by P.A. Ross
I Want Vengeance
(Vampire Formula #0)
P.A. Ross
Copyright 2013 By P.A. Ross
www.thornsneedles.com
I Want Vengeance: Vampire Formula #0
I have tried to pinpoint the events that forced me on this bloody path. When did the dark seeds of my vengeance get stamped into the mud of life and sprayed with blood to sprout fang and claw?
Many of the key events are obvious– my mother dying in childbirth; my father researching genetic engineering.
However, parallel events occurred on a unique day that undoubtedly propelled me to this dark place.
#
Jon
I sat next to Giles, my best friend, in the last class before lunch at St Teresa's School in Leeds. Giles and I had been friends for eight years since meeting at primary school. We were now fourteen and suffering the joys of teenage years together. Giles had short light brown hair and brown eyes to match. I, Jonathan Harper, had in contrast misty blue eyes and an untidy mop of black hair. I rarely got it cut, and then only when the school complained about its length.
The bell rang for lunchtime. In a burst of chatter and hunger, the whole class flipped their books closed and shoved them into their school bags. The teacher, Mr. May, quickly shut his own books and packed away his things into his briefcase, keen to have his own lunch. We swung our bags onto our backs and scrambled through the crowds of identical school-uniformed students in black blazers and blue/gold striped ties. We were both keen to get to the lunch hall first then onto the sanctuary of chess club for the rest of our lunchtime, away from the school gang – the O'Keefe brothers and friends.
In the school dining room, we rounded the maze of tables and chairs to get to the back first. We settled into a quiet corner out of harm's way.
“What you got for lunch today?” Giles asked.
The cheese sandwich flopped in my hand.
“The same as normal. Dad's not very inventive when it comes to food,” I said and took a bite.
“Oh. I got pastrami and pickle sandwiches, crisps, oatcakes and fruit slices,” Giles said, and smiled.
He always had something interesting to eat—another result of having a mum.
Soon the room filled with the noise of school kids chomping on packed lunches and cutlery clanging against plates, as they battled the dried up tasteless food.
The O'Keefe gang – Patrick, Liam, Kieran and friend Dave – strolled in with a plate of chips each. My stomach tied in a knot and muscles tensed; I had always been a favourite target. Luckily, they picked the table in the middle of the hall even though two boys and a girl already occupied it.
Liam and Kieran, identical twins in their last year at school, glared at the occupants. The group hurried away to another table, knowing better than to argue. Patrick and Dave, who were in my year at school, joined the twins at the table.
They ate using their dirty fingers and chomped the chips exposing the mulched potato. The greasy chips went with their greasy hair and skin, which explained the explosion of spots on their faces. Patrick dropped a chip that added to his already stained and filthy off-white shirt. The gang wore their ties loose in a big fat knot and wore trainers instead of black shoes unlike the rest of the school. For some reason, they got away with it.
We waited for them to start eating, so they would be busy before emptying the remains of our lunches into the bin. My heart pounded as we clung to the sides of the hall. The O'Keefe's sat three tables away, engrossed in shovelling down chips coated in tomato sauce. We kept to the sides, walking at a pace but not too fast as to draw any attention. Out of the dining hall, we jogged along the corridor with my stomach untying and muscles loosening off. We had avoided another flash point.
“Still coming over tonight?” Giles asked.
“Yeah, got a game with me,” I replied, tapping my school bag.
Giles frowned. “You brought it into school. Let's hope no one sees it.”
I shrugged my shoulders. How else would I get it to his house tonight?
We reached the chess room to find a notice stuck on the door. “Chess Club Cancelled.”
Mr May exited the room, squeezing through the narrow opening, blocking my sight apart from two other men and pack of playing cards on a table. Mr. Collins and Mr. Jones, the chemistry and history teachers. Lunchtime poker club?
“No chess club, boys, go and play outside. It's a wonderful sunny day,” he ordered and shooed us to the door. Typical Mr. May, it was grey and windy outside.
“Yes, Sir,” Giles responded, and we tramped out of the school into the battlefield of the playground.
Giles mentioned a hidden spot that offered safety behind some bushes, between the playground and art rooms. We dodged the boys playing football, screaming and hollering to one another and crashing into other students huddled around the perimeter. We skirted around groups of students congregated together for safety while others played battle card games.
Over the far side of the playground, the eldest students clicked on mobile phones. No one else would be brave enough to bring in a phone, for fear it would be stolen by another student—probably by one of the O'Keefe's. One day I would be in the oldest class, and I would stand in the playground and click on my phone without any concern.
We slipped through the hidden entrance of the bushes, to the secret spot with a pile of concrete slabs that the caretaker was storing out of sight. Cigarette stubs littered the concrete slabs, and I brushed away the burnt ends before sitting down. Hidden from the crowd, we waited for the bell to ring and the relative safety of the classrooms to restart.
