by Thomas Emson
THEY WILL FEED ...
BARRY Corbett peered through the bus’s window as the vehicle crossed Blackfriars Bridge, heading south. There was some problem up ahead, and the bus slowed. Horns blared, and he could hear pedestrians and drivers shouting and arguing. The bus came to a halt.
People dashed through the gridlocked traffic. He heard screams.
Some of the other passengers craned their necks to see, saying, “What’s going on?” and “D’you see anything?” and other languages as well.
There were a lot of languages in London, these days, and you could hear most of them on the bus.
A woman sitting next to him had been jabbering away into her mobile phone, and Barry couldn’t understand any of what she was saying. Except “Blackfriars Bridge, Blackfriars Bridge,” sprayed here and there during her rant. He wanted to say, There’s no need to shout; but that never made a difference. She’d have just glared at him, and carried on shouting – English or not.
He didn’t know where the woman was from till he saw a badge on her shirt: a green globe on a yellow background. Brazil, he thought. He was good with flags. He’d learned them as a kid through his interest in football.
And there was no flag more famous in football than the flag of brilliant Brazil.
He’d seen them win the 1970 World Cup final in Mexico City, thrashing Italy 4-1 in the final.
Samba soccer, he thought.
He’d flown over with some mates to watch England defend the trophy they’d won at Wembley four years previously.
“We start saving now,” said Colin Makerewicz, son of a Polish dad who’d fled his war-torn country twenty-five years before. And Colin, on a crest of an English wave as his adopted country beat West Germany in the ’66 final, said, Let’s go to Mexico in four years time.
Four of them – Colin, Barry, Arthur Crossley, and Terry Hayes – saved money like Gordon Banks saved shots and headed off to Mexico on a trip of a lifetime.
England flopped, losing 3-2 to the bloody Germans in the quarterfinals after being 2-0 ahead.
But Brazil, with Pele, Jairzinho, and captain Carlos Alberto, made up for it and the four pals had a great time. Sun, soccer, and sex.
That felt so long ago. All the lads were gone. Colin and Arthur dead, and Terry jailed for murdering two kids in the early Eighties. Strange how they’d been friends and not known he was a pervert. Now in his seventies, his wife long dead, too, Barry did nothing much but travel from his home in south London to the city centre or Stamford Bridge.
Today had been a washout: a dull 0-0 at home to Hull City. There’d been a minute silence before kick-off for these people who’d died over the past few days.
The Brazilian woman next to him asked what was going on outside.
The London Eye flickered in the distance. For a moment, Barry’s gaze was drawn to it. But he drew his eyes away and looked at what was happening on the bridge.
Fights broke out.
Groups of wild looking people attacked passers-by, held them down and bit into their throats.
Barry pressed his face to the window. The London air filled with noise. The bus driver got out of his cab and leaned out of the door.
A snarling man threw himself at the bus window through which Barry stared. Barry flinched and jerked away. The man bared his teeth.
He had – fangs. Sharp canines like a dog. He had brownish-red eyes.
The Brazilian woman next to Barry screamed.
The bus driver screeched. Two women dressed like punks dragged the driver off the bus and into the street, and they fell on him. Barry stood up, saw the driver kicking and struggling. But the punks held him down and they tore at his throat with their teeth.
Barry’s heart raced and a sweat broke on his nape. The other passengers started to panic. They shouted, explaining what was happening outside, as if Barry or anyone else needed to be told – they could see it all themselves.
A car skidded and crashed into the bus. The passengers screamed.
Barry got thrown into the aisle. The Brazilian woman fell on top of him. Passengers screamed as the bus tilted on its wheels. The vehicle clanged and creaked.
The Brazilian woman got up, and she reached out to help Barry. He took her hand and she smiled as she tugged him to his feet.
Something black and lightning quick ploughed into her and whipped her away.Barry’s gaze darted after the woman. A black-clad figure with bleached hair gnawed at her neck, and blood splashed on her yellow shirt as she struggled.
