The Blood of the Infected (Book 1): Once Bitten, Twice Die

by Antony Stanton

  The alley ran between two-storey buildings and narrowed at a dead-end where some large rubbish bins were overturned, spilling their noxious contents. Sebastian assumed the fox must be hiding amongst them. As he neared he suddenly became aware of someone else just by the garbage. He froze to the wall as a man with blood smeared around his mouth looked up holding the fox’s limp corpse. Hunger was making efficient and cunning killers of them, Sebastian thought. At that moment there was the sound of a foot scraping on tarmac and he half-turned to see a second man enter the alley just behind him. The man holding the fox now noticed the vampire for the first time and snarled, shielding the fox’s body defensively. He raised the animal to his mouth and ripped at the flesh one last time, coming away with a chunk of meat and fur which hung from his jagged teeth. Then still clutching the creature to his chest, he hurled himself at Sebastian. There was a screech as the second man also charged forwards, realising that food was within his grasp.

  Ordinarily Sebastian should have smelled either of them before getting so close, a vampire’s senses being a lot more attuned than those of a human, much more akin to the senses of the now dead fox. Their odours must have been shielded by the stench of the corpse at the alleyway’s entrance. That did not however explain why he had not heard the man killing the fox, nor the hapless creature’s death-cries. He chided himself for getting sloppy and careless as he lashed out with a well-placed boot at the first assailant’s midriff, sending him crashing back into the rubbish bins. He span round just in time as the second bore down upon him with hands reaching. He grabbed hold of the man’s forearms and continued the momentum, twirling and launching him onwards, sending him flying through the air and straight into the first man in a pile on the ground.

  Either fall would have knocked the wind out of a normal human and that should have ended the altercation, but these diseased crazies were more resilient. Driven by rage and hunger they were both on their feet again in a moment, screaming in indignant anger. However Sebastian was no longer there. He imagined that Farzin would have taken great pleasure in tearing them limb from limb, possibly toying with them for a while first, but personally he could not get over the fact that the infected were once human and a lot more recently than he had been. He preferred avoidance to violence. In the time it took the men to scramble to their feet he had leapt high at the wall, and using a couple of indentations in the surface, managed to kick himself off it and upwards to the roof above in a move that would have made the most accomplished urban free-runner gawp in astonishment.

  Farzin again ventured out, striding contemptuously along the centre of the road, no cowering or fear for him; he felt an enormous sense of release which temporarily masked his constant, gnawing resentment. He took no precautions, did not attempt to walk quietly or skulk in the ever-darkening shadows of twilight. Eventually he stopped and holding his hands up to the heavens, threw his head back and inhaled deeply into his lungs.

  “I do not know why you are being so cautious,” he smirked. “There are none who can oppose us. We no longer need to prowl out of sight, afraid of discovery.”

  On this occasion Flavia had kept pace with him silently and was almost invisible to all but the most observant and perceptive. She now stepped forth and approached him. He smiled and held out a slender, delicate hand to her.

  “Tonight my love, we feast. It has been too long since we have tasted the blood of man but tonight I feel as though we may be lucky.” There was a look of greedy malice in his sneering eyes and something else she could not quite identify. Normally she could read him plainly but unless she was very much mistaken, his eyes were veiled and there was something she thought he may be withholding.

  Even at night the red brick buildings of Bishop’s Stortford reminded him of blood. Blood of the many victims he had taken, blood of the people whose lives he had violently ended, blood of the animals and rodents he had been forced to feed off for far too long. But no more; his was now a life of freedom, of self-gratification, of revenge.

  Flavia regarded him closely, reading his mood and his impulses, calculating his next words and his next move. She saw his eyes widen subtly, the pupils flare, the increase in his pulse as he turned to her with a lustful smile. There was something he was not telling her, she was certain of that.

  “I think I detect our dinner,” he said.

