Blood RED

by Paul Kane

  But hadn’t her Gramma always told her that in spite of what men always thought, they were actually the strongest sex? That women had reserves men couldn’t even dream of tapping into. They could go through the most horrendous things and come out of the other side victorious.

  “Remember that, Red. Your will is strong and it always will be. You’re a survivor.”

  Wise words from an old lady who’d seen life, but had had hers snuffed out by the same creature that was trying to force its way into here. That was in through the window, stalking her.

  Red was trying to retreat, but slipping in the crimson. In the blood.

  By all that was holy, it was massive. Standing upright now in the cabin she was able to take in the full length of it, the hideous nature of the thing—and Red knew that there was nothing holy about this at all.

  Knew also that it would be on her in seconds, would be devouring her moments after that. Ripping the meat from her bones, greedily gulping it down, then grinding up those bones afterwards with its powerful jaws—with its gleaming teeth—and eating those as well.

  Until there was nothing left of her.

  Until it had won.

  * * *

  “I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Zoë had said in protest, but Craddock wasn’t listening. “We should call in, get back-up before—”

  It was pointless. Craddock had already parked the jeep, was busy pulling on his combat jacket and reluctantly covering up his body art, secreting various weapons about his person: including a sawn-off shot gun fixed into position down the side by press-studded straps. The tracking system had picked up a distinct heat signature heading into the centre of town, which—although it was still relatively early—was heaving with clubbers.

  They’d have to switch to a hand monitor if they were going to really do this—and Zoë still wasn’t sure they should. She fished one of the devices out and fired it up; it was basically a smaller version of those she’d fitted in the jeep: black, with a grip and a small screen.

  “What does the Tricorder say, Spock?” Craddock asked her and she sighed.

  “It says let’s get back-up.”

  Craddock batted the suggestion away with a wave of his hand. “I was hunting on my own for years before you lot came along. I think I can handle one more growler ... Are you coming or what?”

  He wasn’t really leaving her much choice. No harm in scoping out where the thing was going—that’s if her equipment was working properly, and even now she was giving the machine in her hand a bang on the side—then calling for reinforcements, she supposed.

  Zoë got out of the jeep, tucking a Glock into the back of her jeans. She slammed the door and followed Craddock round the front. “Okay,” he said, “which way now?”

  “Give me a second, this isn’t an exact science. There are dozens of people around, and the heat signature of that thing is only a few degrees ... Wait!” She was picking it up, and it was on the move. Now it was her turn to take the lead, more to see if her little invention was working than anything. Craddock took up the rear, never more than a couple of metres behind her at most. It was comforting, she had to admit, having his presence there at times like this. If she knew one thing about Craddock, it was that he could fight; she’d seen him in action. In fact, if it came down to a toss-up between him and Hunter, Zoë wasn’t entirely sure who she’d put her money on.

  She stepped back suddenly, allowing a Hen Party to stagger by. Dressed in a variety of costumes, from naughty nurse to nun, they were all brandishing bottles of one kind or another, already well on their way to becoming paralytic before the night—or maybe even the hour—was out.

  Zoë caught Craddock craning his neck, watching their progress up the road, but she wasn’t the only one on the lookout.

  “See anythin’ yer fancy, soldier boy?” one of the women, a particularly rough-looking sort wearing fishnets and a curly ginger wig, shouted.

  “Good grief,” said Zoë, only loud enough for Craddock to hear. “Have some respect for yourself.”

  Craddock was grinning, so she nudged him. “What?” he said.

  “Now is really not the time to take your eye off the ball,” she told him, and he stopped smirking immediately, like she’d touched a nerve or something.

  “You’re right,” he said. “So where to?”

  Zoë nodded across the road. “Readings would seem to indicate that our boy went in there.” They were standing opposite a club called Techno Dark. “But good luck getting past those guys when you’re carrying all that clobber.”

  Craddock followed her gaze to the pair of bouncers on the door: one looked the approximate size and weight of a sumo wrestler; the other was smaller, but had a set of shoulders on him that gave his torso—especially with that tux on—the look of an inverted triangle. And he almost had as many scars on his face as Matilda Brindle.

  “Hmm,” said Craddock. “When a full frontal assault isn’t possible, there’s nothing wrong with a little sneak attack.”

  Zoë followed him round the side of the club, then to the back alley where they found a fire exit that could only be opened from the inside—or at least that’s what Zoë thought. “Listen, I think I’m going to call the guys to—”

  But Craddock was already levering the door open with some kind of multi-tool he’d produced from the front trouser pocket on his combats. Zoë squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for an alarm to go off that never did.

  “Relax,” he said when she opened them again. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

  They slipped inside, Zoë following Craddock up a corridor, both of them basically trailing the loud, thumping music. He opened another door a crack, peering out, then motioned for her to come with him through it. The dance floor wasn’t massive—one of those trendy pubs that became a nightclub once the sun had gone down—but there were a decent amount of people inside. Enough to make their job more difficult at any rate.

