I let out a long sigh of relief.
You’d think after all these months living here, working in that grease-pit, walking home alone, that the cold, stomach-churning anxiety would have passed by now. But after every shift, after every trip to the supermarket, I still find myself ramming the key into the lock and diving into the hallway like I’m being chased by a crazed killer.
Like Michael.
Oh, God. Even thinking about that bastard sends painful shock-waves through my body. Those confident, powerful eyes. That look of horror after he shot Mum.
I shake off the hideous memory and slam the door behind me.
The building has five floors, two flats on each level. Mine is at the very top, right next door to some dead-beat druggy and his occasional weird girlfriend. I’ve hardly said two words to them since I moved in, but it’s better that way. This is not a place to make friends.
The stairs are a bitch to climb, especially when my tired legs feel like iron. All I want to do is collapse in a heap on the bed, close my eyes, and dream about all this disappearing.
At the top, I creep pass the druggy’s door, praying that the creaking floorboards beneath the ripped, filthy brown carpet don’t wake them. But in a town this rough, 4:00 a.m. is way too early for bed.
My door shudders open, the bottom scraping against the floor. I should ask the landlord to fix it, but I doubt he’d give a shit. I slam the door, attach the chain, and then release a worn-out breath, feeling somehow relieved that I’m back home safe in this dump. I hang my coat on the wall-hook, and then peer down at my disgusting clothes. God, I wish I’d packed a suitcase before leaving Ammanford, instead of having to endure these second-hand monstrosities. Jeans at least two-sizes too big. Green jumper, clearly meant for a sixty-year-old. And brown boots that belong on a hobo.
The sound of the TV is low as I walk along the hallway. At least Ben has finally started to listen to me about keeping the volume low when I’m not here. “Morning,” I say, just as a great big yawn leaves my mouth. “Sleep okay?”
Ben nods his head, his bright yellow eyes glowing with the glare of the TV.
“You hungry?” I ask, rolling up my sleeve.
Ben glances at my wrist and notices the scab. It’s bleeding a little. “Don’t worry about that,” I say. “I’ll use the other one.” I roll my other sleeve up only to find an even bloodier scab. I try to alternate wrists, but I’ve been so exhausted, so spaced out lately that I forget which one I used last. The left one looks the least shredded, so I sit next to him on the two-seater couch, and float my arm under his chin. The pain isn’t a problem anymore, but it still makes me queasy to watch him do it, so I focus on the TV instead. There’s a rerun of Murder, She Wrote on one of the channels. God knows why a vampire would watch something so lame—but who am I to judge? I should check the news again; see if anything’s changed out there. Any miracle breakthroughs. Maybe there’s a woman—somewhere—who’s finally conceived a human baby. It’s possible. All this has to end someday.
Hasn’t it?
I don’t feel his bite. “What’s wrong?” I ask, confused.
Ben shakes his head, his eyes looking down at the dirty carpet. ‘Not hungry.’
“What do you mean, you’re not hungry? You haven’t fed since yesterday.”
Ben gets off the couch, heading for the door. He’s avoiding me.
“Where are you going?”
‘Sun is coming.’
I follow him out of the living room. “Not for at least an hour. Come on, Ben. You have to feed.”
He stops at the bedroom doorway. ‘Not hungry.’
My wrist stings like hell, but he’s got to drink something. The last time he went a day without feeding, it almost killed him.
He steps into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. “Ben?”
Nothing.
God, he’s stubborn. He may look like a fully-grown man, but I’m still living with a moody teenager. Now I know what Mum went through with me. All those times I mumbled an answer to a question. Stormed up to my bedroom. Slammed my door just for the added drama. “Fine. Be like that then. Don’t say I didn’t offer.”
Inside the kitchen, I open the plastic bag and pull out the chicken pieces. They’re stone cold, and the flat doesn’t have a microwave. I could put them under the grill for a couple of minutes, but I’m used to cold food. I pour myself a glass of water and then sit at the microscopic table, tucking into the chicken. The meat should have been thrown out hours ago, because it’s as tough as wood—but I stuff it into my mouth, nevertheless.
