“Once Bitten, Twice Die”
Antony J. Stanton
Book one from ‘The Blood of the Infected’ series
Published by Antony J. Stanton
“Once Bitten, Twice Die”
Published by Antony J. Stanton
Cover: Adnan Saleem of DestinationCreation.com
Copyright © by Antony J. Stanton 2015
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.
“Once 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: 9780993428517
“Once Bitten, Twice Die”
Book one from ‘The Blood of the Infected’ series.
The end of the world was just the beginning…
Coming soon…
“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 friends and family… and a bet amongst mates.
The end of the world was just the beginning…
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
Sqn Ldr 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 Pelligrini. Army. Coldstream Guards
AERO-MEDICAL STUDENTS
Flight Lieutenant Jonny Parsons. RAF
Flying Officer Oliver Frost. RAF
Once Bitten, Twice Die
CHAPTER 1
This is the end.
The thought was only fleeting. In reality the end had been and gone a long time before. Sinna had warned him not to do anything stupid, but here he was fighting for his life. What he really should have done was to just give up and let Death claim its prize. If he had known what the future held in store for him he may well have accepted the inevitable. He may have sought a more agreeable means of dying; something a little less brutal that did not jeopardise the lives of others. Perhaps something that did not involve kitchen implements. Had he been aware that he himself was soon to become a vicious murderer he might not have battled quite so hard. But Abbott was not gifted with foresight. At that moment all that consumed him was trying to stay alive just a little longer. Besides, what kind of death can any one person choose for their first experience of it?
His aggressor advanced with surprising vigour. Abbott was forced back onto the table. He was fit, well-trained and considerably larger than the other. Nevertheless, he found himself unable to contain the onslaught, the triumph of wrathful incognisance over strength and experience. Only certain kinds of demise permit the luxury of reviewing your existence as it flashes in front of your eyes in glorious Technicolor. Some keep you fully engaged and struggling for salvation until the very end. In such cases even a brief perusal of your life in black and white is asking too much. Abbott’s situation fell firmly into the latter category.
He frantically grasped the lunatic’s forearms. His assailant however possessed unnatural surges of power dredged up from his inner demons. A trail of phlegm and a guttural snarl escaped his lips. Hands clawed and teeth snapped. He lunged repeatedly at Abbott’s face. He was virtually within reach now. Abbott dodged his head to the side with a grunt. He tried to get a knee under his attacker’s body but the man was writhing too much. It was just not possible. Yet without doing so he knew he would not be able to hold him off much longer. His strength, along with his hope, was fading fast.
Abbott was flecked with spittle. The stench of warm, rancid breath was overpowering as their heads slowly came together. Some of the man’s teeth had rotted and fallen out leaving open sores in blackened gums. His face was mottled with an unhealthy, purple tinge. It was covered with scabs and flaking skin. Red lines like those of a habitual drinker covered his cheeks. His eyes were bulging and blood-shot, and darted about as though without focus. Yet the most chilling factor was the absolute lack of perception. The pupils were dilated and blank like those of a shark. It was as though he was just lashing out blindly. If the eyes are a window to the soul, then these particular portals looked out onto a vista of pure hell. And then there was the rage; unprovoked yet wanton and plentiful. There was just an overpowering urge to kill.
Abbott’s arms burned. His attacker still showed no sign of tiring. If anything he grew even more frenzied and ironically that may have provided an invaluable reprieve. Death took a reluctant step back and waited, denied its reward for now. As the man thrashed about there was a loud crack. The back legs of the table splintered. The pair were sent tumbling. Abbott hit the floor hard. Pain shot through his shoulder and he was winded. Nevertheless he managed to slip a leg between the two of them. Deftly he launched the man over his head, slamming him against the wall. This was his moment to save himself. This was his one chance to live. If the other reacted more quickly then he would surely be dead. He rolled and scrambled to his feet grabbing at whatever he could reach - a heavy, pewter candlestick discarded nearby. He swung as his opponent started to rise. It struck with a thud across the temple. The force jarred right up through Abbott’s arm. Nevertheless his adversary somehow did not go down. As he leapt, Abbott backed up and swung, again and again.