  “This music is truly dreadful,” Zoë said to nobody in particular, then swept her monitor from side to side, covering it with one hand so she could see the readings.

  “Anything?” Craddock practically bawled into her ear.

  “Difficult to tell.” She began walking forwards with the device, pointing it in the direction of some of the groups of gyrating bodies. The thumping beat of the drums was making her internal organs vibrate.

  “I think I’ve seen this episode of Fringe,” she heard Craddock grumble from behind her. “Or maybe it was The X-Files. Either way it didn’t work.”

  She shushed him, but he tapped her on the arm and showed her the mirror he held in his palm. “Sometimes the tried and trusted methods are the best.”

  Zoë couldn’t really argue with that, especially when her machine was on the fritz again. She banged the side of it, then moved it in an arc once more. It had got them this far at least, so maybe Craddock was right to switch; it was a technique he was used to, one he was comfortable with. Though, like Hunter, she knew more than anything he simply relied on his own instinct where these things were concerned.

  Nevertheless, she persevered with her new invention, eyes flicking up now and again to watch Craddock skirting the dancers, checking in his mirror discreetly. It was on one of these glances across that he caught her eye, motioned with a tick of the head for her to move across. That he’d found something.

  Zoë wanted to race over, but instead moved slowly, casually, so as not to draw too much attention to herself. She dodged a drunken couple who were half dancing, half ravishing each other and not looking where they were going. Moving sideways like a crab, she settled in beside Craddock once more.

  He leaned over and whispered: “There, 10 o’clock.” Zoë looked in completely the opposite direction, not really understanding what he meant. But when Craddock clarified that it was a man he was looking at in a darken
ed corner of the room—smartly-dressed, clean-shaven with wavy hair, leaning on a wall, confidently chatting to a woman in her early 30s with dark-blonde ringlets, who was giggling at everything he said—she nodded.

  “Definitely our mark. Didn’t even need this in the end,” Craddock told her, tapping the mirror in his hand. “Cocky bastard’s wearing the same skin as last Friday night. I’d recognise him anywhere.”

  Zoë couldn’t believe that; usually they didn’t go for the same disguise twice in a row, especially if they’d been spotted by numerous people. Then again, they didn’t usually stick around after an event like last Saturday—too many questions being asked, too risky. This one definitely had some balls, she’d give it that. Which also made it incredibly dangerous.

  “We’re definitely calling this in,” she informed Craddock.

  “And give it the chance to get away again, to cause more trouble? Fuck that. I can take it, nice and quiet like.”

  “Craddock ...” she began but he was already gliding through the sea of bobbing people. She started to follow, but a guy in a loud suit barred her way.

  “Hello beautiful,” he said, slurring. “Haven’t seen you around here before.” His breath was horrendous, a mix of 90% proof and halitosis.

  “Look, would you mind,” Zoë said to him. “I need to—”

  “What’s that you’ve got there?” asked the man, pointing to the detector in her hand. “A camera or something? You filming people?”

  She really didn’t have time for this, already she could see Craddock had almost reached his target. Zoë started to shove the man to one side, in an effort to get past him, but he grabbed her arm. “Don’t you walk away from me!” he said.

  “All right, you asked for this,” she replied, turning and sharply kneeing him in the groin. He crumpled immediately and let go of her. She’d only taken a couple of steps into the dancers, though, when she heard the first blast of gunfire. The scream that followed.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Nice and quiet, eh? Zoë thought to herself as panicked revellers scattered in all directions.

  * * *

  He’d had every intention of doing this quietly, of sneaking up on the creature, jamming a gun in its ribs and getting it to come with them. Or, better still, ram a silver blade in the thing and make like it’d fainted—then get it away from the girl swiftly. “Can’t hold his drink, y’see?”

  But, even as he’d approached from the side, Craddock realised something was wrong. Realised the creature had turned its head, ignoring the girl it had been chatting to—priming, they called it—and looked straight at him. Looked at him and grinned from ear to ear; a grin so wide it was unnatural; the kind of grin only their kind could muster.

  “I was wondering when you’d come over to say hello,” the creature said, and Craddock had no idea how he heard it over the thumping bass of the music.

  Craddock gritted his teeth. He’d been made, his cover blown. Or maybe he’d never even had a cover in the first place? Maybe the beast had been luring them here, rather than them tracking it? Didn’t matter. All that mattered was what happened next, how this would play out. Craddock had seconds to decide on a course of action—before it was decided for him.

  The thing’s grin widened, and it reached out for the girl nearby. Craddock had to act before it took her as a hostage: took her as a shield. He wasn’t about to run this time.

  His camouflage jacket was flung wide, shotgun out in seconds. Craddock was firing the first barrel even as he was raising the weapon, knowing that at this range it would be practically impossible to miss ... if he were dealing with a real human being, that was.

  Craddock’s blast hit nothing, there was just a space where the thing had been—a wall now black where the shell had hit; black apart from the shining sprinkles of silver the cartridges were laced with. The girl’s giggles turned to screams, hands going to her mouth.

