Blood RED

by Paul Kane

  It lay there, unmoving.

  Hand to her mouth, Rachael backed out of the bedroom—and straight into the tiny bathroom opposite.

  She turned. This was the only room Rachael hadn’t checked beforehand. And now, with light flooding in, she saw what was inside—and felt like she was going to vomit. The entire room was red, blood splattered everywhere: on the curtains, on the towel rack, all over the sink. And in the bath.

  Rachael gagged.

  The body there couldn’t even be described as such, not after that animal had finished with it. As he’d said, it hadn’t been a particularly satisfying meal, probably interrupted by her buzzing to be let in. The thin—almost skeletal—figure of Tilly Brindle gaped up at her, pleading, begging for help with those full golf ball eyes: the only relief from the redness saturating the room.

  Rachael jumped when the figure in the bath actually moved, reacting to the light being let in. It gurgled something Rachael couldn’t quite make out.

  She’s still alive ... thought Rachael. Tilly’s still alive!

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rachael slipped on her way to help Tilly, regaining her balance by gripping the side of the bathtub.

  The old woman groaned loudly; she’d lost an awful lot of blood, and Rachael knew if she was to survive, she’d have to get her to a hospital immediately. She bent down and whispered to Tilly, “Hold on, I’m going to ring for help.”

  Rachael ran back out of the bathroom, and as she made her way towards the living room—to the phone—she chanced a look into the bedroom.

  The creature was still slumped across the bed. She hoped she’d killed the bastard.

  Rachael raced to the living room and across to the phone. When she picked up the receiver, there was no dial tone. Following the lead, she realised it had been ripped from the wall, socket and all. The phone was useless.

  “Shit!”

  Desperate, she tried her mobile again, but there was still no signal. There was nothing for it, she would have to get Tilly out of here herself.

  Rachael returned to the bathroom. “I’m going to carry you out, okay?” But wherever she got hold of the woman, Tilly let out shrieks of agony. Rachael had to ignore them, get Tilly up and out of the flat. With one arm around her waist, she dragged the old woman—bleeding on the carpet—along the hall. She quickly noted the shape still slumped on the bed, and hoped it would still be there when she returned with the cavalry. She dragged Tilly through the door of her flat and banged on a few doors downstairs, begging them to let her in or to call for the police. It did little good; those that could hear her over the music and assorted racket were not about to let anyone into their homes—and half of them didn’t want the police snooping around anyway.

  So what now?

  It was clear they couldn’t stay here, so their only option was to go out and find a call box, or at least somewhere the signal would work on her mobile. Tilly didn’t have long—she was losing blood fast—so Rachael heaved her out through the main door and into the night air.

  They’d barely gone a yard when the vehicle pulled up: an old white van to be precise.

  It was crammed full of people and Rachael shielded her eyes from the glare of the headlights. Great, she thought, they can help. Get us to a hospital or police station or—

  Her heart sank when she saw the youth with the cap climb out.

  “Well, well, well ... Hello nursie!” he shouted, leaning on the top. The youth with the padded jacket followed, swigging from a spirits bottle, then the one with the hood. “We thought we’d find you back here, didn’t we boys?”

  Now she saw why they’d been so late getting here—they’d enrolled even more of their kind. A much bigger man was driving, and one with a baseball bat got out of the back.

  “We got a bit of a score to settle, ain’t we?”

  “Wait!” shouted Rachael, looking over her shoulder towards the door. “Listen to me.”

  The jacketed youth said: “Do you know what this would do to our rep if anyone found out we let a little girl get the better of us?”

  “Listen to me!” Rachael screamed it this time. “There’s something inside that flat back there—it did this to Tilly ... Miss Brindle. An animal.” It wasn’t a lie.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” asked Cap.

  “How do we know you didn’t do that?” said the older one with the bat.

  Rachael dragged Tilly closer to them. “Look at her! I didn’t do this, for Christ’s sake. I couldn’t ...”

  “She does look pretty messed up,” said the hooded lad she knew only as ‘P’.

  “I’m trying to get to a hospital or a police station.” They all laughed at that one.

  “No fucking way!” said their ‘leader’, coming round the car now to get a closer look at them.

  Rachael pulled Tilly sideways, and it was then—in the glare of the headlights—that she saw their reflections in the van’s windows. That she saw what she’d been carrying from the flat.

  Rachael dropped Tilly immediately. It had been the greatest trick so far, swapping places with the bloodied old woman in the bath and leaving her across the bed, making Rachael see what it wanted her to see. Jesus, the thing was fast—she hadn’t been out of the room for more than five minutes.

  “It’s here,” she gibbered, backing away. “That’s it there: the animal!”

  “Thought you said it had done this to her,” said P, confused.

  “There isn’t time to explain. You have to get out of—”

  Rachael didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence before the chaos erupted. The demure figure of Tilly rose, upright and proud—but as it did so, it changed completely for all of them to see.