“There is a good film on tonight I thought we could watch after the games session,” Giles said.
I sometimes stayed late at Giles' house and got a lift home from his parents, to save me sitting at home all alone. They were like my second family.
“The vampire film?” I replied.
“Yeah, the one with the vampire woman dressed in leather and PVC.”
We carried on talking about computer games and films. Then after a few minutes, the overgrown bushes rustled, and the O'Keefe gang squeezed through.
Liam O'Keefe ceased his nose and sneered with disgust. My stomach twisted and muscles tightened again.
“What the hell you two dippy kids doing here?” Liam asked, shoving a cigarette into his mouth.
“Just talking,” Giles replied.
“Just talking,” Liam echoed in a whiny voice.
“We'll go,” Giles replied, and we made for the exit, heads lowered to the floor.
Patrick blocked my path with his hand and shoved me back.
“You best not tell anyone why we are here,” he said.
“No, we won't tell anyone,” I replied, clutching my bag to protect my computer game.
Patrick stared. “What's in the bag?”
“School stuff,” I replied.
Liam wrenched the bag from my grip and shoved me backwards. I tripped over the concrete slabs and landed hard on my backside. He passed the bag to Patrick and then lit his cigarette.
Patrick opened the bag and dumped the contents on the floor. He kicked it about, rubbed it in the mud, and ripped the pages of my schoolbooks—his usual destructive self. Then he spotted the computer game and picked it up.
“Think I will keep this. I knew you were hiding something. Now get lost,” he said.
“Give it back,” I shouted, leaping up to retrieve my game, but Kieran kneed me in the groin.
A horrid sickening pain shot into my stomach, and I crumbled to the floor clutching my damaged parts. Tears of pain rushed forth and stung my hot f
ace as I struggled to breathe. Giles hauled me up and wrapped my arm around his shoulder.
“Losers,” Kieran said as we hobbled passed, through the bushes, and re-emerged into the playground.
Giles still had his bag, but my stuff was left behind at the mercy of the gang. I had bought the game with money my Dad gave me each year from Mum. The game was a birthday present from the mum I never had.
We sat on the edge of the playground, avoiding the football, and keeping an eye on the bushes and waiting for the gang to leave, so I could retrieve my stuff. I wiped away my tears and breathed in deeply to regain my composure. My groin ached and stomach wrenched.
No one came to see if we were all right. Other kids avoided us, and teachers ignored us by busying themselves with other students, in the hope they wouldn't need to get involved. No teacher wanted to deal with the O'Keefe's, because they may have to answer to the O'Keefe's father. They all knew better than to touch the gang if they wanted to avoid harassment outside the school. The Art teacher last year had tried to intervene and then got attacked; her car rammed on the way home. She left within weeks, and the O'Keefe's reputation grew.
After twenty minutes, the bell rang and the O'Keefe's came back out from the bushes laughing as they went back into school. I hobbled back and retrieved the rest of my stuff. They had trodden on and ripped apart my school books. My bag stank and dripped with urine. Inside was an even more disgusting present from the O'Keefe's. Animals. I emptied it out and gathered the remains of my school gear. Giles helped me pick it all up, and we trudged back to classes for the rest of the day.
I sat in class with my bag stinking, and books ruined and useless. Giles handed me some blank paper and shared his textbook with me. The other kids looked over and wrinkled up their noses.
Patrick's friend Dave stared over. “You stink, Harper. You messed your pants?”
I looked away, trying to ignore his comments.
“Harper. You wet yourself?” Patrick shouted, and the class laughed. The other kids whispered to one another. My sorry tale had been repeated across the whole school.
“You stink,” another voice shouted behind.
The teacher, Mr. Jones, stopped writing out World War II dates on the whiteboard and turned around. He sniffed the air, and the class went quiet. He walked around sniffing, then stood right next to me and looked down his nose in revulsion at the smell.
“Harper, what is that smell? Is it you?”
I sank into my seat with my face hot with embarrassment.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Have you wet your pants?” he asked. The class laughed again.
“No, Sir. It's my bag, Sir,” I replied.
“Your bag? Why does your bag stink of urine?”
I didn't know what to say. Patrick and Dave stared at me. Patrick pounded his clenched fist into his open hand. If I told the truth, I would get a beating, but how else could I explain it?
Giles saved me. “Sir, we were messing about in the toilets, and it fell in the urinals. It was my fault.”
The class laughed, and Patrick and Dave grinned at escaping justice once again.
“Sorry, Sir, it was just an accident.” I added.
Mr. Jones shook his head. “Stupid boy, go and store it somewhere out of my classroom,” he said and returned to the whiteboard.
I left the room with my bag and stored it away in my locker.