  “Fuck!” shouted Craddock, aware that chaos was erupting behind him. More shouting and screaming—pretty much what you’d expect when you started shooting up a place. People, who until a few moments ago had been having a good time, dancing the night away, were now scrambling this way and that in confusion. The perfect camouflage if you wanted to get away, much better than what Craddock was wearing (and what’s more, he’d facilitated it).

  The creature could be anyone.

  Craddock checked his mirror, but it was knocked out of his hand by someone being shoved into him. He swore again, then realised he didn’t need it. A body rose up on his left, seemingly propelled on a geyser of red. It wasn’t until the man was falling again that Craddock realised what had happened—that he’d been clawed up into the air by the monster, half his neck and shoulder missing and trailing blood.

  Craddock turned in time to see another person, female this time, get ripped in two—half her torso going one way, half going the other, accompanied by a jet of crimson spraying from her mouth. The carnage was illuminated by flashing lights of different colours, making it look like the weirdest music video ever—but here and there Craddock saw splashes of white and cream: tooth and claw doing their worst.

  Another body was flung sideways, into the machine that was playing all the music—and the thumping bass cut out immediately.

  Craddock pointed at a spot where he thought he saw the creature dive, but a table was overturned and his shotgun blast only splintered the wood. His barrels empty, Craddock pulled out a machine pistol and raced after his prey—which had clambered onto the bar and was running along it. Severed heads sprang up like Jack-in-the-Boxes, as the bar staff were decapitated in the thing’s wake. Craddock fired his gun, following the beast down the length of the bar.

  Then suddenly he was being tackled from the side. Couldn’t be the creature, so who—

  The sumo wrestler bouncer from outside, obviously mistaking him for the source of the trouble. Craddock was carried along, the man gripping his gun arm. “Get ... off ... me!” he spat. Couldn’t the man see what was going on, what they were chasing? It was right there!

  Craddock let himself be pushed a few more metres, then used the man’s weight to drag him around, momentum doing the rest and slamming him into a booth. It was only now that he thought of Zoë, wondered where she was. Wondered why she wasn’t helping him.

  Then he spotted her across the way, on the floor. Craddock couldn’t tell whether she’d been injured by the creature or trampled by the stampede of people trying to get out. Either way, he was on his own.

  This was why you waited, why you needed to tackle the beast when it was on its own—or as near as dammit! He shook his head. There was still a chance he could take it down, he hadn’t lost it yet. He couldn’t let the people who’d died here die for nothing; their sacrifices in vain.

  Craddock chased after the monster, which was heading for the door they’d entered by themselves—the opposite direction to the main entrance where everyone else was attempting an escape.

  It was trying to sneak out the back way ...

  The other bouncer was heading towards him, the one in the tux with the shoulders: playing the hero. Craddock paused and turned the pistol on him. “Might want to think twice about that, mate.” The man backed off, nodding and holding up his hands in surrender.

  Craddock continued on after the ’shifter, through the door and into the corridor. The fire escape at the other end was swinging open. He grunted and set off again. It wasn’t going to get away this time. Not after all this. He wouldn’t bloody let it.

  Ramming the door, Craddock half-fell out into the alley, waving his gun left and right as Zoë had done with her detector earlier. As shit as that thing was, he wished he had it now, wished he had something—anything—because there, slumped against the far wall, was a girl. She couldn’t have been more than what, sixteen, seventeen; probably shouldn’t have been out at all ton
ight, on a school night. The sequined dress she had on, which barely covered her young body, and definitely didn’t cover her legs, was splashed with blood—Craddock couldn’t tell if it was hers or not.

  And she was crying.

  The beast had been alone when it came out here—hadn’t it? Everyone had gone in the other direction, surely? That bastard bouncer distracting him ... It was possible someone might have got swept up through the corridor, ended up here—he hadn’t seen.

  He. Hadn’t. Seen.

  The girl was crying so much. Craddock went across to her, gun raised. He knew what they were like, had played this game before and it had cost him.

  No emotions. Couldn’t afford them.

  “Pl ... Please. Please help me,” the girl spluttered when she saw him; her mascara had run, turning her eyes black and doleful as a puppy’s. “That ... that animal, it ... Oh my God, did you see it?” She didn’t seem bothered at all that Craddock was training a machine pistol on her.

  He took a step closer. Just put a bullet in her ... it.

  But what if—

  He couldn’t afford to get this wrong; wasn’t a murderer. Oh really, and what about those people back there? Those deaths are on your head, same as your regiment.

  Collateral damage. This is a war!

  Have to be sure. Have to be certain.

  Craddock raised the gun, took another step towards her. The barrel was only inches from her head. She couldn’t not see the weapon now.

  “What are you doing?” she screamed at him.

  “I know what you are,” he whispered.

  “What I ...” The girl started crying again.

  “Stop that. Stop ...” Craddock’s hand was shaking. “Not again. You’re not going to ...”

  The girl was bringing up her hands, her arms, crossing them over her face, hugging the back of her skull—as if creating a barrier that the bullets wouldn’t penetrate. Craddock’s trigger finger was slick with sweat.