“Twice Bitten, Twice Die”
Antony J. Stanton
Book three from ‘The Blood of the Infected’ series
Published by Antony J. Stanton
“Twice Bitten, Twice Die”
Published by Antony J. Stanton
Copyright © by Antony J. Stanton 2016
Cover: Adnan Saleem of DestinationCreation.com
The author’s moral right has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
“Twice Bitten, Twice Die” is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents, other than those clearly in the public domain, are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9934285-5-5
---------------------------------------------
Table of Contents
The Players
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Connect with the Author
Acknowledgements
Hall of Fame
---------------------------------------------
“Once Bitten, Twice Die”
Book one from ‘The Blood of the Infected’ series
The end of the world was just the beginning.
--------------------------------------------
“Once Bitten, Twice Live”
Book two from ‘The Blood of the Infected’ series.
When death is the best option, survival is no longer enough.
---------------------------------------------
“Twice Bitten, Twice Die”
Book three from ‘The Blood of the Infected’ series.
When there’s no one left to hear you scream.
---------------------------------------------
Dedicated to all those who have suffered the pain of that insidious fiend – dementia.
My mother died of the effects of Pick’s Disease so my heart goes out to you all.
---------------------------------------------
When there’s no one left to hear you scream…
---------------------------------------------
The Players
Group Captain Tristan Denny. RAF. Station Commander Royal Air Force Headley Court
Captain Thomas Lewis. Army. Royal Artillery. 2nd in Command RAF Headley Court
Squadron Leader Anna Singleton. RAF. Station Medical Officer
Security
Sergeant Garrick Straddling. RAF Regiment
Sergeant Matteo Abbott. RAF Regiment
Sergeant Sinna. Army. Gurkha Regiment
Corporal Bannister. Army
Lance Corporal Dean Millington. Army
Private Giuseppe Campos. RAF Regiment
Private Sharp. Army
Private Rohith. Army. Gurkha Regiment
Supply / Logistics
Flight Lieutenant Andrew Walkden. RAF. Officer in Charge of Admin / Logistics / Engineering
Corporal Bamburac. RAF
Senior Aircraftman Richard Masters. RAF. Wife = Vida
Private Bruce Matthews. Army
Admin
Cpl Gillen. RAF
Leading Aircraftman Mayoh RAF
Leading Aircraftman Allen. RAF
Military Transport (MT)
Sergeant Harper Hutchison. Army
Lance Corporal Ward. Army
Private Darby. Army
Medical
Dr Handley. Civilian
Corporal Newman. Army
Corporal May Williams. RAF
Senior Aircraftman Freddie Samuels. RAF
Senior Aircraftman Dan Hobbs. RAF
Private Howes. Army
Private Hanson. Army
Catering
Sergeant Vallage. RAF
Corporal Bell. Army
Leading Aircraftman Neale. RAF
Leading Aircraftman Patrick Scovell. RAF
Patients
Sergeant Liam Wood. Army. 1 Para
Corporal Charlotte Collins. Army
Corporal Reggie Pethard. RAF. Wife = Emma
Corporal Kevin Berthon. Army
Corporal Elliot Gray. Army. Coldstream Guards
Corporal Pellegrini. Army. Coldstream Guards
Aero-Medical Students
Flight Lieutenant Jonny Parsons. RAF
Flying Officer Oliver Frost. RAF
The Vampires
Darius – Clan Leader
Max
Farzin
Flavia
Alec
Luca
Sebastian
Ricardo
Simeon
---------------------------------------------
“Twice Bitten, Twice Die”
‘To live without hope is to cease to live.’ - Dostoevsky
‘All hope abandon, ye who enter here!’ - Dante
---------------------------------------------
CHAPTER 1
“Please…”
The word was quickly followed by the unexpected relief of first blood, an experience like none other, either previously or since. There was an explosion in his body that shook his limbs and vibrated seemingly down to his very molecules. His back arched as his arms and legs locked, and his tongue cried out for more. With frustrating sloth, the blood was trickled into his mouth, a gradual drip-feed of desire and exultation. It was as though, with every extra drop, he was given a glimpse of the person who he was consuming, a share of their life-force and experiences, a link to a higher consciousness, and an ever-diminishing glimpse of the person that was being extinguished and left behind – his former self. In the swirling red haze that engulfed him the profundity of his awareness lurched as he gasped out for more.
Rather than satiating him however, it led to an unquenchable thirst; a desire that his carer must have already experienced, and one that he had spent his existence ever since denying and resisting; when able. But that stoic resolve only formed later, when lucidity and control had returned through the fog of confusion and half dreams that had surrounded him in those early moments.
