by Thomas Emson
Michael clutched his brother’s hand and said, “It’ll be all right. We’ll be all right,” but his voice was shaking and his body trembled.
The Ion man reached inside the cage. His grabbed Sophie by the arm and Sophie screeched, trying to hold on to Michael. But the Ion man was strong and dragged her out of the cage before slamming the door shut again.
Michael gasped and stiffened next to David. Sophie shrieked and kicked. The Ion man heaved her over to the pit. She tugged against him, but she was just a girl and he was a man.
Three vampires, including Mr. Gless and the hoodie who’d killed C.J., put their faces between the bars of the cage and bared their teeth.
David’s legs went soft, and he thought he’d faint. They had fangs like snakes, and the front teeth were stained a reddish-brown colour that David knew was blood.
The Ion man handcuffed Sophie’s hands behind her back. She screamed and thrashed about, saying, “Don’t hurt me, please, let me go – Mum, Mum, please,” in a high-pitched voice.
David wanted to put his hands over his ears, but he thought it was right he should listen. He should be able to tell people what happened to Sophie and why these people – this Ion, that woman – should pay for her death.
The Ion man fastened a leather strap around Sophie’s ankles. A hook was clipped to the strap. The Ion man hoisted Sophie on his shoulder.
She yelled at him to stop and to please put her down. He eased the hook over the bar that crossed over the pit. The muscles in his arms flexed as he held Sophie’s weight for a second – and then he let her hang by her ankles from the bar. The Ion man stepped back.
Sophie looked down into the pit underneath her and her screams came in short, rapid stabs. David trembled and whined, Sophie’s terror infecting him, and the others, like a plague.
“What’s happening, what are they doing?” said Michael, tears in his voice.
But David didn’t want him to ask that. David wanted him to answer those questions. Michael was his big brother, and he should know why this was happening, why they were going to die like this – die like –
And he saw how.
The Ion man took out a knife. He stood at the edge of the pit with his back to the cage, staying in front of Sophie, so David and the others couldn’t see her.
But when the knife slashed from right to left, and left to right, and Sophie stopped crying, David knew what had happened, and he peed himself.
The Ion man moved aside. Sophie twitched. Blood poured over her face from the gash in her throat, and rained into the pit.
David shrieked.
Chapter 70
DADDY’S BOY.
LITHGOW knew he’d fucked up. After Lawton, Murray, and Sassie left the pub, he found a corner table and cradled his pint. He phoned his dad and his dad said, “What have you done, now?”
Lithgow said he’d done nothing but just wanted to talk.
A silence filled the line and then Lithgow said, “Dad, have you been following what’s going on?”
His dad said, “Of course. Do you think I live in a cave? Why? Do you know something about it?”
“No, no, I don’t,” said Lithgow, loosening his collar. He took a gulp of Guinness. “But I know people who know people, kind of thing.”
“Oh, do you, now.”
“And I kind of know how it all started,” said Lithgow.
His dad took a few deep breaths and then said, “You know how it started? Does that mean you know who’s responsible?”
“No,” said Lithgow. “I don’t know that.”
“All right, Fraser. Well, how about you explain to me how it started.”
And Lithgow told him about the pills called Skarlet killing people in Religion. And about those dead people disappearing and then coming back to life, and the word “vampire” being mentioned.
“So, Dad, do you reckon that whoever, kind of, distributed those Skarlet pills at Religion – handed them out without knowing what would happen – do you think they’d be done for murder – seeing as the victims died, then got up again?”
His dad paused before answering, and then said, “Are you on drugs, Fraser?”
“No, Dad, no.”
His dad sniffed. “This talk of vampires is nonsense. And I won’t even deal with that. Whoever distributed those drugs could be accused of manslaughter. But if the victims are, um, alive, as you say, then supplying would be the worst of it.” He paused. “Get out of London for a while, Fraser. I mean, if you’re involved – ”
“I-I’m not, I – ”
“Well,” said his dad, “get out anyway, perhaps – for the moment, at least. Until – until things have, um, settled down. Then – then you can come home – come back, I mean. I could try to help you but – but I’m not sure at this time – ”
“Dad, you’re waffling.”