Each blow solidly found its mark leaving deep, red gashes. The man sagged to his knees, a trail of blood at his nostril. He flailed forwards with an enraged gargling as the liquid dripped from his chin. Abbott struggled to maintain balance. He desperately hit out once more and cracked the skull right on the top. This time it made a different sound, more hollow and decisive.
This time the candlestick embedded itself.
This time the man went down.
Abbott sank to the ground. The body lay at his feet with one leg twitching, disturbingly. A small pool of viscous blood gradually took shape around the head forming a macabre halo. Abbott gulped down air as his hands started trembling. He was in an upstairs room with bookshelves lining three of the walls. The house was identical to all the others in the street and presumably in most this would have been a bedroom. However the owners of this one, almost certainly dead - or worse - had turned it into a reading room. The shelves were made of cheap, knotted pine and books were lying on the veneer flooring, torn and discarded. He noticed that only one tome remained standing - the Bible.
As he sat trying to regain composure, the violence of the confrontation made it hard to focus. He found himself fixing on irrelevant details, a mist enshrouding his mental faculties. He looked around vaguely for a matching candleholder, as these would probably have come as a pair. The random notion surfaced that it was just like a ‘Cluedo’ scenario; Colonel Mustard, or in this case Sergeant Matteo Abbott, in the library, with the candlestick. He wondered again where Sinna was as he should have arrived a long time before. It was most unlike him to screw up. Only now did he start to appreciate that something had gone badly wrong.
Abbott had left the relative safety of RAF Headley Court earlier that afternoon but later than was prudent. Headley Court was a small military station to the north of London, near the town of Bishop’s Stortford. It was a medical establishment specialising in rehabilitation, as well as research and training. Abbott had been driven by Private Campos in convoy with another Land Rover carrying Sergeant Sinna and Private Rohith, both soldiers from the Ghurkha regiment. They had gone to a supermarket and had carefully and quietly loaded shopping trolleys with bottled water, tinned food, cleaning products and other essential supplies. Sinna kept an anxious vigil over the three of them throughout.
Campos had become agitated as the afternoon progressed. “Sarge, you know my parents live around here, don’t you?” He looked at Abbott through veiled eyes.
“Hmmm,” Abbott replied cautiously, not looking forward to the next few words.
Sinna had heard the comment too. He stood in the aisle a few metres away, gripping his SA80 assault rifle as he scanned all around them, listening for sounds of anyone approaching in the gloom. Their afternoon had been uneventful so far although the threat of attack always lingered ominously. To let one’s guard down meant courting death. They all knew it, the RAF station had experienced it and they did not want to add to the obituaries. Sinna flashed Abbott a look with a hint of a warning but there was also empathy in his expression. Abbott respected Sinna. He was a fastidious and dedicated soldier but had a big, compassionate streak running through him. He was charismatic and the troops took to him well.
“Sarge, what d’ya think?” Campos took a step nearer to Abbott, his hands fidgeting. “Is there any chance that we could swing by my house? Just for a moment? I mean, they’re almost certainly dead but I’d really like to make sure, just in case, you know?”
Abbott rubbed his chin and avoided looking at Campos who’s pleading eyes drilled into him.
“Sarge?”
Abbott glanced at Sinna who just shrugged and looked away.
“All right, all right. We’ll drive over to their house when we’re done here but we’re not getting out of the Landy. We can beep the horn a few times, maybe shout out of the window but we’re not getting out. Is that clear?” he answered sternly but Campos was no longer listening, his face had lit up and he was chattering away to himself. He was a nice lad, always cheerful and keen to help as best he could. Abbott knew how much Campos thought of his parents and how much he idolised his father. For a moment Abbott felt a flush of bonhomie. Even in this terrible world that they all barely existed in now, he had been able to brighten someone’s day, albeit briefly.
Sinna turned to Abbott with a grin, sharing in the moment. “I think we’re just about done here. Why don’t you two poke off and we’ll catch up with you at the house?”
Abbott’s smile vanished as he was jerked back to reality. He was aware that every second spent off base exposed them to significant risk and whilst he wanted to help Campos find his parents if at all possible, he did not want to put himself or his colleagues in any greater jeopardy than was absolutely necessary.