  She watched as he started to walk towards a group of buildings. Only now did she sense a delicate hint of something on the wind, a promise of sustenance and reward, a trace that they could so easily have missed had they not stopped still. She wondered how he had detected it so much more easily than she had. Normally she was the more perceptive of the two.

  As he neared he became more rapid, direct and unwavering. He looked at a block of flats and again turned to look at her, before pointing upwards. On the third floor in one of the apartments the slightest of shadows passed by the window accompanied by a faint noise and Farzin let out a moan as he felt the excitement of the pre-kill build. He was truly looking forward to this. He smiled with one thin corner of his mouth. More of a sneer, the expression held no warmth.

  “Come, my love,” and with that he quickly started to climb.

  She again watched for a moment, marvelling at how he had detected the scent, before following him up and arrived a moment after him, just as he was about to enter. The window was slightly ajar and he deftly slipped his fingers through the small gap and prised it open, then vaulted quickly and soundlessly through. The apartment was small and in relative disarray with the stale smell of sweat and fear. Children’s toys were scattered over the floor and a selection of kitchen knives were on a small dining table, some of which had been bound to wooden chair legs with masking tape. Bottles of mineral water and tins of food were stacked against a wall beside a mound of medicinal items but he hardly paused to consider any of that as the aroma of fresh human blood filled him with uncontrollable urgency. He knew instinctively where the target was and crossed the space in a single stride, just as a figure holding a candle emerged from an inner room. The man did not have time to gasp as the cold, lifeless hand fixed around his neck like a mechanical vice and hoisted him off the floor. The candle slipped from his grasp as his eyes rolled back in terror, confronted as he was by this sudden, terrifying apparition. The fingers around his throat squeezed tightly, preventing any cry from escaping his lips and he struggled with his feet flailing and scratched at the hand that held him as effortlessly as a hound would hold a rabbit.

  Farzin regarded him keenly, trembling now himself in expectation, but nevertheless he prolonged the kill and savoured it, licking his lips like a snake. For him the anticipation was key, almost as important as the actual experience itself. Flavia could see the resentment in his eyes, could almost smell the feelings of revenge that pounded through him. As Farzin slowly brought the man closer, taking in the heady scent and enjoying the terror he saw in the man’s face, Flavia turned away. This was Farzin’s enjoyment but not one that she shared any more. The Farzin that she had known for so long was changing rapidly. As was she.

  Farzin paused with the man dangling in front of him. He knew what fear looked like in a victim. He was well acquainted with its scent and relished its taste. He brought their faces so close they were nearly touching before he started to whisper in a voice rich in gloating, sanctimonious evil.

  “Your kind has always arrogantly believed in your own innate superiority, always believed you can unlock the ultimate mysteries of the universe, attempted to answer the great unknowns and divine the truth. But you are not superior and you do not have all the answers. I do though. Do you know, for example, what the meaning of life is?”

  The man’s eyes desperately tried to avoid looking into Farzin’s baleful stare as he continued, enjoying the moment and the, quite literally, captive audience that hung before him.

  “The meaning of life is what happens now, right now, in the last few seconds before you die. How you are in the final, tedious glimmer of your pathetic
existence before death claims your unworthy essence. It is so very easy to be magnificent when everything is proceeding according to your grand designs. But how you behave when all hope has gone and the end draws near, that defines the meaning of your pitiful life. Invariably your kind dies pathetically; blubbering in fear and saying anything to try and save themselves. I have seen so many of you die in such a demeaning manner, and believe me, many more will die if they refuse my dominion, when I break away from the yoke of obeisance and realise my destiny. Not long now.”

  As he spoke the man’s thrashing gradually started to subside. It seemed to Farzin as if he realised that there was no escape and was resigned to his fate, as though he wanted his demise to come as fast as possible and end this torment. The man slowly focussed and tried to return Farzin’s stare although he could not hold it. His hands still grasped at the talons around his neck but his thrashing eased. Farzin recognised this and it gave him pause. Normally at such a time his victim would be beside himself with uncontrollable terror but there was something else that he noticed in this victim’s countenance, something that made him hesitate whilst he tried to identify what was lurking behind the fear.