Initially he had been a ravenous beast, following the command of the one who had turned him and then of the Clan Leader, and finally of the clan in general, until their collective will was gradually replaced by his own. Sebastian was never sure thereafter whether that word, ‘please’, had come from his own mouth, a plea, begging for sustenance and enlightenment, or whether it had been uttered by his carer, urging him to accept the offering, to partake of the change and unify with them. The word was released dryly into the room and remained unanswered. Unseen hands tilted his head back, forcing his mouth open and one drop was followed by another, slowly completing his transformation, as his veins and his body welcomed the new order, the new genus. His new destiny.
Over the subsequent hours or days or weeks, as the taste of blood grew familiar and coveted, he s
lowly came to his senses, only to find that those senses were now keener and more finely honed than ever before. The smell of salt on the wind was more stinging, the scent of ladies’ perfumes more enchanting. The sound of seagulls crying and bells clanging more acute and piercing, the drowsy gasp of a woman as his lips slowly parted on her neck in his clumsy early attempts, entirely enthralling. Colours became more alive, leaping out at him and filling him with awe and appreciation anew, just as guilt and regret faded and perished. Life started to acquire a more vibrant and hedonistic nature. Reasons for living were few and basic, yet they were all he needed, and heightened for that very simplicity. As he grew into consciousness he was gradually relinquished from the gentle hold of the one who had turned him, all so hazy and confused back then. Steadily he took control of his own actions and his own future, as much as any individual soul can.
He returned thereafter, only once, to the place of his first birth. Bordeaux had not changed in the year since his departure, yet his impression of it had. Drastically. People seemed more squalid than he remembered. Dirt adorned their skin and sweat lingered closely. They seemed frightened, he could read it in their eyes more plainly than ever before. Their bodies were wan and malnourished. Everyone dressed in tatty, dishevelled clothes and he felt himself a prince amongst them. Conversely the River Garonne seemed cleaner and flowed with an energy that had previously been lacking, as though it wasted its time there and urgently needed to join with the sea on the west coast of France. Trees were fuller and grander, their leaves shining and shimmering in the breeze. Even the weather was different, the wind crisper, the rain more refreshing.
Like the river, he did not dally; he sought out the one he had always intended to return for. His departure from Bordeaux had only ever been an interim measure, to gain wealth and experience, before returning to she who had captured his heart and held it hostage despite the intervening time, despite the separating distance, despite the fleeting, meaningless trysts. He found Emma Louise in the same grand house where he had last seen her. As he had ridden away on that last occasion she had stood at the balcony of an upper window, the wind catching her locks and her laces, watching after him until he disappeared from view. And even then she had stood staring at the horizon, over lands that her father owned, lands that prevented her from marrying one from a comparatively modest birth, such as he, as all men were.
Sebastian returned to the house under the protection of nightfall. He returned a conquering hero, to carry Emma Louise away with him. He returned too late. The house was quiet. Candles were lit but there was a hush upon it. It was easy to approach unobserved. He knew where her room was and assumed she would be within. He was not wrong. He scaled the wall effortlessly and stood a moment on the balcony, thinking back to his last sight of her. Would she be the same? Would she recognise him, changed as he now was? Worthy, as he now was. The room was quiet. The window was ajar. He eased through it and stood still for a heartbeat, not needing to adjust to the darkness as his eyes could see perfectly well; more he was trying to place the aroma. It came to him only later. The drapes around the bed were closed, shrouding the figure within. He could see her shape under the covers, the outline of her head, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing; too gentle, but he did not stop to think. And that scent…
He took a single step, a step that covered the entire distance and breached the passage of time. The drapes felt delicate and expensive as he drew them back, enjoying the heightened sensation on his fingertips. He knew he should feel excited and nervous, but rather it was anxiety that dominated. And that odour…
The hair was as he remembered, black and luxurious. It had always made him want to run his fingers through it, to become trapped and lost in it, a willing prisoner. The cheeks were pronounced and elegant, like a topographical chart, but more pronounced than he recalled. The eyes were closed and sunken, and only now could he place that smell. Suddenly, in a stupefying rush he recognised it. Death. Her eyes were sunken with the final throes of it. Asiatic Cholera. It had ravaged her body and she was not long for this world. He gasped and stumbled back as her eyelids flickered open. They fixed upon him and were as beautiful as he remembered, but more so. With his increased clarity he saw the wealth of greens that sparkled within. Like the leaves on the trees, there were as many different hues and tones as in a forest. The irises held yellows like gemstones. They possessed a brilliance even in death that moved him to his very core. They may have held beauty, but they held no recognition. Instead they held panic and confusion. Emma Louise opened her mouth and screamed.
