Blood RED

by Paul Kane

  Which is how they’d ended up at the curry house, waiting for their food. The smell from the kitchens, he had to admit, was driving him crazy; not even the poppadoms that had been provided were helping. So he concentrated on Rachael instead, which was a mistake. The kind of thoughts he was having about her ...

  Stop this ... Stop it right now. Not a good idea.

  But Rachael was so—

  Not HER! a voice in his head screamed. Not Caroline.

  She stopped talking and was looking over at him. What had she been talking about? Her work, the old people she looked after, that was it. And that was also his cue to get back on track again. He took a swig of the lager in front of him.

  “The old lady that was attacked—Miss Brindle.” Hunter saw her bristle, but pushed on. “She was left in a bit of a state. Did you actually see what happened there?”

  Rachael had been nibbling at the corner of a piece of poppadom, but put it back down again quickly. “Talking shop now, are we?”

  “It’s what I’m here for,” he reminded Rachael, though he didn’t like the fact he’d upset her.

  She sighed. “It’s like I said before, my memory of what happened ... There are blanks. Big blanks.”

  “There was mention of some kind of animal, wasn’t there? That would be consistent with her kind of injuries.”

  “I…” Rachael screwed her face up, as if trying to remember. “I’m not sure ... It’s ...” She shook her head.

  “It’s okay. Don’t push it if it won’t come.” He’d seen this kind of thing before as well, people blocking out what they’d seen. Nevertheless, it was important.

  Their dishes arrived, wheeled over by a sycophantic waiter with a broad smile. “Chicken Tikka Rogan Josh,” he announced, placing the steaming bowl down on the table (that was Hunter’s selection) and then, “Lamb curry” (which Rachael had plumped for). The waiter slid away sideways with an “Enjoy your meal” and Hunter held his hand out for Rachael to go ahead and start.

  She licked her lips, spooning lumps of lamb onto her plate, while Hunter covered half of his plate in rice. But if Rachael’s sipping at the water had been delicate, then her eating of the meat was at the other end of the scale. Hunter was a little taken aback as the girl opposite attacked the meat, shovelling it into her mouth, chewing and then forking more in even before she’d swallowed. She really had been hungry.

  When she caught him watching, Rachael slowed up, sipped more water. “Sorry,” she said. “It just looks so ...” She gave a half-smile. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  Hunter tried some of his tikka. “It is nice.”

  They ate more or less in silence, but when he thought the time was right Hunter tried a different approach. “Friday night, when we first met ... if you can call it meeting.”

  Rachael nodded, chewing more chunks of lamb.

  “There was a guy there, at The Forrester’s Arms.”

  “Yeah,” she said, speaking with her mouth full. “Mike ... My ex. I told you about him.”

  “No, no. Another guy. The one he was fighting with.” Rachael suddenly stopped chewing. “Your mum mentioned a name back there: Will. Was that him, or someone else?”

  Rachael began chewing again, but more slowly. She took another drink of her water.

  “Did you even know that man, Rachael? Have you seen him again?”

  More silence.

  “I only ask because I think he might still be around. He might be around and he’s definitely a very dangerous—”

  Rachael stood up, as quickly as she had done when she’d decided she needed air back at the flat. All the colour had drained from her face. “Would ... would you excuse me a moment,” she said, then made her way around the table.

  “Rachael?” asked Hunter. “Rachael are you all—” But she was already on her way to the toilets.

  He watched her disappear, then turned back to the space she’d occupied only moments ago, rubbing his face.

  What the fuck are you doing? he asked himself again. Just what the actual fuck...?

  * * *

  What was she doing?

  Rachael didn’t have a clue. Pouring out her life story to some total stranger, a guy she’d only just met today (met him last Friday ... no, didn’t meet him—saw him and he saw you ... don’t think about that ...). Why? Because she felt something, some kind of ... what? She was attracted to him, of course she was—who wouldn’t be, especially now he’d ditched the denim and was in that shirt. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? She felt like she knew him. Knew him better than she did most of her friends (and where exactly is Steph, by the way?), thought she did at any rate. So what was this then, a reincarnation thing? Rachael didn’t believe in all that nonsense (what about those dreams though, those daydreams ... those nightmares? What about Red?).

  Felt like she knew him, but more than that. She felt like she owed him.

  Owed him for something—but what? If only she could remember ... You don’t want to remember, remember? Because when you start to remember you—

  What was she doing, going out on some kind of half-arsed date with him or something? And what was he doing with her? She should be very wary of any guy who’d do that, taking advantage of someone who—

  It just wasn’t like her. Just wasn’t her.

  She knew what she was doing right now, right this second though, didn’t she? She was bent over the toilet in this restaurant, throwing up for all she was worth. It was what she got for being such a pig back there. For stuffing her face while Tom—dear, sweet Tom who she didn’t, couldn’t really, know—ate like a normal person.

  But she’d suddenly been so hungry, and after feeling so off all day. Wasn’t hungry now, though, was she? Now she felt terrible, that lamb not sitting at all well. Her body spasmed once more and she heaved up chunks of meat that her stomach hadn’t even had a chance to start digesting yet.