“Well, I’m a barrister, son, that’s what I do.”
“Yeah, right. So you say, get out of London.”
“That’s what I say, Fraser.”
“Yeah, thanks, Dad.”
“Fraser?”
“Yes?”
“Listen to me – just this once.”
They said goodbye. Fraser hung up. Ten minutes later, he’d finished his pint and raced towards Pimlico tube station. His father had always given him good advice, and Fraser had mostly ignored it.
Weaving through crowds, he thought he’d continue that tradition.
Chapter 71
A VAMPIRE IN
EMBANKMENT STATION.
BARRY Corbett crawled out of the Thames. Slime hung off his clothes. He stank of the river. Hunger gnawed at his belly.
He’d woken up in the cold, dark water. A thump in his chest had brought him out sleep, as if an electric generator had been turned on in his heart. Panic gripped him, and he thrashed about. He thought he’d be out of breath, that he’d drown, and started to claw his way up to the surface.
But he gulped water into his lungs and nothing happened – just a chill seeping through him and a bad taste crawling around his mouth.
He wasn’t drowning. He swam to the surface. The hunger in his belly grew and he knew, without knowing how, what would get rid of his craving:
Blood.
Barry, scrambling up the bank, remembered how he got there.
The bus stuck in traffic, getting hit by that car. People screaming and shouting. The woman dragging him over the edge of the bridge. Her teeth sinking into his throat as they plunged into the Thames. The strength draining out of him. The darkness swallowing him. Death making him limp, making him debris.
The river took him west, under Waterloo Bridge. His body got tangled up in the wreckage of the riverbed. He stayed there for a day, a carcass. But then the poison from the woman’s bite made him live again, and he came out of his death stronger than he’d ever been. And if he could feed, he’d feel stronger still. Out of the river, his nostrils filled with the odour of blood, thick and metallic. He slavered and flicked his tongue over his teeth. He felt fangs in his mouth and knew what they were for.
He clambered up through Embankment underground station.
Commuters avoided him. They cringed when they saw him, when they smelled him. Water drizzled off his body and he trailed it behind him.
Slime draped over his shoulders and down his arms. Saliva tendriled from his mouth, vines of it hanging down his chest. He could hear heartbeats pump in his head, the blood coursing through all these people around him. The smell drove him crazy.
Feed, his mind said, feed.
His throat clicked.
His mouth snapped open and closed.
His insides were on fire.
Barry snarled.
A London Underground official in his blue blazer came up to him and said, “You’ve got to get out of here, mate. I’m going to have to call the police.”
Barry hissed in the official’s face, and the man flinched. Barry shoved him, and he stumbled, fell on the concourse. The official, pissed off at bei
ng on his arse, said, “Hey, you bastard, you’re – ”
Barry pounced, leaping through the air, ploughing into the official.
The guy screamed, tried to fight. Barry sank his teeth into the man’s throat and blood filled Barry’s mouth and it was the most wonderful thing he’d ever tasted.
* * *
Lawton, Murray, and Sassie got off at Charing Cross. They’d left Sassie’s car at Pimlico, no chance of getting through the congestion that was building in the streets.
Stepping out of the station, they heard the commotion down Villiers Street, where Embankment tube station stood. Crowds spilled from the station entrance. Travellers strolling down towards Embankment turned round when they saw the panicked faces of those darting out of the station.
Lawton said, “They’re in there, there’s one of them in there.”
He strode into the crowd swarming up the street.
Sassie called his name and Murray told him to wait. But Lawton muscled his way through the throng. He glanced over his shoulder and said, “You two stay there and keep an eye out.”
Sassie looked at him with fire in her eyes. A yearning for her put a knot in his guts. The crowd swept past her. He turned away and moved towards the station entrance. The screams and shouts faded up Villiers Street. Sirens filled the night. Lawton heard voices saying, “Police! Police!” and boots trampled the road behind him.