Shrieks pierced the air. Passengers tried to rush off the bus. They opened the emergency door at the back and spilled out of the vehicle.
They hit the Tarmac, piling up on top of each other. Some got up and trampled on the ones who’d got out first. Passengers clogged the bus’s aisle. They barged and pushed, trying to make it to the emergency exit.
Fanged things swept on to the bus.
Barry thought, You haven’t swiped your Oyster card.
And that bizarre thought made him scream.
He scrabbled to his feet. The Brazilian woman stopped shrieking.
The bleached-haired man who’d killed her glared at Barry, and Barry’s legs sagged.
Blood streaked Bleached-hair’s pale face. The dark liquid frothed in his mouth. But Barry could see the yellowing fangs.
Bleached-hair’s eyes were red-hued and cruel, and they seemed deep set in his bony face. His eyelids were smeared with black make-up.
He crawled towards Barry, hissing as he came. Barry staggered backwards. A passenger booted Bleached-hair in the chest, and he jerked.
But the kick didn’t disable him.
He snarled at his attacker, and leapt at him. Bleached-hair sank his fangs into the man’s neck and thrashed his head from side to side, and the man screamed and blood sprayed from his shredded throat.
Barry felt cold, and he couldn’t move.
But when Bleached-hair, his face dripping blood, turned on him again, Barry found the will to get the hell out of there.
Screams filled the air around him. He didn’t know what was happening. He leapt to his feet and dived through the emergency door.
His bones rattled as he hit the road, and for a moment he thought he’d lie there and wait for one of those creatures to finish him off.
But he got on all fours. His gaze darted about the bridge.
Pale-skinned creatures baring their fangs attacked people. Assaults broke out all around him. Screams deafened him.
What the hell’s going on? he thought. It’s those monsters the papers said were roaming the streets. His next-door neighbour had told him, Barry, buy a crucifix; but he’d laughed.
Not laughing now, Barry, he thought.
He scuttled towards the side of the bridge and got to his feet. He had his back to the river and he stared at the carnage on the bridge.
Something grabbed his collar from behind. He went cold. He looked over his shoulder. A moon-white face leered up at him. The woman tugged at Barry’s coat. She clung to the bridge, the Thames shimmering beneath her. She showed her teeth and hissed.
Barry felt himself teeter.
He said, “No, no,” as she yanked at his coat.
He was going over. A scream filled his throat.
He lost his balance and slipped over the edge of the bridge. The hissing woman chewed into his throat and his bladder emptied. He toppled over, and the woman plunged with him.
And as they fell, entwined, she sucked the blood from his throat.
Barry’s insides melted as he plummeted and then the water hit him, cold and hard, and the icy river pulled him and his attacker down and dragged them deep into its guts.
The river gushed into Barry’s throat and filled his lungs, and the woman sucked at the streaming vein in his throat.
He thrashed and screamed as Thames water filled him and the blood left him.
* * *
Aaliyah said, “So you slept with her, yeah? You got drunk and you slept with her.”
J.T. shrugged
and said, “It was nothing, man. Just some bitch, that’s all. You’re my woman, girl, you’re my – ”
She slapped him across the face. He staggered away down the platform. Passengers waiting for the Northern Line looked away.
Aaliyah went after him, threw a kick. Her dress flitted up, showing off her smooth, brown thighs and a guy on the other side of the platform wolf-whistled and then said, “Come over here, bitch, and I’ll give you pleasure if you’re man’s giving you pain.”
Fury boiled in her and she wheeled round, glaring at the man. She spat out a volley of curses and abuse. He gave her the finger, called her a whore, and strutted off down the platform.
“You fucking bitch,” said J.T., swaggering towards her. His cheek was red where she’d hit him.
“We’re done, J.T.,” she said, “over and done.”
“We’re not over till I say we’s over.”