  Then there was nothing left inside and the dry heaving began. Rachael hung on to the toilet bowl like it was a bar on a roller coaster ride—which, in a sense, it was. Her head was spinning, and she was sure the ground was moving underneath her.

  “Ugh,” was all she could manage, aware that she should be getting up. That she should be getting back to Tom out there before he started to worry. Before—

  Head over again, more dry heaves.

  What are you doing, Rachael Elizabeth Daniels? she asked herself again. What exactly are you doing?

  * * *

  Hunter didn’t need to be psychic to know what she was doing in the toilets, especially when he could hear her—when all the people in the restaurant could, diners and staff alike. What was she, bulimic or something? Scoffing her food down like that, then throwing it back up? Just emphasised how, in spite of what he felt, he didn’t really know this girl at all.

  When she returned, Rachael looked not white, but green. She barely made it to the table, staggering and toppling as she went. Hunter rose and caught her, just as she was about to collapse.

  “Don’t ... Don’t feel very well ...” she told him, stating the obvious.

  Their waiter was there in moments, looking more sycophantic than ever, burbling something about the meal being on the house—worried probably that it was their food that had done this. Hunter told him not to worry, that he was sure it was something from before, and left enough money to hopefully pay the bill and then some.

  Outside, after helping her on with her coat, Hunter flagged down a taxi. The driver looked her up and down and said: “She’s not going to go in the back of my cab, is she?”

  “Just drive,” Hunter said with curled lip, helping Rachael inside, and the man faced front again—doing as he was told. “I am not going to be popular with your mum,” Hunter said, a desperate attempt to make her laugh, to make her feel better, but Rachael just moaned.
>
  By the time they arrived back, she could walk a bit better at least, but he still helped her back up to the flat.

  “Oh good Lord,” said Mrs Daniels when she saw her.

  “I’m all right,” Rachael replied, waving her hand, but wasn’t fooling anyone. “I’ll be all right. Just need to ... to lie down for a bit.”

  “I warned you,” said Rachael’s mother, wagging a finger at him.

  “So tired ... just need ... need to sleep,” the girl mumbled.

  “Oh love. I’ll fish you out some of my tablets,” Mrs Daniels was saying, fussing round her.

  “Hope you’re feeling better soo—” Hunter began, but didn’t get to finish before the door was slammed in his face.

  “Soon,” he said to himself as he made to walk off, turning back only once before heading downstairs again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was a war, pure and simple.

  There were no two ways about it. A war, and they were the soldiers. Craddock didn’t like all this pussyfooting around, all this cloak and dagger shit. He was all for coming out and just crushing these bugs wherever and whenever they crawled out from under their rocks. Stamping on them and grinding them into the dirt. Every last one of them! They had the tools, they had the experience, the weapons—why not?

  Okay, so it was kind of illegal. Big grey area. You couldn’t just go around shooting up the place with civilians around, that wasn’t what they were about—according to their ‘leader’ anyway. But in war there were casualties, on both sides. Collateral damage, sacrifices that had to be made for the greater good; it was just how it was; it was how it always had been. If they didn’t put a dent in the other side’s operation, then at some point they were going to take over. Yeah it was true, those bastards mostly liked to stay low profile from what they’d seen so far, but it was only a matter of time—especially if their numbers kept increasing. He’d been all for going to the military, speaking to a few friends in high places about it—you weren’t telling him they didn’t know about their existence already. Craddock had seen those bloody conspiracy shows on TV, same as everyone else; more probably. But Hunter wanted to keep their operation on the down low, said they could get more done that way. “They’d only lock us up,” he’d argued.

  He was a curious dichotomy that one, and sometimes Craddock wondered why he’d thrown in with him in the first place. Hunter was a warrior, anyone could see that, but he definitely preferred the softly, softly approach—all the Batman detective shite—until he was left with no damn choice and had to steam in. Saving people? Hunter had more than his fair share of blood on his hands.

  Staying with this group suited Craddock’s needs for now, though at some point he’d definitely break off, maybe even lead a team of his own. He’d build their numbers up not keep them at a minimum, not stick to those he picked up along the way who would believe all this crap simply because they’d seen it with their own eyes.

  Take the kid beside him, twiddling with all those dials and knobs, staring at screens in the jeep as he drove on through the streets. Zoë would follow Hunter into the depths of Hell if he asked her to—and that was devotion, that was dedication he could get behind. But look at her, thought Craddock, she wouldn’t know what to do when she got there—would probably roast some marshmallows on the flames. ’Course, she’d follow the other member of their little quartet into places worse than Hell, but that was simply love. And love could get you killed in a heartbeat; cause you to take your eye off the ball.

  Craddock was starting to worry about Hunter in that respect. Said he was just keeping an eye on that girl from the weekend, but maybe there was more to it than that? In his last check-in, he’d been in a coffee shop with her and mentioned he was taking her for something to eat ... Maybe Hunter was taking his eye off the ball, too—and that could get them all killed. The man had never shown any signs of this before, but then he had been on his own for a long time. Much better to keep emotions out of it, as far as Craddock was concerned. You couldn’t afford feelings in warfare. Couldn’t afford to get caught bawling because your best buddy had bought it. Man down; move on. Or if you did feel anything you channelled it into anger. You channelled it into revenge.

