THE VAMPIRE PROJECT by Jon Hartless
Lady Roslyn Foxington is a pampered aristocratic girl. Tamara Kelly is a hard-working steamer. Two lives that would normally never meet. Yet both are about to be drawn into a terrifying adventure as they stumble on a terrible secret: The Vampire Project, run by the ruthless Doctor Mortimer, creating unnatural mutations and fusing his creatures with advanced technology to make the monsters faster, stronger, and ever more vicious. Threatened by Mortimer’s creatures, ignored by their fathers, taught by life to never move beyond expectation and conformity, both girls will need to find the courage to stand up for what is right as they face a new type of horror...
PROLOGUE Belinda Swanson made a fatal mistake when she tried to take a short cut around the Kentish Town airfield, for she failed to consider the denizens who skulked in the crime-ridden slums of Kentish Town itself. Poverty, squalor, and violence still existed within London, despite the technological revolution of the past few decades. Belinda felt safe as the gas lights illuminated most of the area she needed to walk along, while the constant deep hum of the steamships passing overhead, their propellers chewing on the fog of London’s air, and their steam generators hissing out exhaust fumes, was a familiar and comforting sound. Her thoughts centred on her father, who was waiting for her to return home and cook his dinner. Darkness engulfed Belinda as she walked beside a huge warehouse which carried the sign Foxington-Obery Industries. The warehouse marked the boundary between the airfield and Kentish Town itself. In effect, Belinda was boxed in, with the mile-long warehouse forming a solid barrier of brick and grimy windows to her right, while to the left lay the black, fetid alleys of Kentish Town. Here, lights had yet to be installed, and the moonlight was blocked by the high building. As a result, Belinda never noticed the rubbish in the alley until she collided with it, causing a foul stench to engulf her. She gagged as she jumped away, knocking into something metallic which clattered noisily to the ground. She had always been clumsy. Belinda breathed out, running her hands through her hair to make sure it was unruffled by the collision. Only then did she become aware that three men were standing in front of her, attracted by the noise. The men were grimy and wore dirty, ragged clothes. All were leering menacingly at her. “Well, what do we have here?” said one of the men. “A new kitty has wandered into our area. Welcome, Kitty. I’m Guy, this is Chris, and the gent on the end is Michael.” “I’m not a kitty,” replied Belinda, trying to sound brave. She glanced left and right for help, but all she could see was darkness.
“Oh, this kitty talks back,” said Michael. The men laughed, low and unpleasant, as they moved toward the helpless girl. “Stay away from me,” gasped Belinda, her eyes still looking for help. Wasn’t there anyone in the alley who could save her? “Or what?” snarled Guy. “You’re in our territory, girl, and that means you’re ours.” “My father’s a policeman,” quavered Belinda. “Inspector Swanson of the Metropolitan Police Force! He’ll be out to get you!” “You think the Met frightens us?” sneered Chris. “Even if it did, how would your daddy ever know where his daughter disappeared?” “Stay away,” cried Belinda. “Help! Somebody help!” She backed away and tripped over the rubbish, which sent her sprawling on the filthy ground. “Somebody help me, please!” With a hiss of steam, a large grate set in the cobblestones split in two and retracted under the street. Intense, bright light poured out from the square hole, illuminating a figure rising up on a hydraulic platform. Belinda and the men stared in astonishment, wondering who the figure was and how he had risen up from the street. “What’s going on? Who are you?” the figure demanded hoarsely. “Stay away, boy; this doesn’t concern you,” snarled Guy. Belinda peered at the figure in the bright light and saw that he was about her age, no more than fifteen, and very handsome. His eyes seemed to glow while his skin was almost translucent in contrast to the dark night. Belinda held out one hand in supplication, while automatically straightening her hair with the other. “Help me, please! These men are hurting me!” “You’ve seen too much, boy,” said Guy, coldly. A metallic flick indicated a knife had opened. “Besides, I want to know where you popped up from.” “Stay away from there,” said the boy, his eyes widening in crazed fear. “I don’t know what they’ve done to me, but I’m dangerous!” Guy laughed in derision. “Course you are,” he said. “A handsome boy like you, you’re a danger to life and limb. Now get off that lifting mechanism!” He strode forward, flicking the knife at the boy’s face.
