Blue Skin (Book 4): Blue Skin

by Jenkins, Steven

  “Get upstairs and stay with your dad!” I order her. “Now!”

  Like angry snakes, arms wriggle between the bars, black fingernails clawing blindly. At the centre of the room, Rose latches onto Hannah’s arm as the sound of wild shrieks infects the air.

  The tiny window on the back door explodes, the broken glass raining over my feet.

  I give my machete to Hannah and race to Ethan’s meat cleaver. I scoop it up from the floor and point the blade at the stairs. “Get up to Neil’s room!”

  “What about you?” Rose asks, taking out a kitchen knife from the sink.

  “Just do it!” I bark, clutching the handle so hard my knuckles turn white.

  In a frenzy, Hannah quickly ushers her upstairs before Rose can say another word.

  I throw my head back and forth, watching each door as they judder like an earthquake. Vampires kick, punch and fling their entire bodies at the bars.

  But they’re not getting in.

  This is our house. And you’re not welcome!

  The ravenous squeals are getting louder. Deafening. Disturbing.

  My body is beyond tense, beyond terror.

  You’re not getting in....

  Where the fuck are you Sean?

  We need you.

  I need you.

  Please come home.

  Before it’s too late...

  Part XI

  SEAN RICHARDS

  42

  In the blackness of my swirling thoughts, there’s music. The Prodigy. One of their old tracks. Firestarter? Breathe? I’m not sure. The sound is too low.

  Where am I?

  I force my heavy eyelids apart, and the faint light of an unfamiliar room confuses me even more.

  In the smoky air of a living room, there’s a smell of marijuana and stale lager. The stench is overwhelming, burning my eyes. In front of me, sitting on a stained and ripped brown carpet, there’s a TV with the sound muted, to the left is a grubby old cabinet with a stereo and a white lamp, the bulb buzzing like an insect as it struggles to light the grim room, and to my right, just below a large window, there’s a brown, scuffed-up sofa.

  Panic replaces disorientation because I remember exactly what happened and where I am.

  Tommy Reid is sitting on the sofa, smoking a joint. He takes a long drag, briefly closes his eyes, and then releases a lungful of smoke into the air. In front of the sofa is a coffee table. Empty cans of beer, loose ash, junk and another small lamp take up the wooden surface.

  Heart sprinting inside my chest, I try to move my arms, but they’ve been bound together by cable-ties behind my back. Without making a sound, I try to part my wrists, but the ties are too strong.

  My lip is sore, so I prod it with my tongue. It’s swollen. A punch or kick to the mouth, no doubt. The door by the sofa probably leads to the front door, but I’ll never get to it fast enough. There’s another door next to the stereo. I stand a better chance aiming for that. The entrance to the kitchen, maybe? I could use the back door. Escape through the garden.

  With a wriggle, using just my leg muscles, I slide myself up the wall behind me until I’m in a standing position.

  “Popping out somewhere?” a gravelly voice says.

  Startled, I turn to the sofa. Tommy is sitting back against the cushions, the joint hanging from his lips, a can of beer in his hand, and a smirk across his face.

  Without responding, I charge over to the door, barging it open with my shoulder, and leap into a kitchen—and immediately, I’m met with a giant fist. It flies at me like a rocket, cracking me on the chin, throwing my body back inside the living room. But there’s no pain, just shock. My legs turn to mush, the room starts to rotate, and I collapse, my head crashing down on the carpet.

  The owner of the fist stands over me, his teeth clenched, his muscles pumped up like a jacked-up body builder, bursting through his skin-tight white vest. The other man from the supermarket. The blond muscle-head with the baseball bat. He leans down and screams something into my ear, but nothing registers. With just my feet, I push myself backwards across the carpet, aiming for the other door. A heavy boot drives into my nose, flattening my body. Laughter sneaks past the daze. I start to move again, inch by inch, but a kick to the side of the face stops me. And then, like a ragdoll, I’m dragged along the floor by my hair, without my hands to protect my scalp. I cry out in agony until I’m back against the wall, exactly where I started. Trapped in a strange house with a two homicidal looters.