  Though he tried not to think about it, memories came flooding back to him of the first time he’d encountered one of those fuckers—in a war-torn town abroad. Their regiment had been on a peace-keeping mission which had turned into anything but, drawing heavy enemy fire, pinned down and just about holding their own. Then Mitchell had spotted her, the little girl cowering in a doorway, terrified, bullets ricocheting off stone and wood alike. It had been one of their mandates, to safeguard the locals at whatever cost, but that was just a human reaction; an emotional response. They’d risked everything—he’d risked everything—to get to the weeping child, to bring her under their protection. One of their complement, Thompson, was badly wounded in the process, but it was nothing compared with what happened next. If Craddock hadn’t been using his mirror to see round that corner, catching sight of what they’d actually rescued by accident, he probably would have been killed along with the rest of them. That thing pretending to be a little girl had morphed into the most terrifying creature he’d ever seen, shredding through the regiment in no time. Craddock had fired at it, but that didn’t seem to do much apart from slow it down briefly. In the end he’d fled, choosing to face whatever was out there rather than what was back behind him.

  (If only he’d known, he would have taken her ... it down, quickly, quietly ... just like they should have done the previous Friday.)

  Even getting captured and being held prisoner all those months, being tortured for information, had been preferable. But he’d also heard stories from the others held captive about demons and monsters that roamed this part of the world (wasn’t just there, either, as he would later discover). Once the powers that be knew about him, once his release had finally been negotiated, he was free to go home—with an honourable discharge, of course—but was never free from the image of that little girl changing into something else. Never able to settle knowing that those kinds of things were out there wandering around. Craddock had lived rough, let himself go to seed a little if the truth be told ... Until he’d had enough. Until he’d decided to fight back in this private war they’d started with him.

  That’s when he’d begun to be pro-active, started to track them down. And that had brought him into contact with Hunter—they’d been after the same creature when their paths crossed. Craddock wasn’t about to admit that the man had saved his life, but he’d definitely been glad of the help in that underpass when the ’shifter—disguised as another homeless person—had leapt on Craddock. Hunter had whipped off its head with that axe he was so proud of—again, another dichotomy. With guns and tech at his disposal, the man still preferred those old methods of killing. Although tech could be overrated, as they were discovering with these tests for the tracking systems Zoë had recently installed in the jeep.

  “It’s like the bloody bridge of the Starship Enterprise in here,” Craddock had complained as they’d set off.

  “You’re no Captain Kirk if that helps,” she said back.

  As he’d driven, she’d spent most of her time either banging the sides of the monitors—a legitimate engineering technique she’d assured him—or messing with exposed wires, earphones in and nodding to a beat. At one point something had sparked, almost catching Craddock in the eye. “Fuck me, be careful will you!” he’d shouted at her, loud enough to hear through her music, and Zoë had apologised.

  He knew there was very little chance of detecting anything, even if she could get those damned things working. Hunter was probably right in that the beast seemed to be fixated on the girl ... Blonde, good looking, from what he could remember—but her mate was more Craddock’s speed. She looked like a proper woman with all that make-up on; looked like she knew how to have a good time, n
o strings attached. Which was what you wanted in this game, never knowing when you’d have to set off for the next city or town. Like the Fugitive or something, looking for the one-armed man, except in their case said ‘man’ was definitely hairier and infinitely more lethal.

  The evening had rolled on, darkness falling, and he was beginning to think this whole thing was a waste of time—when Zoë pulled out her earphones and suddenly said: “Hold on ... hold on, I think I’m picking something up.”

  “Is it satellite TV, because you do know we’re missing Game of Thrones, don’t you?”

  “I’m serious!” Zoë snapped, and now he could see she was. She wouldn’t be speaking to him like that otherwise, caught up in the moment. Excited. And it was proving infectious, because now Craddock was starting to feel more than a little energised himself. “Up ahead, turn right.”

  Craddock put his foot down, got to the junction and slid the wheel through his hands.

  “Okay, keep going.”

  “You sure you—”

  “Just keep going!” she said without taking her eyes off the monitors. “I’m trying to narrow it down. There are a lot of signals, but I think we’re on to something here.”

  Craddock hoped so. It had been far too long since he’d seen any proper action. And in a war, that wasn’t a good thing.

  In a war, the more battles you fought and won, the quicker you defeated the enemy.

  * * *

  She felt defeated.

  She’d run, she’d hidden—but still her enemy had found her. Still it had tracked her through this forest, followed her to the cabin and was in the process of breaking in.

  Red felt like she’d been here before, like it had found her again after she’d gone through this already. Felt like she was destined to keep going through this until—

  Until what? Until one of them had triumphed over the other? Until it had eaten her or she’d killed it ... for good? But how? She was just a young girl, barely even a woman.