His departure was less subtle than his arrival. He instantly knew he had made a mistake. He should not have come back. He had no place in her world amongst humans, nor in the life he had lived before, and she was too close to death for him to carry away. His was a new path now. He leapt to the balcony and was over in a moment. Before anyone had even reacted to her cry he had disappeared into the night. His final image of her was one of fear and loathing. He knew then that his heart, his soul and his destiny were bound forever, inextricably and unshakably to his own kind, to his new kind, but never again to humankind.
He made his way regretfully back to his clan. His grieving, coupled with vampyric inexperience, lent his movements an air of recklessness. He broke his journey just outside the village of Fontaine de Vaucluse in Provence, and spent the daylight hours sheltering in an abandoned watermill. He had not been as cautious as he should, however, and his presence had not gone unnoticed. Towards dusk a large group of frightened villagers approached the mill with the intent of driving out this unusual and disagreeable looking stranger. These were suspicious times. Sebastian was disturbed from his repose as they approached. His heavy heart perhaps compounded his foolishness, but he missed his opportunity to escape unhindered and was quickly surrounded. He reacted with an overt display of aggression, hoping to scare them away without the need to actually harm them. Spurred on by fear and such overwhelming numbers, one of the villagers made the fatal mistake of attacking. With rudimentary implements the rest immediately followed suit, hesitantly at first. He had initially tried to escape as the blows rained down upon him but the watermill was a solidly constructed stone building and there was no exit. He was trapped. Blood was drawn; his own blood. Even then he could have forced his way out, but the remorse from his doomed liaison with Emma Louise and the release of his own life force provoked an intense reaction.
As he split the neck and the first one fell, there was a collective scream from the villagers. For just a moment before fear truly claimed their minds, the sight of death caused their hesitancy to vanish. Their cries for revenge reached a crescendo and they intensified their attack. Sebastian did likewise as his already aggrieved heart reacted. The bloodlust descended over his inexperienced eyes, their life force started to haemorrhage and flow, and he whirled and danced amongst them. Even as they turned to flee he tasted their blood and demanded more. He became possessed by the irrepressible need for both their blood and their penitence. How dare they loathe him? How dare they attack him? How dare she reject him?
When it was over he stood amongst the corpses. Blood was upon his hands and its taste filled his mouth. His chest heaved with exertion and with the thrill of his actions, as he looked down at them all. Their clothes, while simple and grubby, were not dissimilar to those worn by the servants at the house of his love, people that he knew by name. Their lives and customs, their hopes and dreams were very likely to be almost exactly the same. As the thrill subsided he knew he had committed a grievous wrong and he knelt and wept. On that day his eyes were truly opened to his new kind and his naivety abandoned forever. It had left him with a deep-rooted need for atonement. It had given him his first proper experience of the life that now lay before him and he buried his feelings deep inside. The bloodlust came with its own irrepressible demons however, too strong to deny forever, irrespective of the strength and determination of one’s will.
He was never quite sure why he had been turned
but he immediately sensed it was better never to ask. With his addition the clan now numbered seven, an unwieldy number which led to tensions over the many intervening years, but more so just lately. Nevertheless, Protocol and a deep-rooted sense of brotherhood bound them to each other, and they had remained in one another’s orbits ever since, sometimes close, sometimes distant, not necessarily spending every day or even every week together, but after each leave of absence they would gradually drift back together, regrouping and reaffirming, either through instinct or experience, or by prior arrangement. He intuited that some of the others, Darius in particular, had expected him to leave one day, breaking free of the clan’s gravity, never to return. Perhaps eventually he would have done so, but thus far he had always had reason to remain. And that reason had jet-black hair, striking blue eyes and a laugh that lit up a room like wild fire; sometimes warm and comforting, sometimes uncontrolled and exciting, and sometimes tinged with danger.
Sebastian had never been able to read Flavia’s intentions. On the odd occasions when Farzin was absent her demeanour sometimes became flirtatious and playful, but at others she was guarded and he could not help but view her with suspicion. He knew that she watched him closely and assumed that she did not trust him. Perhaps that doubt caused him to react in kind. It was all a game to her, but later he had started to wonder whether it might be something more. Perhaps, if he had been more certain, he might have made a move, struck out on his own in the hope that he would not, in fact, have been on his own. Their vampyric rituals provided for just such situations as that; he was not afraid to evoke such Protocol and would have done so, had there not been that lingering doubt. Besides, there had always been time before, so much time. Until now, when suddenly there was barely any time left…
The Blood of the Infected (Book 3): Twice Bitten, Twice Die Page 1