Belinda wasn’t sure what happened next. It seemed as though the boy’s face changed, his eyes turning to black slits and his teeth springing out like the jaws of some prehistoric monster. She convinced herself it was a trick of the light, as was the fact she never saw the boy move, though she certainly heard the crack and scream from Guy as his arm was broken, his ribs shattered, and his body flung back six feet. “You little freak,” snarled Chris. “You’re going to suffer for that!” He lumbered forward heavily, his arms outstretched. The boy effortlessly hauled the big man around before slamming him into the warehouse wall, cracking the brickwork. Chris fell lifeless to the floor. Michael lunged forward but stopped dead as the boy punched right through him, his fist piercing Michael’s chest and exploding out of his back. Michael slumped, held upright only by the boy’s arm through his chest, until the boy stepped back, causing the body to slide to the ground. The boy looked at the thick blood coating his hand and suddenly licked at it in frenzied hunger. Belinda gagged at the scene but still found herself curiously drawn to the boy’s face, which now looked normal again. He was very handsome. “Oh, thank you, sir, you have saved me,” she gasped, holding her hand out so he could help her up. The boy took a step away with a look of self-disgust. “Stay away from me,” he cried. “You’ve seen what I am. I’m a monster. I’ll kill you! “Oh, sir, how could anyone so handsome be a monster?” simpered Belinda from her prone position on the ground. “Besides, you have showed your protective nature in rescuing me.” “You don’t know my nature, what they’ve made me,” gabbled the boy. “Stay away!” “I can’t stay here, my dress will get dirty. It’s my prettiest,” replied Belinda as she lifted herself from the ground, thinking that the boy was very mysterious and alluring. She hoped he would like her. That was her last thought. She looked up and gasped as the boy’s face transformed into a primal visage of hunger and rage.
“You’re mine!” snarled the boy as he leapt forward and plunged his hand into Belinda’s chest, wrenching her heart clean out of her body. Belinda stared at him with her large, stupid eyes before sighing and collapsing. “No!” shouted the boy as he looked in horror at the dead girl lying at his feet. His eyes darkened as the hunger and mental conditioning took control, and he stuffed the heart into his mouth, ravenously tearing at the muscle and draining the chambers of the thick, warm blood. “No,” he whispered again, shaking his head and the blood from his hands as he realised what he was doing. A hydraulic whine made him look round. A concealed entrance in the dingy brickwork of the warehouse had slid open. A tall, darkhaired, well-dressed man with a goatee beard and piercing, fanatical eyes walked out from the secret door. “Excellent,” said the man. “The test subject acted exactly as predicted. The blood lust overcame all of Edwin’s sham moral scruples, while the chemically-enhanced adrenalin rush increased the strength significantly, just as we designed.” “Indeed, Doctor Mortimer,” said a small man in a long white coat as he walked through the doorway. “A most practical assessment.” “Finally, Algernon, our research is ready to reap the dividends. The Vampire Project is a success.” “All this was a test?” asked the boy, Edwin, in horror. “My escape, this slaughter, was simply a test?” “It was.” “What have you made me? Why have you done this?” “Stop being so dramatic, Edwin” replied Mortimer. “What we have made you is self-evident. As to why...that is none of your concern. You are merely a test subject, not a director of the board. Men, restrain him.” A group of burly men appeared from the secret doorway, armed with nets and tridents. Edwin snarled and leapt forward, but he moved slowly and was immediately engulfed by one of the nets which crackled as it touched his skin. He howled in agony as blue light crawled over him, the electrical power in the net discharging in controlled bursts. The men savagely stabbed at the boy, their
electrically-charged tridents piercing through the pale flesh and releasing more power through his body. Edwin wilted under the barrage and curled up in a protective ball. “As expected, the adrenalin rush has already exhausted itself,” said Algernon, watching the scene with intense scientific interest. “It’s only good for a few minutes.” Doctor Mortimer nodded in satisfaction. “That is a problem we are ready to solve. We have successfully manipulated biology. Now we can move to the cybernetic implants. Prepare the next batch of test subjects.” Despite some initial setbacks, the project was now progressing beyond expectation. Mortimer glanced down and saw a boy, aged about ten, who had followed them up from under the warehouse. He was sitting on the cold, wet floor, focusing intently on a small sketch he was creating. No one knew the boy’s name. It was doubtful the boy himself remembered it. He only referred to himself in his pictures as “The Steamer.” Mortimer knew the boy only as test subject 113/45. Thankfully, the boy was an idiot and never tried to escape or cause any trouble. His only means of expression seemed to be his art work, which festooned his glass cell. The boy drew everything. His cell, the scientists, other specimens, laboratory equipment, even his chair. It was a compulsion. Mortimer snatched the picture up to look at it. The image was disturbing — a dead girl lying in a blood-red alley, with one of the laboratories showing through the wall. Most of The Steamer’s work tended to be an emotional rather than a realistic depiction of the subject matter; presumably it was how he processed the world. Mortimer sneered in contempt as he thrust the picture back at The Steamer before returning through the concealed entrance. Only his assistant, Algernon, paused for a second as he looked at the picture. Then, gently raising the silent boy, he guided him back to the laboratory hidden under the warehouse just as snow began to fall from the black winter sky. There was much work to be done.