The brown and orange kitchen barely has the space for anyone to stand, let alone cook anything decent. The scratched worktop can just about cope with a kettle and a toaster, and the ancient oven and grill has the world’s thickest layer of welded-on grease and scum. And no matter how many times I scrub the floor, I still can’t shift those awful brown stains across the cracked white tiles.
Chewing my one and only meal of the day, I notice something on the windowsill. A handprint. It’s dark. I walk over to it. What the hell is that? Oh, shit! Has someone broken in? But then I see the specks on the floor.
It’s blood.
“Ben!” I stomp out of the kitchen, over to the bedroom. “You’ve been out again, haven’t you? I’ve told you a million times that it’s dangerous! Why don’t you listen to me?”
Ben is lying on the double bed, his closed eyes facing the grey curtains. He thinks he can fake-sleep me? I invented it. “I know you’re awake. It’s still dark outside.”
No response.
“You’re really starting to piss me off now. You think being locked up in this flat all day is tough? Try leaving behind everything you’ve ever known to work in a kebab shop. I’m eighteen years old. This is not what I thought I’d be doing with my life.”
Still nothing.
“You think I want us to live like this? Trapped in this shit-hole? Well, I don’t. I want to go home, back to Sean, but I can’t—because I’m stuck here with you.”
A wave of guilt washes over me.
I shouldn’t have said that. It just slipped out.
Ben’s eyes slowly open, but he still doesn’t look at me.
“I’m sorry I said that. I didn’t mean it.” I sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s not your fault we had to leave.”
Ben finally turns to me, and only now do I notice the bloodstain on his grey t-shirt. “Another cat?”
Ben shakes his head. ‘Dog.’
I imagine a cute little Pug ripped to shreds in someone’s front garden, or a Chihuahua dressed in pink, beheaded in the park, but then I remember that the place is crawling with strays, all of which are usually unsightly, flea-infested scruff-balls. “Jesus, Ben. What’s the matter with you? You should have waited until I got home. I don’t mind feeding you.” He looks at my raw wrist. “You don’t have to worry about me. It’ll heal.”
He looks away again.
Groaning, I pat him on his shoulder. “Just don’t do it again. Okay?”
I wait for a response, but nothing comes.
“Ben?”
There’s silence for few seconds before I see a subtle nod. It’s the best I’m going to get out of him, so I’ll take it. “Good. Now get some sleep.”
I leave the bedroom, return to the kitchen, and then finish off my stale chicken.
Part III
SEAN RICHARDS
4
The sky is plagued with thick, grey clouds. The worst kind of weather for this job.
Where the hell is global warming when you need it?
My heart has been in my mouth since we left HQ, beating like it’s about to explode. I won’t let the others know how nervous I am though. Best keep it buried and pray that adrenalin gets me through the next few hours.
Erin is beside me in the front of the van; her jet-black hair pulled back in a ponytail; her big green eyes burning with enthusiasm.
Michael is next to her, unruffle
d as ever, his focus on the road ahead, like we’re heading to fix someone’s broken pipe.
“How much further, sir?” I ask him, just as we join another dual carriageway.
“Raring to go, is it, Sean?” He looks over at me and grins with his pearly set of choppers.
“Something like that,” I reply, my words forced, awkward. Can he see the terror on my face? I check myself in the mirror. No sweat running down my forehead. Eyes dry as a bone. I look normal, composed. Erin spots me gawking, so I adjust my hair in the reflection.
“Going somewhere nice?” she asks with a snigger.
I return a smile, but it feels uncomfortable. “Force of habit.”
“I have a make-up kit in my bag. You wanna borrow some foundation?”
“Hey. Who needs foundation when you look as good as this?” I point at my face, hoping that a joke will settle these rampant butterflies.
Shaking her head, Erin beams.
Michael leans towards the Sat-Nav. “Nearly there.” He elbows Erin gently in her side. “How you holding up, love?”
“I’m fine, sir,” she replies, cracking her knuckles. The sound cuts through me. “Just looking forward to kicking some vampire arse.”
