to think it himself.

Four times he was on the brink of approaching someone — and four times he shrank back at the last moment. In the end, hating and cursing himself for his stupidity, he gave up and walked away.