Blood War (The Bloodeaters Trilogy Book 1)

by Rees, Kevin

  When Casey entered the room the two nurses were busy making him comfortable and glancing at each other with horrified looks on their faces. One of them heard her come in and gestured to a pink chair in the corner. Casey dropped into it and yawned in a deliberate show of complete boredom with the process. All she wanted to know was who was dating Jennifer Aniston.

  After an hour of getting nothing out of him, the nurses and student left the room. For a few moments the man in the bed remained motionless, only his eyes gave some indication he was alive as they flicked left and right, and then he stood looking out of the window. The movement from the bed was as smooth as quicksilver in its fluidity, leaving the bedclothes to momentarily hold the shape of his body before collapsing. The old man stood gazing out at a dismal London wrapped in the unwelcome arms of a cold, grey winter. Above, a pale disk hung blindly in the air with its heat hidden behind a seasonal cataract. It was his second time to this dreary land. It hadn’t changed much, still bloated with the detritus of the self-absorbed First Bloods that lived in perpetual walking comas. They saw nothing of the world and cared even less, which is why they made good stock.

  It was time to begin. With a thin smile, he pressed the pointed tip of his index nail onto the glass and pushed firmly. The glazing parted like melting butter, allowing the nail to cut a small slit through its surface, penetrating all the way through to the outside. He withdrew his nail and studied the small hole. It would be enough to allow his Brood to scent him and know where he was. Now cunning would be needed to mask his plan and not alert Felton too quickly. The dying in this place could expect to complete the cycle of life a little quicker, but they must be taken out of the sight of these pathetic healers to allow uninterrupted feeding.

  The old man inhaled deeply, scenting the meat and blood all around him. But there was one scent he detected that seemed to rise above the rest. It was strong, sweet even. A scent he had tasted many times in this world. It was a mating scent and one he would take advantage of. His Brood would need good, fine stock and he had many more sons to sire. He could tell this breeder was strong and in heat. He sniffed again, drinking in the assured pleasure. He drew back his lips into something akin to a smile as his brain synthesised the cocktail of airborne chemicals and detected she was a hybrid; a First Blood carrying the gene code of his people. Somewhere the two bloodlines had mixed and crossed over in the intervening centuries. She wasn’t rare, but in his very long life he hadn’t mated with such a creature. The old man chuckled at the added bonus. After mating he would switch off his marker scent as by now his invitation would have been picked up by Felton’s people.

  He guessed the enemy could not be certain where he was, which gave him some time. It would also give his family time. He picked the building specifically for the good tactical advantage he would have in the battle he knew was coming, as it was of his making. Very soon he would lose himself in the myriad of rooms and corridors. The old man knew this place, big and rambling with dark, disused places and ghost rooms swathed in plastic. He remembered all the maintenance shafts, storage rooms and, more importantly, the morgue situated below street level, and well away from the scores of First Bloods milling around, unaware of the carnage he was about to bring to them.

  The old man knew he had an advantage over Felton. Two weeks earlier he had killed a maintenance man to take his identity card and to feed. Then, using his clothing, he scouted the hospital. He entered through the roof early in the morning when everyone was languid and didn’t care about a man in a workman’s overalls and gloves, carrying a clipboard. Nobody challenged him, although few seemed able to keep awake or even raise their eyes. Another human weakness he despised.

  He heard movement coming towards his door and flowed back into bed, pulling the sheet up to his head. The door was tentatively opened for a few seconds and then closed again. The old man smiled. Perhaps there would be competition to be his first mate. He sniffed the air, sensing the pheromones’ thick, redolent presence swirling around the room. Maybe it was time his son’s sired new bloodstock and strengthened the Brood, he pondered. Maybe. But first they must feed.

  5

  The percussive crump of mortar shells exploded all around the exposed beach, shattering the bright, sultry morning. Eddie lay prone in a small depression designated as the emergency rendezvous point for the eight-man SAS team. The radio operator on Eddie’s left confirmed an extraction chopper was three minutes out with two Apaches closing in fast to provide support. The seconds between explosions were agonising as each bomb was zeroing in with increasing accuracy. Eddie had never been a religious man but spoke a few words all the same to an invisible something he had invested little thought in.