  He stared intently into the man’s bulging eyes unable to detect the hidden emotion, but his vague uncertainty had taken the edge off his pleasure and slightly dulled the shine of the pre-kill. With a sudden hiss of venom he plunged his teeth into his victim’s neck. The warmth of the liquid that filled his mouth quickly washed away his anger as he felt the life force flowing through his weary veins, causing him to spasm as he drank deeply. His own shudders mirrored those of the dying man whose choked gargling was already starting to weaken and fade. The pleasantly acrid, metallic flavour always brought back to him memories of previous feeds. So many images of surprised and terrified victims, each of which had died in a wondrously different manner, each of which had delighted his taste buds and held a special place in his cold, cold heart. A heart that had become twisted after the first that he had ever turned and loved - as much as he was capable of - had been plucked from his side by the misguided action of fearful humans, leaving a void where resentment and hatred could thrive.

  Eventually with a gasp he pulled away from the open vein, and as he staggered backwards he nonchalantly handed the lifeless corpse behind him to Flavia waiting patiently in the darkness. For a moment he turned inwards, looking into the depths of his being as the heat from the man’s blood warmed his core, filling him with energy and making every molecule of his body tingle and vibrate in ecstasy.

  Flavia too drank but hers was less the action of a lion feeding with complete disregard at a corpse, more a gazelle at a watering hole, always watchful and aware, never letting her guard down. Even whilst her lips were at the man’s throat she could tell that Farzin was still dissatisfied and searching for something else.

  As the feeling of euphoria subsided and he reluctantly surfaced back to the present he was reminded of that final fleeting look in the man’s eyes. A look that had suggested it was not his own life that he was afraid for. That he was resigned to his own death and meekly accepted it as one might wake to watch the sunrise with a feeling of inevitability. There was a delicate groan of floorboards from somewhere within the apartment. The door to a bedroom creaked slowly open and a small figure stood peering out uncertainly. A smile cracked across Farzin’s face like an insult and instantly his confusion was assuaged. Flavia watched as his shoulders dropped slightly and his head tilted. She knew what he was thinking and what he would do next. The man had been fearful of his own demise, yes, undoubtedly. But more than that, she realised now, he had been afraid for this child. He had wanted, indeed craved his own swift death in the hope that this little one might live, might be overlooked. Farzin could not help but feel a certain amount of grudging admiration for his latest victim; there had not been the usual, final, plaintive appeal for clemency, just an ultimate desire for the benefit of another. Highly commendable, he thought, and highly misplaced, as he turned with a malicious grin on his face and extended his hand. Once again Flavia looked away.

  A few hours after Emma Pethard had died, when the chaos had subsided a little and following the meeting in the conference room, Singleton went to pay Corporal Pethard a visit. Bannister was slouched in his chair outside the two rooms fiddling idly with his lighter when she silently walked up to him, her footfalls cushioned by the carpet. He practically leapt out of his chair when she tapped him on the shoulder.

  Despite all his bravado he’s pretty strung out, she thought. Just like everyone else. “How are our boys?” she inclined her head towards the two rooms.

  “Yes, all good ma’am. Woody’s fine. He’s been a bit thirsty so I had to fetch him some water. Quite a lot of water in fact,” Bannister said in a vaguely conspiratorial manner.

  Singleton wondered if perhaps he was trying to intimate that Sergeant Wood was ill and starting to show symptoms but she ignored his insinuation. “And Pethard?”

  “Yeah, he’s only just woken up. He hasn’t asked for any water yet though.”

  “Okay thanks Corporal.” Then she turned to the bedroom doors and called out first to Wood who answered quite coherently and politely. Reassured, she unlocked and entered the room and sat chatting to him for a few minutes. Satisfied that so far he was still healthy, both physically and mentally, she left him and repeated the procedure with Pethard. When she said his name there was a pause and silence for several seconds before he replied. He sounded groggy and distant but coherent enough for her to believe he was uninfected, as yet anyway. She cautiously went in.