CHAPTER ONE Lady Roslyn Foxington stood watching the steamships landing and taking off in the snow at the Kentish Town airfield. She was there with her father, who had some business to attend to at FoxingtonObery Industries. As it wasn’t proper for a lady to know of such things, she had, as always, been told to wait in reception. Today, however, things were different. Roslyn had done the unthinkable. She had disobeyed her father and was now outside the company’s main warehouse, watching the hustle and bustle of the huge airfield at close quarters. “Hello, young lady,” said a friendly voice by her ear. Roslyn turned and saw Jacob, a wiry, elderly man who worked as a general labourer for Foxington-Obery. Despite her emotional state, Roslyn smiled in genuine pleasure. Jacob always treated her much the same as he treated everyone else, with a mixture of courtesy and friendly impudence. Today, she appreciated that all the more. “Hello, Jacob. How are you?” “The lumbago is getting in, what with this snow and cold,” replied Jacob, rubbing his back, “but apart from that, I can’t complain. How are you, young lady? You look a bit perturbed, if that is the word I mean. Nothing wrong, I hope?” Roslyn shrugged. “I just thought I’d come out here and watch the steamships.” Jacob’s sharp eye noted the girl’s distress but he didn’t pry. Instead, he started to talk, to draw Roslyn out of herself, using his own special mix of base English laced with poetical flourishes. “Ar, hard to believe that twenty years ago, this airfield didn’t even exist and neither did all this machinery. Look at those forklift trucks! Monsters of myth, ain’t they? That claw at the front can pick up more than a ton without straining, carry it and then put it down as gently as I’d handle me egg at breakfast. “Of course, you wouldn’t know any different, young lady, as you is only, what, seventeen? So aerial steamships and all other manifestations of modern technology are just normal things to you.
Computers are normal, pulse weaponry is normal, women striking out to find their own jobs is...not quite as normal, but happening more and more.” Roslyn nodded. That morning, she envied them. “Back when I were a lad,” continued Jacob, warming to his speech, “goods and people were transported by train and ship. They were proper ships, they were, that sailed the ocean, not these behemoths that fly through the air. Of course, since the electronic revolution, only the rich has got proper ships now, ships that go on water.” Roslyn nodded again. Her family owned three such vessels. With the revolution of electromagnetic steam power, life had changed considerably for everyone. “Any road, point I’m making, things change,” said Jacob as he put his cap on his head. “What’s normal today ain’t necessary going to be normal tomorrow, so you just remember that, young missy, and I’ll see you around.” “Bye, Jacob,” smiled Roslyn. “Thanks.” Jacob smiled and walked away to his duties, leaving Roslyn to face up to her concerns. That morning, while travelling to the airfield in the family limousine, Roslyn had been casually informed that she was to be married. No discussion, no questions, it was just so. She was to be married to Lord Roger Tythball and that was that. She had met him once at a dinner held by her father. She couldn’t remember much about him, though. Roslyn, of course, knew that there were some things that just weren’t done: A lady did not work, a lady never answered back, and a lady always obeyed her husband, or, if single, her father. In short, a lady did her duty. A lady would certainly not walk without a chaperone on an airfield, passing through the hundreds of workers as they loaded and unloaded the gigantic steamships, sending and receiving cargo to all the corners of the empire and beyond. She knew why she was there. She dreamt of escaping her life, and the steamships represented potential freedom, but she also knew she could never simply leave. Where would she go? How would she get there? What, really, could she do? She had no skills, little education, and no science or maths, for such things were, again, unladylike. Instead, she had accomplishments. She could play a little,
sing a little, and converse a little on approved subjects. That was the total sum of her entire life. Roslyn wiped the tears from her eyes as she wondered through the incredible bustle of the airfield. It would be easy to lose herself in the vast collections of buildings that made up the airfield village, or even to sneak on board one of the steamships, but she always came back to the same problem: What next? What could she actually do? What could any young girl do in such a situation? “Hi! Watch out!” Roslyn looked around and saw in horror that one of the huge forklift trucks was bearing down on her. She leapt backward as the forklift’s brakes were slammed on. The yellow machine, belching foul-smelling diesel fumes, skidded through ninety degrees on its caterpillar tracks before coming to a halt an inch away from Roslyn’s white face. “Why don’t you look where you’re going?” demanded a faint voice from high up in the cab of the yellow monster. “Wondering in front of a moving vehicle like that!” Ordinarily, Roslyn would have apologised and moved away, but today was not an ordinary day. She felt an unusual flush of indignation suffuse her pale face. “Look where I’m going?” she shouted above the incredible noise of the airfield. “You’re the one driving without any regard for pedestrians!” “Pedestrians shouldn’t be here,” shouted the voice. “This is for working vehicles.” “Then why are so many people walking along here?” demanded Roslyn, feeling this was an unanswerable point. The road was used by foot and wheeled traffic alike. Above her head, the sound of bolts being thrown back in the cab could be heard. Roslyn stepped back in alarm, wondering if she had annoyed some burly dock worker who was going to express his displeasure physically. She was astonished when the wire cage opened, and a girl of her own age stuck her head out. “You should still be looking where you’re going,” shouted the girl, levering herself out of the tiny cage. She looked down and seemed surprised at what she saw and was suddenly a lot less confident. “Blimey, are you a toff?” she asked, nervously.