“Don’t get too eager, Erin. You’ll be mainly following my lead this morning. Nothing happens unless I give the nod. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ‘course, sir,” she replies.
He takes the exit and we arrive at a roundabout. “With a bit of luck, we’ll be in and out in a few minutes. No fuss. No mess.” He joins a country road. “But I’m probably speaking too soon. Last time I said that, Nick almost got his head torn off.” He grins again. “But I’m sure that won’t happen this time.”
I know he’s just trying to scare us, but it’s hard not to worry about these things. Four months training isn’t exactly a normal amount of preparation for a job like this. But then again, at the rate these things are breeding, normal is a luxury we don’t have.
Michael stops the van outside a set of iron gates. He cuts the engine and peers out at the red-bricked drive.
“What are the chances of this being another false alarm?” Erin asks.
“Possible,” Michael replies with a shrug. “A disgruntled neighbour, maybe.” I glimpse at each side of the property, and there are no other houses in sight. “But we don’t exactly have the time or resources to stake the place out. Not anymore.”
“Has anyone tried to sue the HCA for raiding a house?” My eyes are fixed on the small white bungalow at the top of the drive.
“Yeah. Plenty.” In the mirror, he prods the scar on his cheek and mouth, and then exits the van. “But that’s none of our concern.”
Letting out a nervous breath, I reach by my feet and grab the door-ram. I hold the thick, metal tube against my chest, and then climb out of the van. Erin shuffles across the seat towards me, muting a giggle with her hand. “What’s so funny?” I ask as she joins me on the gravel.
“You and that door-ram,” she says. “You can barely lift the thing.”
“It’s not that heavy,” I reply, raising it over my head by its two handles. “But I suppose nothing’s that heavy with these muscles.”
She laughs, but it instantly evaporates when Michael emerges, holding a leash with Helsing the bloodhound attached. “Get your heads in the game now,” he says, stroking the dog’s thick brown fur. He peers up at the grey sky. “The sun is barely out, so we need to move fast. Clear?”
“Clear,” Erin and I say in unison.
“Good. Are you both ready?” he asks. “Stun-gun batons? Walkie-talkies?”
I pat my waist and find both attached to my belt. Erin does the same, and we nod.
Taking a discreet breath to ready myself, we follow Michael through the shiny red gate. The drive and concrete path is littered with weeds, and the lawn on each side is in desperate need of a cut. Someone’s in the house because there are two cars parked in front; a red smart car, and a blue 4x4. Maybe they thought that trimming the grass is no longer a priority.
Something else on their minds, maybe?
Freya’s house pops into my head, and the chaos Ben caused those last few months. I doubt gardening would have been on Tony and Jane’s agenda, either.
Stop thinking about her. She’s gone. Let it go. Focus on the task at hand.
Reaching the cars, I notice a bead of sweat rolling down Erin’s pale cheek. It could be from the thickness of our black shirts and tactical vests, but I’m guessing it’s the dread of entering the house. I hope it is, anyway. At least that would mean she’s actually human.
With the dog by his side, Michael rings the doorbell. “Sean. Keep the door-ram hidden. We don’t want to scare anyone.” Pulling out a white piece of cloth from his pocket, Michael floats it under the dog’s moist nose, allowing the animal to take in the vampire scent.
Through the frosted glass at the centre of the door, I see movement inside the house—but still no answer. He rings again, and then knocks.
Hands gripping the ram tightly, I picture myself thrusting the door open with one, fierce swing, taking half the wooden frame with it. Even the thought sends my pulse racing. Can’t let it though. Need to concentrate. I’m about to come face to face with the enemy, something that could tear me limb from limb. All I should be feeling is anger. Not some childish desire to act like a TV cop, busting a gang of drug-dealers.
Michael knocks the door again, this time much harder. There’s more movement through the glass—which makes me think, beyond a doubt that these people have something to hide. Michael snatches the door-ram from me, and I’m filled with disappointment. Oh well, maybe next time I’ll get to use it.