Aaliyah felt a little twist in her guts, her anger sapping as fear took hold. J.T. had laid hands on her before, and it wasn’t a good thing. She’d not been able to go to work for days, till the bruising faded. She backed away from him, saying, “You’re on CCTV, J.T.; don’t go hitting me.”
“I don’t give a shit, bitch. You never fucking beat on me, yeah? You never beat on me. You never put a hand on me ’less it’s to worship my dick, yeah?”
Aaliyah’s gaze darted around the other passengers. Leicester Square tube station was busy, but no one seemed to want to help her. She backed up, towards the end of the platform. A rush of cold wind brushed her legs from the tunnel.
Bastards, she thought; cowards – everyone turning their backs, walking the other way like they all did apart from the Samaritan in the Bible story Mum used to tell her when she was little.
Always help other people, Aaliyah, Mum would say. But Aaliyah grew up and found that helping people didn’t get her the things she wanted.
She found that helping herself seemed to work better, and that got her J.T. and all the other guys before J.T., with their bling and their labels and their cars.
“Get away from me, J.T,” she said.
“I ain’t getting away from you, ever, bitch,” and he was closing in on her and she moved back towards the tunnel.
“You having trouble, chicken?”
She looked across the platform. Three black guys stood there. They wore suits, but they looked bedraggled. Their faces were ashen and their eyes were dark red.
J.T. looked across the platform at them and said, “Fuck you, blowjob, you stay the fuck out of it, nigger.”
The black guy glared at J.T. and J.T halted. The black guy said, “Why are you using the American vulgarity with me, son? Are you American?”
“No, I fucking ain’t. Keep the fuck out of my business with my woman.”
“Your woman doesn’t seem very happy.”
Aaliyah saw that J.T. was jittery. She turned to the guys and said, “Leave it, okay, I’m all right.”
“You don’t look all right to me, honey,” said the man.
J.T. said, “Don’t you fucking ‘honey’ my woman, you fuck,” and he pulled out his gun and screams swept through the tube station and passengers cowered and hit the floor.
But the three guys over on the other side just stood and stared at J.T.
Aaliyah said, “J.T., put the gun away, babe. Put it away, please.” She glanced up at the CCTV camera. It fixed on J.T.
He started firing.
Aaliyah threw her hands over her ears.
The three guys leaped across the line.
Aaliyah held her breath as they hung in the air.
The train blared its horn. It whipped out of the tunnel. The trio jumped over it. The brakes screeched.
J.T.’s gun barked. The bullets whacked into the flying men, but there was no blood, no damage.
Aaliyah squatted and screamed.
The train shrieked to a halt.
Two of the guys plunged down on J.T. and he thrashed about, cursing, punching. But they held him down and clawed at his throat with their hands.
The other man, the one who’d spoken to them and called her “honey”, loomed over Aaliyah.
She looked up at him. His eyes were brown with a red shade to them, like rust. She stared at them, not able to look away.
Screams filled the platform. Passengers rushed off the train and up the stairs. Underground staff hared down to the platform to see what was going on.
J.T. yelped and kicked as the men put their mouths over the wounds in his throat.
The suited man leered at Aaliyah. He had fangs. His tongue flicked over his lips. “Now then, honey,” he said, and moved towards her.
Aaliyah screamed.
Chapter 47
INSTINCT.
“YOU’RE dead,” said Lawton.
“Sort of,” said Jenna.
He watched her glide into the flat, the door shutting behind her. He felt dizzy and confused. He wasn’t sure if this was a dream. It must be, he thought; must be dreaming. And he said, “Are you real?”
She faced him, grabbed his wrist and put his hand on her breast.
“How’s that for real?” she said.
Her breast was firm and warm under her white shirt. The shirt was stained brown, streaks of dried blood whipping across the frilly neckline. Passion stirred in Lawton’s belly. He looked at her eyes. Blood seemed to have seeped into their natural colour. His insides twisted:
Jenna’s eyes were like the eyes of the things they’d killed at the house.