  The youth with the cap let out a whimper. In fact, faced with this, they were all reduced to the level of little boys pining for their mothers. All except the man with the bat, who took a swing at the hairy beast. It raised an arm to shield itself and the bat broke off at the handle. Then it drew up one claw and raked the man into the air to land on the roof of the van.

  Next, it turned its attention to the youth in the padded jacket, who threw his bottle at it. The spirits exploded over the creature, but that didn’t stop it crouching to slash at the youth’s knees, leaving his legs as stumps. He toppled over, writhing in pain—so the beast put him out of his misery by plunging a clawed hand into his chest and ripping out his heart, arteries and ribs coming with it.

  “Jay!” screamed the driver, again a possible relation. He got out of the van, drawing something from his pocket. But it wasn’t a knife this time. Rachael covered her ears as the blast from the pistol rang out. One bullet found a home in the monster’s shoulder, but the rest were wide of the mark. Enraged, it sprang on its back legs to meet the shooter, and in one swift movement, separated his head from his body. It rolled across the concrete, coming to a stop at the hooded youth’s feet. He took one look and almost passed out.

  This left the original pair who had called to Rachael yesterday morning.

  As Cap ran in the opposite direction, Rachael found her courage—and her feet—bundling the petrified hooded youth into the van, though not before stooping to pick up the pistol.

  “Can you drive this thing?” she asked her new companion, having never owned a license in her life. He looked through her rather than at her, so she shook him and slapped his face. “P!” It was all she knew him as. “Can you drive?”

  He nodded then. “My ... my name’s Peter.”

  “So—get us the fuck out of here, Peter!”

  Rachael watched the scene playing out in front of them as the beast dove on the youth wearing the cap, bringing him down. Its furry torso hid most of what was happening to the lad, but she could see enough. A hand here, a quivering leg there.

  As Peter backed up the van, more bottl
es of alcohol and lager tins rattling around in the back, the beast turned and sniffed the air. It knew she was inside—and it ran at the vehicle.

  “Drive at him,” Rachael told the youth.

  “What?”

  “Run him over!” She leaned across and pressed her own foot on the accelerator, guiding the steering wheel with one hand at the same time.

  The monster hit the front of the van, though it hadn’t picked up enough speed to do much damage. It rolled over the bonnet, splintering the windscreen—then thrust out a hand to dig its nails into the metal roof.

  As the car left the Crescent and shot over another street on the estate, the brute hung on, grinning through the cracked windscreen. Peter mounted the pavement a couple of times, driving blind and struggling to control the van. The creature started to climb around in an attempt to open Rachael’s door, raking metal as it went. It smashed the window and had an arm inside before she shook herself into action. Pressing the muzzle of the gun against its forearm, she pulled the trigger.

  Rachael hadn’t been prepared for the kick of the pistol, and it fell out of her hands onto the floor. The beast screamed in pain and surprise, but hung on as the van screeched across another street and mounted the pavement, heading for the gates of the park.

  “Watch out!” yelled Rachael. But it was too late. The van crashed through the gates, sending the railings every which way. They rocked forward in their seats, Peter desperately attempting to control the steering wheel, and the beast fell under the wheels with a bump. Then the van rose up a little, seeming to fly for a moment, before dropping nose first into the empty duck pond, slamming them into the dashboard.

  Rachael hit her head, then fell back. Everything was fuzzy. She heard Peter’s groans. Then, in spite of her best efforts, Rachael lost her grip on consciousness.

  CHAPTER TEN

  In the dream she remembered—or thought she remembered ... His words messing with her mind, substituting memories for a children’s fable: one her mother had told her, one she’d known by heart from school.

  Nevertheless, she saw it all: the woods, the cottage, the journey she’d once made—in a different life, as a different person, but still part of that same bloodline. Rachael recalled being sent by her mother to her grandmother’s house with provisions for the sick old lady. The smell of that cake was vivid, the bottle of wine heavy in her basket.

  The woods were dark in that dream, but she was not afraid. Not even when she met the strange bearded man on the way, who had asked her directions to the nearest village, enquiring what she was doing out there all alone in such a dangerous place.

  She’d told him, and he’d nodded, satisfied, then they’d both gone their separate ways.

  When she arrived at her grandmother’s, she’d found the woman much sicker than usual; she’d even called for Rachael to open the latch herself because she was too weak to get up.

  She’d entered the dark bedroom and seen the figure lying there.

  Rachael pulled back the curtains. Her grandmother had winced and asked her to draw near. No, nearer, so she might see her better. She looked different somehow, an expression of eagerness on the face, perhaps—just something off about her demeanour. And the way she licked those lips ...

  By the time she realised what was happening, it was too late—the creature’s teeth were bared and it had her pinned on the bed, slavering all over her face. Rachael could remember screaming loudly; so loud, in fact, that she drew the attention of a local woodsman—who burst in, axe still in hand after felling trees. An axe he soon put to use on the beast slobbering all over her.

  Rachael could remember running then, running as far away as she could.

  But it didn’t matter how fast or how far she ran, she could still hear that voice calling out after her: “Red ... come back, Little Red—”

  * * *

  Rachael sat bolt upright in the van.

