Harris woke to pain. His whole body throbbed from the abuse of the last few hours. He opened his eyes and shut them again against the glare of the fluorescent lights. He tried again. This time he opened his eyes a mere crack and let them get used to the brightness. He was in the infirmary. The white plastic dividing curtains halfway round his bed and the metal bedpan on his locker were a dead giveaway. He turned his head to take in the whole room and pain once again swept over him.
"So you're awake?" He'd recognise that voice anywhere. Sandra. Harris gently turned to the sound of her voice and smiled when she came into view. Her face was creased with concern and black rings were visible beneath her eyes.
"Hi, gorgeous," Harris croaked, and Sandra Harrington smiled.
"You've been out for a while and the drugs we've pumped you with have dried up your throat. Don't worry, you'll be bawling out the troops again in no time."
"How long?" he asked. He made a face when his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
"Twenty-four hours. Don't worry," she added quickly when she saw the alarm in his face, "we got all the supplies in without being seen. Pritchard and Kelly dumped the trucks miles away and returned a few hours ago. Looks like a job well done."
Sandra's smile faltered when she saw the pain on Harris'ss face. This pain she knew had nothing to do with the trauma his body had gone through.
"You couldn't have done any more, Peter."
"How many?" he asked.
"Seventeen didn't come back and three more are in here with you."
"Oh Jesus," he gasped and brought his right hand to his face.
"How's Warkowski?"
Sandra dropped her head, unable to give the news while looking at him. "He's alive but..." She tried to continue, but Harris put a hand on hers and stopped her. She looked up into his eyes, their sunken appearance gave him a haunted look, but he smiled encouragement regardless. "We're doing everything we can," she said. "Sarah, that's his wife, hasn't left his bedside since they brought him in. She still can't talk with the serum's effects but she refuses to move."
Harris nodded. "How are the kids?" Sandra immediately brightened and Harris was relieved to see that familiar spark return.
"Oh, Peter," she enthused, "they're bouncing back already. We're having trouble keeping them in bed." Her smile was infectious and Harris felt the edges of his own mouth twitch. He lifted the covers and began to roll his legs over the side of the bed, but paused when his head swam.
"Where do you think you're going?" Her smile faded in a second and was replaced with such a stern look that Harris balked. "You will stay there until you've healed if I have to tie you to the bed," she ordered.
"Promises, promises," Harris smiled wistfully. "If I'd known you were into that I could have picked up a pair of handcuffs in town." Her hand made a swipe for him and he moved to avoid the playful slap. The muscles in his neck shrieked in protest and he grimaced.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I..."
"It's all right," he assured her and lay back in the bed. "My fault."
"That's better," she allowed. "Now I'm going to check on the kids. Stay put."
Harris watched her disappear through the doors. As soon as she had gone he pulled back the covers and rolled off the bed. He grabbed the plastic curtain to steady himself, and then, slowly, he hobbled out of the infirmary.
Harris stopped briefly at his room to change, a task that proved difficult with his hands so heavily bandaged. His shirt was unbuttoned and stuffed untidily into his pyjama bottoms. He had to stop frequently to lean against whichever wall was closest, but he finally made his way to the lab. He knew that he should be back in bed, but he had to know what had happened since the raid.
Seventeen dead. The number swirled around his head. They had been his responsibility and he needed something, anything, positive to have come out of the raid. At least then he might be able to convince himself that it had been worth it. The empty corridor confused him; normally the facility was a hive of activity.
Where is everyone? He wondered on his way to his destination. He thought that he might be dreaming at first, but the pain that racked his body with each step assured him that he was very much awake. He turned the corner to corridor "B" and saw the door to the lab. At the end of the corridor he noticed a digital display, red letters glaring against the stark, white background.
"3:15," he read. "No wonder it's so empty. They're all curled up in bed."