  “What do you want with me?” I ask, groggily, my eyes snagging on the baseball bat in Muscle-head’s grasp.

  Tommy stands over me, gazing at me like he’s just shot a prize deer. He takes a drag of his joint and blows the smoke into my face. “We haven’t decided yet.”

  I cough hard, spitting out blood.

  “But don’t worry, Sean,” he says, passing the joint to Muscle-head, “you’ll be the first to know.”

  Part XII

  FREYA LAWSON

  43

  I part the blinds and stare down in dread at the garden. Once a thing of beauty—vegetables, a perfectly trimmed lawn, shiny aluminium deck chairs—is now riddled with at least five purebreds, and God knows how many at the front and side of the house.

  Hannah’s head appears by my shoulder. She looks down at the devastation, her jaw hanging low with disbelief, with terror. Neil is sitting up in his bed, every breath coming out as a strained hiss, every inch of his face drained of colour. He needs medicine fast. He’s tough, tougher than any of us, but if Sean doesn’t get here soon, he’ll die.

  The knot in my stomach tightens.

  The vampires will get him long before the infection does.

  And even if we can keep them out, or survive ‘til dawn, Sean’s probably hasn’t found any antibiotics.

  He’s probably dead!

  He’s probably lying in some—

  Stop it, Freya!

  This is not helping anyone! These people need you. They need you to be strong. They need you to fight ‘til the bitter end.

  Don’t let Ethan’s death be for nothing.

  Ellie is sitting with her father, clutching his arm tightly, sobbing. The poor girl thinks she’s going to lose both her parents. She’s already lost Ethan. How much more can this girl take?

  Rose is standing at Neil’s bedside, gripping his hand, her cheeks puffy, her eyes red raw from anguish.

  And there’s Hannah, perhaps the most fragile of us all—and I’m the only one who can protect her.

  It’s always me.

  It’s always my problem...

  “We need to be ready,” Neil whispers, his words morphing into a violent, breathless cough.

  “How?” Hannah asks. “There’s too many of them.”

  I release the blinds. “We just need to stick it out until first light. Those bars are solid. They’ll hold them off. We just—”

  Something hard shunts the window.

  In fright, Hannah jolts backwards, retreating to the bed. “They’re trying to get in!”

  Another hit.

  “Stay away from the window!” I scream, leaping backwards as another rock slams into the window.

  This time the glass cracks.

  A third rock crashes into the window, and an explosion of glass engulfs the room, littering the carpet, the shards reaching our feet.

  A swarm of small rocks flies into the room, slipping past the bars, others clinking against the metal.

  “They know we’re up here!” Ellie barks in horror, now off the bed, her back pressed against the wall. “They’re gonna break the bars!”

  I go to her and wrap my arm around her. “Don’t panic. They’re strong, but they can’t rip bars off with their bare hands. They’re just trying to scare us. That’s all. They’re just frustrated that they can’t get inside.”

  “What about the front door?” Hannah asks as she scrambles to the corner of the room. “How long is that gonna hold?”

  “Look!” I snap. “Everyone needs to
calm down. They’re not gonna get through. And if they do, then we’ll barricade the bedroom door.”

  Rose points at the ceiling. “What about the attic? We’ll be safer up there.”

  I look up, pondering the idea, just as a small rock hits the back of my thigh. I recoil in pain, rubbing the small cut on my skin.

  “She’s right,” Neil says. “Those doors will break. The steel bars might hold, but the wooden frame won’t take all that force.”

  With a stinging leg, I step out onto the landing. The floor vibrates like an earthquake as each kick, each shoulder barge, thrusts into the front and back doors.

  “Come on, Freya,” Rose says. “We’re running out of time.”

  I peer up at the attic hatch. The thought of being stuck up there, locked away like mice is an awful proposition.

  Another bang reaches me, so I run back to Neil’s bedroom.