  His prayer went unheard as white-hot needles suddenly tore into his arm, followed by a thunderclap. The mortar round had landed less than ten feet from his position and delivered its deadly fury in an indiscriminate arc. Dazed, Eddie rolled onto his back and cursed his pathetic frailty in giving in to a superstition he had spent all his life avoiding. He checked around for other casualties and saw one of the snipers slumped over his rifle. Instinctively, he began to crawl towards him, ignoring the burning agony in his arm. The sniper moved, slowly turning onto his side and swore. Eddie could see half the man’s foot was torn off, leaving the severed boot dangling by a couple of tendons. The trooper called out to Eddie, but his words were blown away as another bomb fell behind them. The trooper signalled for him to move to his position. Eddie reached around for his kit, ready to do what he could to treat the wound. The trooper shook his head and raised his hand, then, realising Eddie was also wounded, pointed to the rifle. Eddie pointed to himself and then the weapon. The trooper nodded. Eddie slid over and positioned himself by the man. As he lay beside the sniper, he saw the other wound the mortar had inflicted. Shrapnel had ripped across the man’s stomach in a parody of a smile. Eddie could see the skin was still tearing under the pressure from the man’s intestines, which were spilling out onto the sand. Remarkably, the trooper smiled and clasped Eddie’s shoulder and shouted into his ear.

  ‘She kicks to the left. Make the adjustments I shout out to you, and take your time. Then you can sort my stomach out. The wife said I needed to lose some weight. At least the old-fella took refuge between my fucking legs. Now let’s show these twats who we are.’ The trooper turned and pointed out the men determined to kill them.

  Eddie began to say he couldn’t do what was being asked of him, but checked as he caught the utter determination in the other man’s eyes. The sniper was going to die no matter what he did as a medic. And Eddie didn’t want him to die next to a coward. He took the rifle and wedged it tightly to his shoulder, wincing as the stock pressed metal fragments deeper into his flesh. The trooper’s speech was starting to slow as the effects of shock began to overtake him. He gestured to the sight on the rifle and indicated how Eddie was to adjust it for his eyes. Nervously, he followed the instruction and set it several times to get absolute clarity. Eddie glanced down and saw the man’s entire abdominal cavity had now spilled out. The rising stench came close to making Eddie gag.

  ‘Hundred-and-twenty-five metres at eleven o’clock.’

  The sudden loudness of the trooper’s voice between shelling made him flinch. Eddie peered down the sight and saw a man crawling alongside a ruined wall. He braced the rifle and began to squeeze the trigger. For a moment his mind went completely calm, allowing him to take the shot. Then his natural instinct to preserve life started to loosen his index finger and question himself. He looked again at the man lying next to him. The trooper stared back, locking a steady gaze with the younger man. He had dark green eyes, which showed no sense of fear. Eddie felt they held some understanding of the inner fight he was having. The trooper gave a brief nod and gestured for Eddie to turn back to the rifle and help defend the men who had risked their lives that morning.

  ‘Okay, I have a target, one-hundred-metres at ten o’clock.’ Eddie was conscious of his finger tightening on the trigger.
The recoil smacked the rifle back hard into his shoulder, causing him to let out a gasp.

  ‘Shot, my son. Now look to where the tree line is at five o’clock — there’s three of them. Take out the target on the left nearest the mortar. I reckon the others will run.’ The sniper pointed to a small grove of palm trees. ‘I’ll watch the road in case they have anything that can sneak up on us.’

  Eddie lined up the crosshairs on a boy barely out of his teens. Again, he faltered and moved the rifle to the two others with him. Eddie saw the oldest of the three men was leaning against a tree, a casual observer to the argument going on between the younger men fighting over the mortar tube. Eddie exhaled for a few seconds before aiming carefully at his target and squeezing the trigger. The rifle thudded back into his shoulder like a hammer. Eddie kept his eye on the rifle sight and saw the impact of the heavy bullet. The older man remained upright for a second, still leaning on the trunk as if resting, when death and gravity took over. Eddie felt compelled to witness the last moments of a life he had just taken. He watched as the man’s rifle fell out of nerveless hands while his legs buckled at the knees, folding the body around to the left and flopping the lifeless head to the right. His open, sightless eyes stared directly at his executioner. The bullet had split the man’s nose in two and exited above his left ear, leaving a fist-sized hole in the skull. Eddie couldn’t drag his eyes away and saw what had been the man’s face crumple in on itself. Brain and shards of bone decorated the trunk of the tree, leaving a neat circle of blood and matter, which was already being devoured by flies.