Lawton stepped into the station.
The silence chilled him. Shadows fluttered in the gloom. Two figures lay, one on top of the other, on the concourse. Lawton skulked towards them. He heard the sucking sound that sent a rush of fear into his guts.
The same noise he’d heard when Jenna drank his blood.
“Hey,” said Lawton, drawing the two-horned spear from the leather scabbard strapped to his back. The silver-haired vampire, his head adorned with weeds and slime, looked up. The Underground official lay dead. The vampire hissed at Lawton, blood frothing in its mouth.
The creature stood. Water dripped off its coat. The smell of rot came from the monster, and Lawton creased his face.
Lawton heard the footsteps behind him and a voice said, “Step away, mate, we’ll handle this.”
Lawton glanced over his shoulder. Three armed police in protective vests. They aimed Benelli M3 shotguns at Lawton, at the vampire.
Lawton said, “Those won’t work.”
“They work on elephants,” said the goateed cop in the middle.
Lawton stepped to the side saying, “Okay, mate, but that’s” – he turned back to the vampire – “not an elephant.”
Speaking to the vampire, the goateed cop said, “Armed police, sir, move away from the body or we’ll shoot.”
The vampire stepped towards them.
“Back, sir, back,” said Goatee.
The vampire moved forward.
“Sir, I’m warning – ”
The vampire flew.
Lawton flinched as the shotguns cracked. The blast tossed the vampire aside like it had been yanked on a rope. The creature hit the floor, skidded along the concourse, smoke coming of its body where the pellets hit. The cops raced after him.
Lawton said, “Be careful.”
Goatee turned and said, “It’s okay, we know what we’re fucking – ” and the vampire sprang to his feet. The creature bit into Goatee’s throat. The two other officers fired. The pellets peppered vampire and policeman, tearing chunks off the cop’s body. The vampire snapped its head from side to side. The officer twitched. His throat came away in a hunk of meat. Blood spouted from the wound. The vampire shoved his kill aside. The red blood on its face contrasted with the white of its skin.
The other cops fired again, backing away. The vampire staggered back, came forward again.
Lawton thought, Fuck this, and he rushed forward.
One of the cops ran out of ammo. The vampire pounced. It sank its teeth into the cop’s face, and the cop screamed. His colleague yelled and started battering the vampire with his shotgun.
Lawton shoved the third copper aside. He grabbed the vampire by his collar. The material was wet. The cop having his face bitten off screamed. Lawton hauled the vampire off the officer, and tossed the creature aside. The cop cradled what remained of his face. Blood pumped from between his fingers.
The vampire stood. It flew at Lawton. Lawton braced himself.
The vampire bared its teeth, bloody with bits of flesh pressed between them. The stench of river and death filled Lawton’s nostrils.
He lunged and drove the tusk into the vampire’s chest. The vampire’s face showed shock. It tried to claw at Lawton’s face and started to squeal. Lawton shoved the point deeper into the creature’s heart. He felt bone crack and flesh pop.
The vampire slid up the spear until he was face to face with Lawton and Lawton smelled the fucking awfulness of the thing’s breath. The odour made him want to puke, but he steeled himself, tightening his abs. The vampire’s jaws snapped inches from Lawton’s face. Then it shrieked and a gout of black blood shot from its open mouth, splashing over Lawton’s face.
Lawton groaned.
The smell of burning filled the air. The vampire’s skin charred and cracked. The creature convulsed on the stake. It clawed at Lawton’s shoulders. Smoke belched from its body and its eyes started to blacken.
Arteries of fire laced the vampire’s flesh, now. Flames ignited all over its body. Fire spat from its nostrils and its ears. The heat singed Lawton’s skin. The reek of burning flesh was overwhelming. The vampire shrieked. Fire engulfed it, and Lawton felt the heat. The vampire’s body erupted into ashes and the ashes rained on the concourse and over Lawton, and Lawton stood, his skin and clothes grey with the vampire’s dust, gripping the spear of Abraham.