“Are you sure?” he asked with a frown. “Wouldn’t it be better if we waited and went together?”
“This is the last lot of stuff to chuck in the Landy. It’ll only take a mo and we’ll be right behind you losers. I’d rather we get back to the station as fast as possible and certainly before sunset.”
Sunset was at six thirteen; it was now five forty-two. That did not leave them much time. Abbott was about to argue until he saw the look on Campos’s face. He shrugged. “Sure, okay we’ll get cracking then. And thanks – this means a lot to the boy.”
“Yeah I kinda gathered that,” Sinna laughed. “Go on, just stay in radio contact and don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
‘Anything stupid’ - did that include allowing Campos to persuade him it was safe to leave the vehicle after there was no reply to their shouting? Did that include going into the house even though Abbott knew it was lunacy to be confined in such close quarters? If only Sinna knew how stupid he had been since last they spoke.
Abbott now shuddered and the makeshift weapon slipped from his grip as he passed a hand across his face. Only then did he notice the throbbing in his arm. It was a small bite mark. The skin was barely broken, hardly worth mentioning really, with just a slight prick of blood. He could tell where the man’s teeth had fallen out with the marks on his arm representing those that remained. He rubbed his flesh ruefully and pulled the sleeve down. As he sat hugging his knees to his chest the temptation was to remain there, hidden and safe from the horrors of the outside world, horrors that were never far from one’s conscious thoughts, horrors that temporarily submerged when one was preoccupied but then resurfaced like a bloated corpse.
However he knew he could not stay there. It was hard to find motivation but he had to leave the house, and fast. He rebuked himself for his inactivity; come on, get moving soldier. This is no time to rest. Wearily he rose and crossed quietly to the door. With every step the floorboards creaked. He stopped and held his breath, listening for sounds. The house was still; evidently the scuffles had not attracted any further, unwanted attention. Yet!
He drew his gun and flicked the safety catch off, taking no chances this time, then raised his radio and operated the ‘press-to-talk’ button. “Sinna, this is Abbott, do you read?”
Nothing.
“Sinna, this is Abbott. Come in.”
Deathly silence.
Odd, he thought. The only explanation he could think of was that they had got confused and gone straight back to base. Ordinarily Abbott might have been angered by this. Ordinarily alarm bells might have started to ring. But now he just clipped the radio back onto his belt, rubbed his arm and continued, survival mode dictating his actions.
He paused on the landing and listened again, then slipped quickly down the stairs. Campos’s body lay at the bottom, his head twisted unnaturally to the side where his neck had snapped. His eyes and mouth were open in the grimace he bore as he was savaged and fell. Abbott felt for a pulse but he already knew there would be none. Above him on the wall was a photo, a portrait in a wooden frame. It side-tracked Abbott and he stared at it for a moment. It was a typical family pose of much-loved mother and idolised father with their arms around each other’s shoulders. A boy, Private Campos o
f perhaps only seventeen years old, was sandwiched between them, kneeling down as though in the stance of a football team. Campos was not much older now and had hardly changed since that photo was taken. He reflected on the photo a moment, the familiar ease with which the three of them embraced each other and thought with sadness for a moment of his own parents.
Now however was not the time for reminiscing; there would be time for that later, he thought, although in this he was wrong. He was conscious that it was not level and dimly aware that normally his fastidious nature would have prompted him to straighten it. But not today. Not now.
Abbott had served in three war zones and accumulated several medals for his efforts. He had witnessed death, both amongst his own troops and the enemy and was on first name terms with it. Recent dealings however were all very new and strange. Perhaps in times before he might have been more traumatized by this most recent attack but now he steeled himself, shook off the mental fog and moved with the intent of someone focussed on staying alive. The prospect that Death has not yet left the building but is somewhere nearby sharpening his scythe and having a quick breather before returning to the scene of the crime does wonders to one’s motivation.
He looked down at Campos’s lifeless body. “Sorry pal. Heaven knows you’re better off where you are now.”
He crossed himself although since very recently he no longer believed in God. He reached down and took Campos’s holstered pistol and dog tag. It did not escape his attention that like himself, Campos had not even had time to draw his weapon.
The Blood of the Infected (Book 1): Once Bitten, Twice Die Page 1