  The first thing she felt was the pain, much worse than any hangover could ever be. She touched her forehead and it came away wet and dark. Then she was aware of the angle she was at, pitched forward where the van was tilted, stuck in the dry pond. Rachael looked over and saw Peter beside her in a similar state. She shook him and he moaned, coming to, briefly.

  “Peter ... Peter, we have to get out of here.” She tried to open the door on her side, but it was jammed. For a moment, she’d forgotten that there was no glass in the window. Stupid, Rachael—really dumb. We’re going to have to do something about that memory, we really are. She was about to climb through when a hairy face appeared at the window.

  “Hello Rachael,” it growled. “Don’t you want to play anymore?”

  She pulled back quickly, avoiding its clawed hands. It was too big to get through the gap, thankfully, which gave her a little time.

  Rachael looked around for another means of escape. The back door of the van had buckled and was open slightly. She was through the gap in the seats and was about to climb up, when Peter groaned again.

  You can’t just leave him here. Leave him for the monster.

  Cursing, Rachael reached forward and pulled him out of his seat. She gritted her teeth—ordinarily this would have been easy, just like in her job, but she was at a very awkward angle. She looked up to see the beast had gone from the window. Vanished completely.

  Putting her arms under his, she dragged Peter into the back of the van—where it stank like a brewery, the spirits bottles having smashed on impact. It was as she got him free that she spotted the gun on the floor of the driver’s side. She left Peter in the back, hoisted herself over the seats, and reached down past them, shuffling forward. Her fingertips were touching the pistol when there was a bumping ahead of her. The bonnet of the van lowered. Rachael looked up and saw the creature at the broken windscreen.

  It brought back a claw and finished the job, smashing the glass completely. Her first instinct was to withdraw, but Rachael fought it and made a concerted effort to reach the gun. She grabbed the handle just as a claw caught her coat at the shoulder.

  Rachael slipped out of the jacket, hearing the material rip as she did so, then climbed back through the gap in the seats, dragging Peter up the length of the van. The whole time that growling face was gaping up at her, the thing coming after them.

  She pushed open the back door and pulled Peter out by his hood. Rachael forced him upright on the grass with one of her arms supporting him.

  Then, for once in her life, she remembered something, an image of Peter smoking—lighting up in the alleyway.

  “Where are your matches?” she asked as she fought to stop him from falling over. His answer made no sense, so she searched the pockets of his jeans, then unzipped his top, slipping it off him. They were in the left-hand side pocket. She tossed the garment aside and rattled the matches in their box.

  Rachael got them as far away from the van as she could, but still within throwing distance; then she struck a match and tossed it into the open back.

  Nothing happened. Must have gone out, she figured.

  But then she saw flames as the match set the spirits alight. It wasn’t much longer before the entire back was engulfed. Rachael made a concerted effort to get them both farther away from the van, but the explosion—when it came—took her by surprise and knocked them off their feet.

  She looked back at the fireball in the pond, shielding her eyes from the blaze.

  Peter coughed beside her. “Did ... did you get it?”

  Rachael didn’t answer, she simply tried to haul them up again. No sooner were they on their feet than something sprang from the duck pond, leaping high into the air and landing just metres away from them. The beast was unharmed, save for a few scorch marks here and there.

  Before she could raise the gun, it lunged at them, pushing Rachael aside and grabbing Peter, rolling over and over with him. Rachael shook her h
ead, got on her knees and brought up the pistol.

  “Get off him, you fucker!” she shouted.

  The top figure rose shakily, but now instead of the beast and Peter, there were two youths in front of her—and she couldn’t tell which was which. As the second Peter got up, too, she aimed first at one, then the other.

  “Okay, which one’s—”

  Each Peter pointed at the other. “He is!” they said together.

  Rachael didn’t know Peter well enough to ask him any questions, and he knew nothing about her. What she wouldn’t give for a mirror right now.

  Hold on, she thought, Peter knows nothing about me—not even what I’m called.

  “Right,” she said, “what’s my name?”

  They both looked at her blankly. She pointed the gun at the one on the left and asked again, more sternly.

  “I ... I don’t know ...”

  “Neither do I,” chipped in the second Peter.

  Well that worked just perfectly, didn’t it? She was forgetting, he was the consummate performer. He could play the part to the letter when need be. But there was one thing he couldn’t do. As Rachael stared at them both, she saw it, the flowering of red on the second Peter’s arm—the bullet wound where she’d shot the beast the first time. She smiled, and raised the gun.

  “No, wait ... what are you doing? ... Please.”

  The shot rang out and he dropped to the ground; Rachael sighed with relief. The Peter that was left hobbled over to her and said breathlessly, “You did it.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “You really did it.” Peter was laughing. She turned and saw a warped grin on his face. He held up his hand to show her the clawed finger covered in blood. The one he’d used during the rough and tumble to scratch the real Peter on the arm, to make it look like he’d been shot. How could she have been so stupid? The beast could project whatever image it wanted, even one of itself with no wound.