Chapter 72
BLOOD CRAZY.
LITHGOW, racing for the tube, saw the bus stop and sprinted for it. He leaped on to the bus, just as the door shut behind him. He went to swipe his Oyster card, and the driver said, “No need for that, man, we’re going back to the depot – it’s crazy, man, streets are wild.”
Lithgow, finding a seat, glanced out of the window.
Vampires lunged out of the shadows, pinning their victims to the pavement to suck their blood. Vampires hurled themselves at buses and cabs and cars, clawing at the windows. Vampires got trapped under the wheels and mangled. Twisted, gnarled vampires crawled around on the road, leaving behind them a trail of slime. Their damaged bodies didn’t stop them – their hunger drove them on. Even dismembered vampires lashed out at passers-by. One creature, torn in half from the waist down, reddish-black slush pulsing from its torso, tripped a girl and mounted her. The half-vampire tore at her throat and drank her blood.
Lithgow, sitting now, pressed his face against the window and watched open-mouthed as hell rose up. Even in his wildest trips, his craziest drug binges, he couldn’t have imagined such things.
Screams filled the night. Someone grabbed his shoulder and he turned, fear burning his skin. But it was just a girl, early twenties, her face stretched in terror.
“What’s going on?” she said.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“M-my friends have been killed b-by those things. I saw them being attacked and I-I jumped on this bus.”
“Yeah,” said Lithgow, his eyes wide with fear. The bus crawled along.
The driver honked his horn. Over-turned vehicles, blood-drained bodies, and hunger-crazed vampires cluttered the road.
Vampires clattered against the bus, some latching on to the vehicle, trying to tear through metal and smash through glass to get at the food inside.
“Are they – are they vampires?” said the girl.
Lithgow looked her in the eye. Her eyes were green and tearful.
Lithgow said, “Yes, I think they are, and I think I made them.”
He didn’t know why he told her that, but she felt safe. It felt like she would take his confession, and nod, and comfort him and say it’s all right.
Bu
t the girl gawped. She stood and stepped into the aisle and pointed at Lithgow, saying, “He made them, he made these monsters. He made them.”
Lithgow’s blood ran cold.
Commuters turned their attention from the carnage and looked towards the girl, who was going:
“It’s him. He started it. He says he made the vampires, he made the monsters.”
Two youths stormed up to the back of the bus and one of them, a skinhead, said, “What’re you saying?”
The girl said, “He told me he made them, he created them – he’s to blame.”
The skinhead glared at Lithgow. Lithgow tried to say, No, but his throat was dry, and he shook his head.
Another voice said, “It’s him, him at the back,” and passengers flooded down from the top deck to hear the commotion.
“You made them?” said the skinhead.
“You fucking bastard,” said the other youth, an Asian in an Adidas baseball hat, “my girlfriend got killed last night.” And he surged forward, and the skinhead surged with him, and they bumped each other. And from behind them, the girl kept saying, “It’s him, it’s him,” and the other passengers shoved their way up the bus towards Lithgow.
He felt the strength drain out of him. Sweat coated his body. He panted, and the blood went from his face. He grabbed the emergencydoor handle and yanked and yanked and yanked, and his throat clogged, and the door wouldn’t open and he could hear the passengers shout and the girl scream, “It’s him, it’s him.”
The baseball hat and the skinhead elbowed each other to get at him, and they reached for him. Lithgow yelped, feeling their hands on his shoulders, and he wrenched the handle and shouldered the door and the door opened and air and noise rushed into the bus and Lithgow dived out of the emergency door. Hands clawed at his legs and voices called him a bastard and a murderer and told him to get back here.
He hit the road, hands first. Pain shot up his arms, jarring his shoulders. Headlights swept over him and horns blared.
He covered his head, ready for the hit.
Tyres screeched. The car skidded, smoke hissing from the wheels.