  ‘Fuck! No more of this. I’m sorry but I’m not taking another fucking shot. Mate!’ Eddie shook the trooper’s shoulder. It took him a moment to see through the curtain of adrenalin that the sniper was dead, his eyes still fixed on the enemy. Eddie rolled onto his back and yelled: ‘Fuck!’ The word was lost as the world came violently back to reality. The heat of an explosion ripped over the top of his head and then another one to the left of the tree where he had just killed a man. The Apache’s thirty calibre rounds followed up the Hellfire strike, decimating the palm grove and anyone in it. It sounded to Eddie like a million angry mosquitoes buzzing around his head.

  Four more thumps sounded behind him and then he heard a voice calling his name. Bang, bang, bang, bang. Eddie felt himself being catapulted out of the battle and back to the pale light of a day that was barely showing him the drab pattern of his curtains.

  ‘Mr Keagan, I have to talk with you,’ a voice demanded.

  It took him a few seconds to come out of the nightmare and realise he was safe again in his flat. The knocking persisted.

  ‘Okay, you don’t need to break my bloody door down!’

  He rummaged through his overflowing laundry basket, picking out a t-shirt and some shorts that looked acceptable. Eddie yawned as he made his way through his flat, stopping to pick up a greasy triangle of pizza he’d left on his settee two nights ago. He brushed the crumbs off the cushions before throwing the slice into a waste bin. Whatever it was, instinct or just the persistence, Eddie knew there was going to be trouble on the other side of the door.

  ‘Mr Edward Keagan?’ The man waited for a response before assuming it was.

  Eddie nodded.

  ‘Mr Keagan, I am working with the Metropolitan Police — attached, if you will. I need to speak with you about a Miss Kathy Houghton.’ He stood with the rigidity of a soldier who had worked hard to appear casual in his manner, especially when dealing with civilians.

  ‘I doubt that.’ Eddie’s reaction caused the man to stiffen.

  ‘I am sorry, I do not know what you mean.’

  ‘You never showed me your ID card, or told me who you are. My guess is Major somebody. And you don’t really work with the police, my guess is they take their orders from you. How close am I getting here?’ Eddie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, staring coolly back at the man. He noted no reaction; expected none. Eddie tried mirroring the same, blank expression, except the man in front of him had developed it to a fine art.

  ‘If you will grant me ten minutes of your time I can explain further. May I come in?’ He walked past Eddie before he could object to the intrusion and stood in the centre of the small lounge, examining the room critically. He could tell a lot by how a man lived and was very disappointed by what he saw, especially as Eddie Keagan was highly regarded in some very important circles.

  ‘Do you have a warrant or something to barge into my home, Major?’ Eddie demanded.

  ‘Colonel — actually...Colonel Sixsmith. I am not going to insult your intelligence.’ He reached into his jacket and produced his ID card, handing it to Eddie. ‘I need to know about your colleague, Miss Houghton, and I need to know everything: boyfriends, friends, anything she may have said or gone anywhere different, had she been acting —’

  ‘Why are you interested in Kathy? What’s she done to alert your mob?’ Eddie questioned as he handed back the ID.

  ‘My apologies, Mr Keagan, you would not have heard. Miss Houghton was found dead this morning. She was murdered on her way to her home we presume. Her roommate alerted the police, as she was overdue by several hours. It coincided with her body being discovered by refuse collectors.’ Sixsmith paused, allowing Eddie to absorb the news. ‘Would it be better if we talked seated?’ He gestured to the only chair and took the settee, avoiding the greasy stain and crumbs.