During the next break time, other kids grouped in gangs, and pointed at me and shouted. “Harper wet his pants, Harper wet his pants.”
“No I didn't,” I shouted, but no one wanted to listen. It didn't matter that it wasn't the truth. Why let the truth get in the way of bullying and tormenting your fellow student? They were all happy it wasn't their turn to be the victim. I spent the rest of the afternoon an outcast, except for Giles who always stuck by me.
“They will have all forgotten it by tomorrow,” he said, but I wouldn't.
I went straight home after school rather than visiting Giles' house. After losing the game and having my bag and belongings ruined, I'd lost the enthusiasm to play computer games. I just wanted to go home, clean up my stuff, and then sink into the sofa in front of the TV.
I retrieved my bag from my locker and then headed the long way home via the back of school and through the alleyways. The O'Keefe's frequently hung around at the school gates, and I could avoid them by taking the back route home. It was a longer route, but it was worth it.
I arrived home, emptied out the school bag, and shoved it in the washing machine. I turned on the radio, and Dad's footsteps thudded down the stairs into the hallway outside the kitchen. He wore his work clothes, black trousers, and white shirt, and he crouched down to put on his shiny black shoes.
The presenter on the radio introduced the next song. “It is a full moon tonight. So here is the song 'Blue Moon'.”
Dad slid on his coat, swept back the scruffy hair on the sides of his baldhead, and pulled down his glasses.
“Jon, I wasn't expecting you back, but I am off to work now. I'll be back even later than normal, probably one or two a.m.,” he said from the hallway.
I groaned. Home alone again and an extra long one tonight. I noticed Dad always worked one extra late night every month.
He walked into the kitchen with his shoes squeaking on the dirty white floor.
“What's the matter?” he said, responding to the groan and saw my school books strewn over the floor, “Why is your school stuff on the floor? Why is it such a mess … and what is that smell?” he said, wrinkling up his nose and backing away.
“The O'Keefe's messed up my school bag. It needs a wash, and they trashed my books. That is why I came straight home.”
He scowled. “That bloody family. Never mind, you will be gone in a couple of years and off to college. You will never have to be bothered by them again.”
Easy for him to say, he wasn't the one facing the constant bullying and fishing out stinking excrement from his bag.
“I must go to work now. There is pizza in the fridge for you to cook. Remember to lock the doors and close the windows before you go to bed.”
I had only just turned fourteen when Dad embarked on his night time work at the research centre. He'd decided fourteen was old enough to look after myself at night. Why the work had to take place at night, I didn't know, and I was always rebuffed when I asked. Dad slammed the front door shut, and I slammed the pizza in the oven.
Later that night, I sat watching the TV, with an empty pizza plate on the floor, and my laptop open. I watched the vampire film with interest and exchanged chat messages with Giles via my laptop. In the movie, a gang of thugs surrounded a sexy leather clad female vampire. The gang had no idea she was a vampire and were making lurid suggestions while creeping ever closer.
Eventually, one of the gang attacked. She dodged the punch effortlessly, pushed him back and jumped into a spinning back kick. The thug flew backwards through the air knocking over other gang members. She stabbed out her fangs, and her eyes turned blood red. The gang froze, and she unleashed her vampire fury, punching one and roundhouse kicking another. Next, she somersaulted over a gang member, landing behind him and spinning a back fist across his head.
I got a message.
“Wow, watch her go,” Giles sent.
“I wish I could do that. I could have ripped the O'Keefes' heads off,” I replied
“You would like to be a vampire?”
“Why not? Got to beat being a victim,” I typed back.
“True, but an eternity drinking blood and only living at night …”
“It would be worth it.”
“If I were a supernatural creature, it would be a werewolf.”
“Yeah, but they can't control it,” I said.
“In some of the films they can. They can change when they like and remain in control of their power. The best of both worlds.”
The vampire snapped the neck of the thug, then strutted across to the next opponent. The m
oonlight shone off her tight leather outfit, accentuating her curvy body.
“Maybe, but vampires have something else going for them.”
“What?”
“Vampire women are sexy.” I typed as the female leather clad vampire, dispatched the last of the gang with a spinning back-kick. The gang member flew through the air onto the road, and then a bus smashed him into a bloody twist of broken bones.
“True, but just any girlfriend would be nice,” Giles replied.
“Yeah, any girlfriend would be great. There is no chance for us.”
“When we are older and left that hell hole they call school maybe. I have to go now, being told off by my mum. See you tomorrow.”
The chat session ended. The female vampire strolled off through the alleyway, now littered with the dead members of the gang. Her knee length black boots stepped over the broken bodies pooled in blood. And she strode victoriously onto the street with not a hair out of place.