Red eyes, he thought.
Skarlet’s poison.
He yanked his hand away.
“What’s happened to you?” he said. “All of you who died that night?”
“We’re part of a brave new world, Jake.”
She turned and moved into the flat. She brushed her hand over the table in the living room.
“Still not used to Mr. Sheen, then,” she said.
She threw herself on the couch and leered at him.
“Don’t you find me alluring, Jake?” she said.
He did, but he didn’t know why. She should sicken him. Her deathliness, the hint of decay when she swished past him.
But he found her far more desirable than he’d ever done before.
His heart raced and sweat broke on his goosepimpled skin. There was something – he shook his head – vile about her that drew him in; something abominable and delicious.
It twisted his mind.
He said, “Have you been on drugs?”
“No, just the drugs that” – she hesitated – “killed me. The pill Fraser gave me in the hope that I’d do him again.”
Jealousy flared in Lawton’s chest. He stayed standing. He kept alert.
He didn’t trust her.
He said, “Killed you? So you’re dead.”
She shrugged. “Ish, I guess. But do I look dead to you, baby?”
She did – pale and drawn.
“I killed things like you at the house,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” said Jenna. “There’s plenty more where they came from. And after tonight there’ll be more still.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean were breeding, Jake. We’re making more like us. It’s weird. I know who you are, who my parents are, I still know who I am. But I feel nothing – no love, no hate, no” – she shook her head – “no emotion at all. I feel nothing. Only instinct.”
“Instinct. What instinct?”
She grinned at him and licked her lips. “To feed. Nothing else. You don’t need anything else. It’s better than sex ever was, even with you.”
She stood up, almost floating off the couch.
Lawton stepped back and braced himself.
She sashayed towards him. “Although you were pretty good, if I remember.”
He took another step back.
She came to him and looked up at him and laid a hand on his arm.
Her skin felt clammy. He could smell a hint of roses through the odour of
decay coming off her.
She squeezed his bicep. “You’re so muscley, so hunky,” she said.
He said, “What do you want?”
She looked him in the eye and he knew she wasn’t a living thing then.
She said, “I want to feed.”
“I got some ready meals in the fridge.”
She hissed, showing her fangs. He’d seen fangs like this before.
Lawton said, “Nice teeth.”
“All the better to bite you with.” She sniffed deeply. “I can smell your blood, Jake. I can smell it pulsing through your veins. I can hear it throb through you. Do you know what blood smells like in the vein?”
Lawton steeled himself. “I’ve no idea.”
“Like heaven.”
“That’s not a very practical description since we’ve not really experienced heaven.”
“Big thoughts there for a soldier boy,” said Jenna. “Spending too much time with that clever little blonde.”
He shoved her away. She hissed at him.
“I saw you,” she said, “saw you at the house, killing Tim and Heiko, I saw you and could’ve killed you.”
“Get out, Jenna.”
The anger left her face. She looked sad and his heart softened.
“Don’t send me out there, Jake.”
“I thought you liked it. Go feed,” he said.
But Jenna said, “I don’t want to. I want to stay with you.” She moved to him again. “I want you to feed me. I want you and me to live forever, Jake.”
Chapter 48
DOMESTIC.
“AND you come home late, stinking of testosterone and fags and – and filth,” said Richard, waving the beer bottle around like a baton.
“While you stink of beer and self-loathing,” she said. “Where are the boys?”
“Where do you think they are, Chrissie? At” – he squinted at his watch – “ten-thirty at night. Huh? Ten and twelve year olds. I tell you, it’s a fucking – ”
“Don’t curse – ”
“ – surprise that they’re in bed.”
Murray threw off her coat and sat on the sofa. He was slumped in the armchair, a six-pack of Stella Artois already down to a two-pack.
She said, “What are you talking about?”