  Pethard sat on a chair beside the bed, leaning forwards with his head cradled in his hands. He did not stand up as she entered or even acknowledge her presence. Singleton perched on the bed beside him.

  “How are you Reggie?” She put her hand gently on his arm and slowly he looked up at her. His eyes were bloodshot and seemed to stare right through her with a vacant, emotionless expression. He opened his mouth to speak but only a soft rasping sound came out. She suddenly wondered if perhaps she had misjudged and he was sick after all, and she edged imperceptibly away from him. Then he closed his mouth and tried to swallow and speak again. Reassured, she passed him a glass of water from the bedside table.

  “The sedation often leaves you feeling thirsty,” she reassured him with a sigh of relief. It was all too easy to jump to conclusions these days. Clearly she too was feeling edgy.

  He nodded, rubbing his head. “I’m okay I guess, thank you ma’am.”

  “Well you look terrible,” she said it as a joke but it did nothing to lighten the mood. “I’m so sorry for your loss, really I am.” Again she put her hand on his arm and saw the tears well up in his eyes.

  “I just can’t get that image out of my head, of her at the door and him pulling her down, on top of her biting her neck and blood, blood everywhere...”

  “That’s so terrible for you, I really am so very sorry. No one should have to witness something like that. I can’t even begin to imagine…”

  “…I mean I know we have all gone through a lot but just, to go like that. We’ve only been married a year, we’ve just had our first anniversary last month, we were about to try for children, it’s just so unfair.” He started sobbing, violent gasps that wracked his entire body. She leant forwards and put her arms around his shoulders and held him tightly for a long time without saying anything else, feeling his body convulse with the anguish. She said nothing. What could she possibly say that would help assuage his grief? His heartache cut right though her and as she held him, her own pain came gushing to the surface and she silently wept too with her eyes screwed tightly closed, trying to block out her own memories and heartache for lost loved ones, dashed opportunities, wasted dreams.

  After a time his body stopped shaking and she released her grip on him. They sat facing each other with their heads just touching, their eyes red and his hands clasped in hers. They didn’t speak; words were quite useless now, redundant in such a sit
uation. Just her proximity and the knowledge that another human being empathised and shared the anguish was all she could offer.

  Finally he spoke in a voice that was little more than a croak. “I’m sorry. I know we have all been through a lot. It’s not just me; I guess I should man-up a bit.” He tried to suppress a sob which then came out as a snort through his nose and started them both laughing for an all-too brief moment.

  He wiped his face and continued. “It all seems so unreal, these past days and weeks. I keep on thinking I’m going to wake up in a moment and it’ll all have been the most horrible nightmare and Emma will be there lying beside me.” He wept quietly again as he talked, the tears flowing freely down his cheeks. “I just can’t believe what’s happened to me, to Emma, to us all.”

  “I know exactly how you feel.” Something in her words or the slight tremble of her voice must have triggered a reaction in Pethard, as for a moment he looked at her differently, seeing beyond his own grief.

  “I guess you have lost loved ones too ma’am?”

  She breathed deeply willing the tears away, fighting the urge to break down again but she was unable to stop. It all came tumbling out, boiling and bubbling afresh between the two of them, a torrent of anguish and uncertainty and suffering, about her child who lived with her ex-husband and his partner that she had not heard from since the day after the state of emergency was declared, how virtually every minute of every waking hour was filled with profound despair and how she had to force herself to carry on, not because she thought there was much chance that they were still alive but because she knew that there was so much more at stake now, that every one of them had their part to play to ensure the safety and survival of them all, that she could easily just curl up in a ball and give in right now but where did that leave any of them? For a moment she forgot her rank and her position of responsibility and just grieved as a woman and an utterly distraught mother.