There’s a clunking of boots coming from behind the door. Michael rests the door-ram against the side of the house.
“She’s not here,” a blond, middle-aged man says, hiding behind a half-open door. “She ran off last month.”
Jesus. That was easy. I thought he’d at least put up a fight, maybe pretend that he didn’t know why we were here.
Michael holds out his hand for the man to shake it. “Mr Johnson? My name is Michael. Michael Matthias. And these are my two colleagues. Sean and Erin.”
“Why would I give a shit what your names are?” the man asks, refusing to shake Michael’s hand. “I already know who you are. You’re the HCA.”
“Would you mind if we took a quick look around the house?” Michael asks, his voice calm, collected.
“Are you deaf or what? My daughter has gone. We haven’t seen her for weeks.”
A woman, short hair and small stature, appears behind Mr Johnson; her face puffy, her eyes red. She’s been crying. “She’s gone,” the woman says, her words cracked with grief.
“I’ve got this, Emma,” the man says, turning to her. “Go back to the living room.”
“You won’t find her. She’s too smart.” She starts to cry. “She just wants to be left alone.”
Erin looks at me. Her eyes paint a clear picture of impatience. She wants to kick this door in, and happily take the Johnsons with it. Mine on the other hand are probably brimming with sympathy, because I’m imagining how scared they must be feeling right now, how intimidating all this must be.
But these are strange and dangerous times, and pity and sympathy should’ve disappeared the day the vampires arrived.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr and Mrs Johnson, but we’re still going to have to search the house. It’s not something I enjoy doing—God knows I have a family myself—but it’s procedure.”
“Not gonna happen,” the man points out, shaking his head, his tone firm, his posture stiff.
Michael’s hand hovers over his holstered stun-gun baton. “I’m afraid it is, Mr Johnson. Now, kindly step aside and let us do our job,” he says calmly, as if he’s just asked them for a gas-meter reading. “We’ll be in and out in no time at all. I promise.”
God, I wish I had an ounce of his cool, unflustered attitude. If I were leading this bust, I’d b
e stuttering my way through the entire thing, looking like a total amateur.
“You have to have a warrant to enter someone’s house,” the woman barks over her husband’s shoulder.
“We live in desperate times, Mrs Johnson. And desperate times call for desperate measures.” Michael removes his baton and holds it up. “Now, for the last time, move aside and let us search the house.”
“Over my dead—” The man’s sentence is cut short by the loud, crackling sound as Michael pushes his stun-gun baton into his chest, dropping Mr Johnson down to his knees, his body convulsing, his eyes watering, bloodshot. The woman screams as Michael and Helsing barge inside the bungalow, stepping over her semi-conscious husband.
There’s a rush of adrenaline as I chase after him, Erin at my side. “Stay in the hallway,” Michael orders us. “If they try anything—give ‘em fifty-million volts.”
“Roger that,” I say as we unclip our batons, our eyes glued to the Johnsons.
The woman crouches in front of her husband, her arm shielding him from another electric shock. She glares at Erin, her weeping eyes filled with poison. “Stay the hell down,” Erin orders her, “or you’ll be getting a taste as well.” She fires up a set of electrical sparks from her baton. Mrs Johnson winces, huddling up closer to her husband. I recoil from the horrid noise just as much, but no one spots it.
“Living room’s clear,” Michael announces, as the dog pulls him into the kitchen.
Mr Johnson tries to stand, so I point the baton at him. “Stay exactly where you are,” I snap, my words a little squeaky, the nerves surfacing. “Is that clear?”
His face colourless with fright, he returns to the floor, cowering like an injured animal. The sight rebuilds my confidence, easing the tightness in my chest.
Michael leaves the kitchen. “Stay with the Johnsons,” Michael says to Erin, and then motions with his head for me to follow him. “Sean—you’re with me.”
“Roger that,” I reply.
The corridor is bright, which makes me wonder if the Johnsons are actually telling the truth. But why were they so reluctant to let us in? Maybe they just went ‘round the house, opening every curtain because they know that a dark house is a dead giveaway.
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