  The attic.

  It’s got to be the attic.

  “Okay. Let’s do it.” I wrap my arm around Neil’s waist and help him off the bed. Ellie takes the other side and we steer him onto the landing. Hannah skips ahead of us, her massive belly brushing Ellie as she passes. With heavy, swollen legs, she climbs the wooden staircase and pushes the attic hatch open.

  Groaning with each laborious movement, Neil grabs the middle step and hauls his heavy body up to the attic, with Ellie and Rose trailing behind. Just as my foot touches the first step, a clanging sound ripples through the house. I rush halfway down the main staircase and peek over the banister into the kitchen. One of the steel bars securing the back door has come off and landed on the floor, cracking the tiles. The door frame is in ruins, plaster and broken wood scattered everywhere.

  They’re almost in!

  I scamper up into the attic, slam the hatch behind me, and slide the bolt-lock across.

  Scanning the room, I look for something heavy to seal us in.

  The wardrobe!

  I race over to it, grab the side, but it won’t budge.

  “It’s bolted to the wall,” Rose says, her words shaky. “To stop it falling.”

  “Shit!” I blurt out, and then drag the chest of drawers across the room. A thunderous roar engulfs the attic when I tip it on its back, allowing it to cover most of the hatch.

  Breathless, I throw myself on top of the chest of drawers.

  And I wait.

  Wait for the sun to come up. To send them all away.

  Wait for Sean to come home. To save Neil. To be by my side.

  Or sit up here. Watching the clock. Watching the hatch.

  The bolt-lock.

  Waiting to die.

  Part XIII

  SEAN RICHARDS

  44

  With his joint welded to his mouth, Tommy has been in and out of the kitchen, giving me the thumbs up every time he passes. Muscle-head hasn’t moved an inch since laying me out. He’s been sat on a stool, his muscles inflating like balloons as he grips his bat, with a look on his hardened face that suggests he wants me to make a move, he wants me to take a chance and run to the door. In this bleak moment, and after everything I did to him at the supermarket, nothing would give him more pleasure. Any excuse to bash my brains in. Without morals. Without hesitation. Without any repercussions whatsoever.

  This is their house. Their world. Their rules. Leaving me out of options and feeling sick to my stomach.

  What the hell am I going to do? I have to get back to the house. Neil needs me. What do they want from me? To torture me? Just keep me here as a prisoner? It almost feels like they know how desperate I am to get back.

  Maybe if I plead with them. Tell them what’s happened to Neil. Tell them how serious it is. Between them, maybe they have a conscience.

  Not fucking likely.

  Tommy pops off the cap of a beer bottle and walks over to the window. He separates the centre of the curtains, peering out into the dark street. “There’s a lot of blues out there tonight. Must be mating season.”

  Muscle-head sniggers. “How about we feed him to them? Save us cleaning up the mess.”

  “Nah.” Tommy takes a swig of his beer. “There’s a hundred of them out there. It’ll be too quick. Too painless.” He walks over to me. “Where’s the fun in that?” He spits a mouthful of booze over me, soaking my face and t-shirt.

  “Look,” I say, “I know I fucked up. But I didn’t know it was your supermarket.”

  “Is that right?” Tommy asks with a smirk.

  “Yes. I would have never got involved if I’d known.”

  “You sound like a straight up guy,” Tommy says. “A good moral compass, yeah?”

  I nod.

  “And you’d never rob me again, yeah?”

  I shake my head. “No. Of course not. It was a mistake.”

  “That’s strange.” He kneels in front of me, and his smirk disappears when he grabs my throat, robbing me of breath, his filthy nails digging painfully into my skin. “Then why the fuck did I see you break into my pharmacy?”

  I try to speak, but my words are trapped.

  “What’s wrong?” He squeezes even harder. “No comeback? No witty retort? Nothing at all?”

  Squirming, I feel myself ready to pass out again.

  My eyes begin to close.

  The sound of Muscle-head’s laughter fading.