“I am Lady Roslyn Foxington,” said Roslyn, drawing herself up and hiding the relief that her appearance and rank had cowed the girl above her. She had seen deference like this in other people. Many were humbled or embarrassed to be in the presence of the aristocracy. Of course, some people got angry at being in the presence of wealth and privilege. Roslyn hoped this girl was not one of them. “What are you doing on the airfield?” asked the girl. A shout from behind the forklift made her turn and see the queue of heavy vehicles behind her. “Gawd,” she muttered. “I’m gonna get skinned. Hoy, jump on, Miss.” “Pardon?” “You’re can’t stay in the road; it’s dangerous. Come on, jump on.” Scarcely knowing why, except perhaps to do something her father would disapprove of, Roslyn clambered nervously up the side of the yellow, mechanical monster. She almost fell off again as the engine started, a huge rumble of power which shook the vehicle and made Roslyn’s teeth chatter. The unknown girl threw some levers, and the forklift spun to its left before speeding along the road. She laughed and changed through the gears to give the articulated vehicle another burst of speed as they headed for a huge warehouse on the side of the vast airfield. Roslyn glanced up at the sign written in faded red paint over the huge hanger doors and saw she was back where she had started at Foxington-Obery Industries, her father’s business. The yellow beast roared into the warehouse, which was full of wooden crates of all sizes, laid out to form alleyways big enough for any forklift to drive through. They rumbled down one such alley, the girl driving with one hand as she held a map of the warehouse in the other. The girl counted off the alleys as they passed and then flung the forklift through a ninety degree turn and charged up another alley until finally they reached the stack she was searching for. She didn’t reduce their speed at all before yanking on the levers that controlled the enormous articulated claw at the front of the vehicle, which held several crates. With a crunch that shook the floor, the girl slammed the crates into their assigned area.
“What are you doing with those?” bellowed a man in a cap as the girl manoeuvred the forklift around. “I’m delivering ’em, ain’t I?” she yelled as she spun the forklift through a semicircle. “For who?” demanded the man as he strode forward. The girl jumped down from the cab, holding a sheaf of papers. “Charter for Foxington-Obery Industries,” she said, waving the documents in the man’s face. “All orders signed for, all paperwork present, goods now delivered.” Roslyn stepped shakily from the side of the forklift and got her first good look at the girl. She was tall and slender with a mop of long, dark hair that highlighted her pale skin. Behind the wire-rimmed spectacles she wore, her eyes were as dark as her hair. Roslyn was shocked that the girl was wearing a stiff, leather corset and leather trousers with thick, chunky boots that came up to her knees. The outfit was the unofficial uniform for women working on a steamship, being practical but also defiant toward tradition. “Which ship did you come in on?” demanded the man, looking angrily at the girl. “The Angel of British Columbia,” replied the girl, proudly. “That antiquated piece of scrap?” sneered the man. “I should have guessed. You’re Abner Kelly’s daughter.” “The Angel ain’t scrap,” snapped the girl. She got no further as the keys to the forklift were suddenly wrenched from her hand by the man. “What do you think you’re doing? Give those back,” she demanded. “I don’t want women in here, I don’t want girls in here, and I don’t want Americans in here,” snapped the man with an unpleasant smirk on his face. “I’ll give these back to Kelly himself, once he’s sober enough to have them.” “Give those back,” yelled the girl, lunging forward. The man shoved her back. “Get out of here before I set the dogs on you,” he snarled. “I’ll not have women in my warehouse. Get out, or else.” Spitting on the girl’s boot, the man turned and stamped away.
“We’d better get out of here,” said Roslyn timidly, scared by the man’s attitude and threat. She was almost as scared by the look of fury on the girl’s face, fury tinged with worry. “My dad’ll kill me for losing the truck keys,” she hissed. “It’s been three months since he last took his fist to me, and I don’t want him to do it again.” “Oh, er, well, I hope things go well with your father when he finds out,” gabbled Roslyn as she rushed from the warehouse, feeling overwhelmed and inadequate by the glimpse into such a savage life. “Good luck.” “Hey, wait,” shouted the girl. But Roslyn pretended she hadn’t heard as she ran as fast as she could back to the offices and her father, unaware that small, bright eyes peered at her from a secret grill hidden in the floor of the warehouse.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jon Hartless was born in the 1970s in the UK. He has written steampunk, fantasy, and science fiction under various pen names.