He wondered if he had wasted the journey and groaned inwardly when he thought about the long walk back, not to mention the disapproving look and lecture he was sure to get from Sandra. When he reached the lab door he noticed a faint light from within and turned the handle. When the door opened, he smiled with relief and stepped inside.
The interior was brightly lit. The whiteness of the tabletops and walls exaggerated the fluorescent lights and gave them an intensity that pained his eyes. Harris looked around and finally spotted his quarry amidst a jumble of paperwork and test tubes. The figure wrote furiously on a notepad and alternatively checked the eyepiece of a microscope.
"You look as happy as the proverbial pig in shit." Harris grinned and then regretted his outburst when the small man startled in shock and nearly overbalanced and fell off his chair.
"Peter, my dear boy." Pat Smith beamed when he recognised Harris. "I didn't know they'd let you out."
"Let's keep that one between us for now." Harris smirked.
"Oh, I see." Smith winked conspiratorially. "Well, it's good to see you, whatever the circumstance."
Harris and Smith had become great friends in the last few weeks. What had started as a common interest, the defeat of the creatures through some chemical miracle, had quickly blossomed into a mutual respect and friendship. They worked closely together and Harris was constantly reminded of his father by many of the things Smith said and did. Although they did not look alike, Harris could see the same vitality and exuberance in this little man that he remembered in his father before he had had his stroke.
"You don't get out much, then?"
"What?" Smith replied, confused, and then noticed the unmade bunk in the corner. "Oh, yes, well, you know once I get into something I just lose track of time. But enough of that. How are you?"
Harris could see the concern in the man's face and for the first time also saw the strain and tiredness there. He suddenly felt guilty that he had spent the last twenty-four hours asleep while Smith was here hunched over a microscope.
"Perfect, except for the need for a body transplant. How's the research on the vampire's blood coming?"
"Oh, that, yes, the coagulation factor of the plasma..."
"Pat, Pat," Harris interrupted with his hands raised, "in English please."
"What? Oh, right, well..." Harris smiled at the concentration evident on his friend's face. "Well, you remember before you left that we were looking at the relationship between the oil in wood and the breakdown of the vampires" metabolism?"
Harris nodded.
"I think I've identified the necessary components." Smith beamed when he dropped his bombshell.
"Are you serious?" Harris asked incredulously. "That's fantastic."
"Well, as far as I can tell," Smith continued, "I isolated all the elements of wood secretions and tried each one on the sample you brought back, and then combinations of a few of them. Now, apparently, the vampire blood breaks down quite quickly once it stops pumping around their bodies. Many of the cells had already begun to die while I was testing."
"Go on," Harris prompted more dubiously.
"I finally got a combination that completely broke down the parasitic cells and held them in stasis..."
"But that's wonderful," Harris interrupted.
"...or the cells may have broken down themselves due to natural deterioration. I can't be totally sure."
Harris" jaw dropped. "So where do we go from here?" he asked.
"Well unless we get another, fresher, blood sample, then all I can suggest is we test the oil component I developed."
"How are we going to do that?" Harris looked puzzled.
"Oh, didn't I tell you? I made up a batch of the oil and got some of the older children to help coat some ammunition with it."
"What...where...how many?" the questions tumbled over each other and Harris tried to sort all the facts into some logical order.
"Calm down, they're over there in the corner. Actually, I think the kids did rather well."
Harris tuned out his friend and hobbled across the room to look at the cache of ammunition in the corner. Machine gun magazines of various types and single handgun rounds littered the area.
There must be hundreds of rounds here, he thought. "But this is great," he enthused to his friend. "Well done."
"I can't guarantee it will work, you understand, but the theory is sound. I can't really do anything more on this project, so I've been testing the serum for..."
"The serum?" Harris interrupted. He grimaced when he whirled around too quickly.
"Didn't you know?" Smith replied. "That young fellow, what's his name? Blonde fellow..."
"Anderson."
"Anderson, yes that's the one. Well, he brought in a whole jar full."
