"...Come, thick night,

And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,

That my keen knife see not the wound it makes.

Nor heav'n peep through the blanket of the dark,

To cry hold, hold!"

On the second of Lady Macbeth’s shrill ‘holds’, a loud, metallic thud came from down the hall. Dr. Childs had a good guess as to which room it came from. Coughing on smoke and his own spit, he turned off Shakespeare-on-the-radio and put out his cigarette.

“Guards!”

The soldier which had overseen the infusion surgery as well as a smaller, uglier look-alike, came running, rifles in hand. He’d have to keep these young, trigger-happy pups in check.

“Take care, lads,” Childs instructed, “he may be volatile, but you're not to harm him.”

He couldn’t let the soldiers to hurt his precious creation, but at the same time, he did not know what to expect once they opened the door. Perhaps it was due to Shakespeare that a sinister voice entered his mind:

‘What good would two measly soldiers and an old man be against a vampire?’

The soldiers worked in tandem to spin the steel door’s valve lock. When they swung the door open, they found V-Unit 17 lying flat on his back on the floor in a puddle of vomit, an IV tube dangling from his arm and dripping onto the floor. The soldiers stepped back and pointed their guns at the sorry sight before them.

17 dry heaved. There was nothing left to upchuck. "H-help m-m-- "

Childs had seen worse with the previous V-Units, at least he hadn’t released his bowels.

"You ought to stay in bed, 17," Childs said. A guilty pang ran through him from referring to the poor fellow as a number. "It's a rough transition you've made. Give it time. Now, upsy-daisy!"

Childs bent down and tried to lift the man almost twice his height and half his age. The soldiers stood around and watched him struggle, the cretins.

"Help an old man, for Christ's sake! He's not dangerous! Not now!"

After whispering to each other, the short, ugly soldier went to a nearby communication radio while the other one kept his gun trained on 17. Childs grabbed the ugly one’s arm.

He locked eyes with the man and saw no hint of compassion. “He's in pain! Help him, he's still your brother in arms!"

The guards looked at each other and signaled towards 17.

"Alright, fine," the uglier soldier said, as he picked 17 out of his puke, “but he's not one of us no more. You'd do well to remember that, doc.”

17 recuperated over the next two days, gradually adjusting to his new anatomy. The wary soldier had been right: 17 wasn't one of them at all. He was another species altogether. The fledgling vampire pedaled a stationary bike, turning the bike wheels like biplane propellers.

Childs wore a foolish grin on his face. It was better than Christmas morning; the suits were going to piss themselves with the next progress report.

"Quicker, 17," Childs goaded the lab bat, trying to see what his magnum opus could do.

 17 had traded his hospital gown for a blue and white tracksuit. He hopped off the bike and went to free weights. 17 lifted 35 kilogram dumbbells like they were popsicle sticks.

After 17 finished his workout, Childs and a couple guards approached him in the changing room. Childs had to hide his praise and admiration for the time being. Kindness and warmth did not a killer make, which was the goal after all. Simple commands were best.

"Relax your arm, 17."

"Yessir." 17 said, and let Childs prick him with a syringe to collect a precious blood sample. A small flinch from 17 was enough to make Childs jump back.

Dr. Deloitte entered the room carrying a clear bag filled with dark, reddish-brown blood. He was picking up the slack for Childs, who’d been so enthralled by 17's performance, that he’d forgotten to feed the poor fellow.

Deloitte held out the blood bag. "Do not worry, 17. It’s the blood of a pig."

17 received the bag, sniffing it, studying what would be a routine meal for him for the rest of his life.

"It will nourish the body," Deloitte said. "Of course, you may find the pig blood, how do you say it, unsavoury next to the real thing."

17 gulped. "Right. Thank you, sir." He nodded and folded the blood bag under his armpit, so he could stand at attention. Good lad. Childs' sense of curiosity begged to see the fledgling vampire feed, but perhaps another time.

“I have something for you as well,” Childs said, and passed 17 a pair of little, yellow earplugs. “You’ll need these for your marksmanship training. Your ears are more sensitive now.”

17 looked at his boots and nodded. “Don’t I know it, sir.”

It would be an adjustment for the lad. Many fledgling vampires were driven mad by all of the ambient noise they could pick up. “You must treat them as the delicate instruments they are.”

“Yessir.”

“Good for tracking, bad for shooting. You don’t want to go deaf out there. You’ll also want these.”

Childs dug in his pockets for the new pair of goggles, just in from London and handed them to 17.

“Flash resistant eyewear. As a nocturnal predator, your retinas absorb more light. At night, a vampire’s sense of vision is unparalleled.”

“Not so much during the day.”

Childs patted his excellent protege on the shoulder. “Quite so. These goggles should protect your retinas from intense light. But do be careful not to look directly into muzzle flares when firing.”

17 slid the goggles over his eyes, squared his shoulders, went to a shooting stance, and smiled proudly at his reflection in a nearby window. “Not to worry, sir. I’m always careful.”