I stared at the screen, and thought about the abuse I received at the hands of the O'Keefe gang. Another incident to add to the many I had suffered. Ever since I started school with Patrick O'Keefe, the gang had bullied me. When I first started at school, I fought Patrick and won. Later on, his twin brothers turned up and sought retribution. Since then, Giles and I suffered from relentless bullying.
Watching the film sparked my thirst for revenge. I wanted them to feel pain and suffer in fear just like the gang in the film. I wanted to rip through their flesh, break their bones, and slit their throats. I wanted to see their lifeless, bloody bodies at my feet. I wanted them to witness their victim tearing their lives away and see fear in their eyes.
I said aloud, as a promise to myself. “I want vengeance.”
Thorn
On the same dark night hundreds of miles away in London, Thorn strode down the deserted back streets. Her curvy hips swayed and flashed her diamond-studded belly button, between her red vest top and black leggings. Her long raven hair blocked her sky blue eyes from the phone in her hand, so she swished it back to gain a better view. The screen glowed, illuminating her pale silk skin and flawless features.
She walked past closed shops with graffiti-decorated shutters. Overhead randomly working street lights created pockets of light, which glinted off her gold rope necklace and gold earrings.
Ahead, the streets lay empty of ordinary people, most having returned to their homes for safety. The nightlife of the town stalked her as she walked unperturbed and unfocused with a phone in hand, and a Gucci bag bouncing off her hip.
Her black knee-length leather boots tapped along the concrete pavement, but her stalkers padded quietly in their trainers, flipping up their hooded top, pulling neck scarves around their chins and mouths to conceal their identities. She walked on without care or notice. A sudden scuffle of feet behind her, and the hooded men shoulder barged her out of sight of the main street and into the darkness, unseen, all alone, and at their mercy.
She staggered sideways into the alleyway, regaining her composure and hanging on to her phone. Unfazed, she unzipped her Gucci bag, put the phone inside and flicked back her raven tousled hair. Her attackers marched forwards and then glanced back to the main street.
“Give us the bag and your jewellery,” the one in the grey hooded top ordered.
She stared, cocked her hips to one side and crossed her arms. The one in the black top finished checking behind and followed up.
“Bag now, bitch,” he shouted, striding menacingly towards her.
She smiled. “You want it, you take it.” Then threw the bag to the floor.
“Stupid,” he said. “I gonna want more now. I was watching those hips of yours swaying down the street. You've a nice ass.”
“Yes, it's pretty damn good,” she replied, turning side on and spanking her bum cheek with the palm of her hand.
The two thugs looked at each other, and one shrugged his shoulders.
“We'll have the bag and you,” the thug in grey said, running the last few steps to grab the Gucci bag while the other checked behind them once more.
He reached down for the bag, but her shin smashed into his face instead. Blood erupted out as he tumbled to the floor, clutching at his nose. The thug in the black hoodie ran straight at her, fist pulled back, and then slammed it towards her flawless face. She blocked it effortlessly with her left arm and whipped in a crack of a fist into his jaw with the other hand. The thug's whiplashed jaw threw him around, rattling his brain inside his head, and he collapsed to the floor.
Just raw power. No need for kick ass martial arts moves, my way is quicker and cleaner.
The two thugs regrouped and scrambled down the alleyway while she moved around to block the exit. No escape. The thug in grey pulled a knife from his belt.
“Who the hell are you?” he shouted with blood streaming from his nose, staining his mouth and chin.
“I am Thorn. Touch me and you bleed,” she responded, allowing a grin to take hold.
Her eyes transformed to blood red, claws ripped through the ends of her fingers, and fangs cut the air. The muscles on her face contorted, forcing her hair to jut out wildly, and her skin changed to a sickening aggressive grey.
She darted forward, front-kicking the thug in black off his feet. He sailed through the air and then crashed into a pile of bins. The other thug charged and slashed with the knife but only cut thin air. She spun out the way, grabbed his arm with both hands, and snapped it in half. The thug screamed, and the knife clattered to the ground. She clutched him by the throat and slammed him into the wall. He screamed in her ear as fangs punctured his neck veins, and she sucked down her fill.
As she drained his blood away, his legs and arms thrashed about, bouncing harmlessly off her body. She gulped down the life giving blood and enjoyed the struggle while it lasted. When finished, she licked at his neck, mopping up the last of her dinner. Then dropped the spent shell of his body to the floor like an empty sandwich wrapper. The other thug hadn't moved from his landing place in the bins. One would be enough.
She walked off in a blood drunken haze to retrieve her Gucci bag on the alleyway floor. The blood had smeared around her lips, and coated her chin and neck. She licked at her fangs, swiped the bag up, and slung it over her shoulder. She walked on, and leaned against the wall as she fished out her mobile phone. The phone screen lit up to her touch, and she opened the task box.
Dinner
Weapons
Sun block
Pay the cleaners