"Oh my God. What have you found?"
"It's still too early to tell in detail, but it seems to be a curious mix of depressants, not unlike those used in violent mental cases, only at a higher dosage. The long-term effects of administering such doses are worrisome. Once I break down the elements I'll look into how to negate the effects at a quicker pace, but I also want to run tests on our people here to see if we can expect any surprises from..."
"There you are! I should have known." The words ricocheted around the room and the volume made Harris cringe.
"Oh, hi, Sandra," Harris said meekly.
"Don't you "Oh, hi, Sandra" me, Peter Harris," she fumed. "What are you doing out of the infirmary?"
"Pat and I were just..."
Harris'ss voice trailed off as he indicated where his friend had been standing, but the man was gone. He looked around and saw the familiar figure busily working at his desk, apparently oblivious to what was happening around him.
"Traitor." Harris turned as gave Sandra a full, beaming smile. "I was just going."
He suddenly felt very tired from his exertions and hobbled slowly toward the door. Sandra Harrington's rigid pose softened somewhat as she saw how pale he had become and she moved to help him. She took his arm and allowed him to lean against her.
"What am I going to do with you?" she sighed.
Sarah Warkowski sat by her husband's bedside in silence. In contrast to her outer calm, her mind raced with all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. It was like she had been suddenly thrust into a raging hurricane in a small dinghy.
She felt completely out of her depth.
Her existence for the last two years had been ordered; hell, but ordered. Fully aware of her predicament, but completely incapable of any but the most basic movements, she had become almost comfortable in her routine. She shuddered and felt sick when she thought of her weekly visits to donate blood, to receive her serum, the constant harassment from the thralls and, worst of all, their frequent nightly visits.
She pushed those thoughts away and looked down at her husband. When he had burst into their apartment she hadn't recognised him. He had looked more demonic than human with blood spattered everywhere and she feared that Jill and herself would be killed. The worst part of the effect of the drugs was not being able to help or protect her daughter and, at the moment when Philip crashed through the door, every fibre in her body strained against the drugs to protect her.
The relief she had felt when she had finally recognised the blood-soaked figure was like a physical blow. He had come back to them, against all odds he had come back. She had felt the tears roll down her cheeks as he had gathered them up in his massive arms.
She looked down at her husband's sleeping form and the tears again rolled down her face again. She still couldn't move to wipe them away, but she could make it difficult for others to move her by planting her feet firmly on the ground. She could feel the difference already and knew it wouldn't be long before she could take her husband and daughter in her arms and hug them for the first time in two years.
They had told her that Philip might not survive, that his body had been very badly damaged by the blast. But as long as he breathed there was hope. The signal that ran across the monitor screen beeped every time it spiked and testified that he was still alive. The sound reverberated around the empty ward while she sat.
And waited.
And hoped.
"How's that?" Sandra Harrington asked when she poked the man's side.
"Feels a bit better," Jack Walton replied.
"That's strange; I could have sworn that those ribs were broken yesterday when you came in. We don't have x-rays, but the discoloration and bruising were consistent with that. You were with Reiss" team weren't you?"
"Yes."
"How was it? What are vampires like up close?"
"Petrifying."
Sandra shrugged at the lack of response from her patient. Oh well, he's probably still shaken from the assault, she thought. He had come in with Reiss" team, covered in blood and with bad bruising to his side. The blood must have been someone else's because Sandra could not find any wounds on his body. The bruising on his side, however, had been very bad and she had bandaged him up to support his ribs. This morning, though, the bruising was nearly gone and his side wasn't that sore to touch. She shook her head in amazement.
"Well if that bruising is gone by tomorrow we'll let you out," she said and straightened his bed covers. She gave him a quick smile and moved off to check on her next patient.
"Nurse."
She turned. "Yes?"
"Could you turn down the lights in here?"
"Of course, any particular reason?" she queried.
"I'm sensitive to light."