  Eddie sat down heavily, trying to take in what was happening. First Kat was attacked, and now Kathy — murdered. ‘How? What did they want? Was it rape or something? Mugging gone wrong? What?’ Eddie heard words come out of his mouth, but it felt as if someone else was talking.

  ‘Decapitated. No evidence of a sexual attack, and her possessions were still on the ground.’ Sixsmith delivered the information as if dispensing a summary of his favourite blend of tea.

  ‘So why you and not the cops? I’ve never heard of this department, for all I know you could be anyone and this could be bullshit! Who are you really, Sixsmith?’ Eddie wanted to at least have some control of the situation, which Sixsmith had so easily wrested away from him. Eddie guessed whatever branch of the military Sixsmith had served in, his men would have considered him a self-serving, upper crust Rupert, with the smell of their sacrifice oozing out of his expensive pores.

  Sixsmith ignored his question and went on. ‘You had an incident last night in your department. Tell me about that.’

  ‘How’d you know about that?’ Eddie snapped. His question went unanswered again. ‘Okay, last night some drunken kid slashed one of my nurses. She’s ended up a patient and we just about saved her leg. Look, what’s this got to do with Kathy?’

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘He was a fucking drunken piece of scum! What do you want me to say? He was young, twenty-ish, tattoo on his neck, lean, had a number-two haircut and a bad attitude. Sort of sums up my customers on a weekend. He was nothing out of the ordinary. He was playing up in front of a crowd.’ Eddie was beginning to feel angry towards the interrogation Sixsmith was putting him under.

  ‘And you wanted to silence him? I mean, keep him quiet from disturbing the other patients,’ Sixsmith went on. ‘When did the knife appear?’

  ‘Not long after we put him in a cubicle. Kat — Katka Merunkova — went in to do the obs. I was with the administrator and casualty Doctor. Is this relevant?’

  Sixsmith continued to smooth his immaculately trimmed moustache. His silence was enough of a prompt for Eddie to continue.

  ‘We heard a crash, ran out, and saw Kat on the floor. I opened the curtain and the kid was sat up with a knife in his hand. I got the knife off him. Police took over and arrested him and that’s the last I heard of the shit.’ Eddie suddenly felt the strain of the previous night, and the news of Kathy’s murder starting to overwhelm him.

  ‘How is your girlfriend?’

  ‘I didn’t say she was my girlfriend. How’d you know that?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Keagan. I will be in touch.’
Sixsmith got up and moved to the door, pausing before turning the handle. ‘This is my card. Call if you remember anything else.’ He paused again and spoke over his shoulder. ‘I heard good things about you, Keagan, from soldiers who would not be alive if it were not for your remarkable skills. They tell me how you always did your damnedest to save them under the worst possible conditions. I am sorry to say you have not fitted the image those grateful men and their families retain of you, or of my expectation.’ Sixsmith closed the door quietly behind him.

  It felt as if all the air had followed him out of the room leaving Eddie floating in a vacuum. Kathy was dead. Three words that came much too soon for the woman he’d drank coffee with hours earlier. He pictured the police turning up at her parents’ house to tell them how she was found. Who would do something like this? She lived in a decent area. No gangs or heavy crime. Eddie got out of the chair and staggered to the kitchen. He reached out a shaky hand to turn on the water and thrust his head under the flow barely flinching as the jet sent cold streamers over his hair and neck. The chill brought back a lot of clarity, and his thoughts turned to something Andy Crane said about the old guy — something about his hands.

  ‘Kat.’ He spoke her name quietly, holding onto each letter. Her vulnerability drove him out from under the water. The wound was too deep and too precise to have been made by the kid’s knife. He mentally kicked himself for not seeing it. The old fuck was mixed up somehow.

  It was the involvement of Sixsmith that confused him. It should have been a straightforward case of attempted murder. So why was a covert government department handling the investigation — especially a military-led office? Eddie retrieved the card Sixsmith left and examined it closely. It was a plain, cheap white card with Sixsmith’s name and telephone number. He turned the light on in the narrow hallway and saw three embossed characters running along the bottom edge. It read D38. No doubt the departmental number, 38.