  I tug at my restraints.

  Twisting. Bucking.

  But then he releases me—and I can breathe again.

  “My friend,” I say, gasping for air, “he’s...hurt. He was attacked by a...vampire. He needs anti...biotics.”

  Tommy glances at his friend, his eyes filled with false sympathy. “Did you hear that? His friend got hurt.”

  “That’s sad,” Muscle-head replies. “Shall I get my violin out? I’m sure it’s ‘round here somewhere.”

  Tommy moves his head right up to mine, and then gives my cheek two gentle slaps. “I don’t think your friend’s gonna make it, Sean.” He gets up and taps Muscle-head on the shoulder. “Another beer?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  Part XIV

  FREYA LAWSON

  45

  It’s been about ten minutes since we came up here. None of us has spoken a single word. Not even words of panic. But we’re all thinking it. Every one of us. And it’s not just to avoid frightening Ellie—that ship has sailed. No, this silence is different. This is a silence of inevitability, of acceptance. Keep them out or let them in. There’s no in-between. There’s no fighting them off. It’s just a bolt-lock and a chest of drawers versus a pack of vampires, so there’s little point in crying, or panicking, or even discussing options.

  Live or die. Our only two options.

  Simple.

  Neil has passed out next to Ellie on the sofa bed. He’s alive, just, because he’s shivering, and I can see his chest rising. It’s impossible to tell how long before that changes, but for now he’s still with us.

  Even from all the way up here, the shunts against the front and back doors find us. They’re faint, but the sound is clear and constant, which is a good thing. That means they’re still trying to break through.

  But once the banging stops, once the drumming of feet swallow up the house, and snarls echo against the walls—then we’re all screwed.

  If we survive the night, get through this nightmare, then we need to rethink everything. Stronger doors. Tighter security. Better weapons. A wider perimeter. Booby-traps. Alarms systems. We need to make this place impenetrable.

  No matter what.

  Hannah is kneeling beside me on the chest of drawers. Every joint, every inch of her skin is swollen, veins pulsating, her hair and face drenched in sweat. I keep telling her to sit on the bed with Neil and Ellie, to rest, but she refuses.

  Rose is next to her. She looks tired, numb. Drained of life. The loss of Ethan has really taken its toll. She checks her wristwatch and sighs. When’s dawn coming, she’s thinking. When do we get our house back?

  I forget how hard it must be for her. After all, t
his isn’t our house, it’s hers, no matter what she says. It must be vile to see it under attack like this. To see the place she and her husband spent so many wonderful years together. It’s a violation. Like Michael storming my house, looking for Ben. A home is a castle. It’s a place where—

  The banging has stopped.

  I gently shush everyone.

  “What’s wrong?” Ellie asks too loudly.

  I shush her again. “I think they’re in.”

  Her face plummets with fear. Rose and Hannah follow suit.

  “Everyone just stay very still,” I whisper.

  The drumming of footsteps seeps through.

  Lots of feet.

  We all hear them.

  They’re inside the house.

  I press my knees and palms hard against the chest of drawers, against the hatch, until my muscles and joints feel ready to snap. Hannah and Rose do the same.

  A deathly silence devastates the attic. My breath practically held.

  The footsteps are getting louder.

  They’ve reached the landing.

  The sound of hungry snarls and doors being barged open fills my stomach with dread. I want to cry, I want to cower in the corner and wait for dawn, but everything is frozen. Sound. Breathing. Muscles. Time.

  Still no banging on the hatch.

  Still no footsteps stomping up the attic stairs.

  These are purebreds. Feral.

  Do they even know what an attic is?

  Have they seen one before?

  On another house raid?

  Maybe they won’t find us. As long as we stay still. As long as we keep quiet. No matter what.

  We can do this.

  We can survive the night.

  Suddenly, my knees feel wet. Now my hands.

  What the hell is that?

  Sweat?

  Blood?

  A pool of clear water has formed around me, dribbling off the side of the chest of drawers, down onto the hatch.