Frostbitten: The Complete Series

by Bera, Ilia

  Kane stepped out of his car and made his way around to his trunk. He quickly stuffed a couple of wooden stakes into his coat, and he picked up his crossbow-rifle. He closed the trunk and began to walk over to Brittany’s house.

  As Andrew vanished around the back of the house, Kane began to run. The difference between Brittany living and dying could be mere seconds. As he ran, he pulled back the cocking mechanism of his handmade weapon, loading a sharp wooden stake into the open-faced barrel.

  He cut across the deep snow on Brittany’s front lawn. The sharp icy breeze stung his exposed face as it whistled through the dark silent town.

  Kane turned around the corner of Brittany’s house, into her back yard. Her window paned back door was open and Andrew was nowhere to be seen. A swift sense of dread fluttered through Kane’s trembling heart. He didn’t stop—He continued to run towards the door.

  Then suddenly, Andrew stepped out. He was looking down at his hand, in which was Brittany’s glowing red sunstone—a stone that Kane was all too familiar with, having seen them on many vampires before Andrew.

  Andrew looked up at Kane, whose gun was drawn and readied.

  “Kane?” Andrew said after a silent moment of shock.

  Kane fired—sending the sharp wooden stake directly into Andrew’s heart. Andrew gasped sharply as all of the muscles in his body tensed up.

  Slowly, he looked down at the centre of his chest. The long stake had entered in through his chest plate, travelled directly through his heart and had just penetrated his back. After a moment of stillness, blood began to pump out from the centre of Andrew’s chest, directly from Andrew’s heart.

  Andrew fell to his knees. “W—Why?” he asked as he placed his hands on his chest. He looked down at his hands, which were covered in his own blood. “Why—Why did you do that?”

  The cool breeze blew Brittany’s back door, making it squeak. As the window paned door came to a stop, Kane could see his own reflection in it—and Andrew’s.

  Andrew wasn’t a vampire. He had a reflection.

  Kane’s heart suddenly stopped as he realized what he’d done. He’d killed an innocent man—he’d killed his friend.

  Andrew fell over into the cold snow, blood still gushing out of his body.

  Kane quickly rushed over and fell down to his knees. “Andrew—I—I thought you…” he started.

  Andrew could barely keep his dying eyes opened. He looked up at Kane.

  “Why?” Andrew asked again.

  “I’m sorry,” Kane said. Tears were beginning to well up in Kane’s eyes. “I thought—I thought you were something else.” Kane tried to move Andrew’s jacket away to inspect the damage—clinging on to the imaginary hope that Andrew’s life was still salvageable.

  Andrew stared up at Kane for another short moment. “I love her,” Andrew said.

  “You—You what?” Kane asked in his state of shock.

  “I love her. Please tell her that I love her.”

  “Who?”

  “Brittany.”

  “You do?” Kane asked.

  “Please don’t hurt her,” Andrew said.

  “Andrew—I’m sorry. Please—you need to know that I’m sorry.” Kane lifted Andrew’s bloody body up off of the cold snow and held his in his arms. His skin had turned completely white and the vibrancy in his eyes suddenly washed away, becoming lifeless.

  Andrew was dead.

  “Andrew—please,” Kane said, shaking Andrew. “Don’t die. It was a mistake. Please!” Kane cried.

  A nearby dog began to bark, eliciting another neighbourhood dog to begin barking.

  “Andrew—c’mon buddy. You’re stronger than this. Wake up, man. Wake up for fuck sakes—Wake up!” Kane shouted.

  The upstairs light in the house next-door suddenly turned on. Kane stood up swiftly. All the neighbourhood dogs were barking, and lights were beginning to turn on.

  Kane was covered in Andrew’s blood.

  Reality blew over Kane’s shocked body in the form of a frigid breeze. He needed to leave before he got himself arrested.

  Quickly, he began to trudge through the deep snow, back to his car. He picked up his crossbow-rifle. There was nothing he could do about the trail of bloody footprints he was leaving behind, his fingerprints that were all over Andrew, or the stake in his heart.

  Kane had committed cold-blooded murder.

  He quickly jumped into his car and fired up his engine. The police walkie on his passenger seat was going off. “…Multiple reports of an armed attack. All units report to the scene immediately.”

  Kane’s hands were shaking as he turned the wheel of his car. Andrew’s blood was trickling down his steering wheel as the sounds of oncoming sirens became louder and louder.

  Kane’s trembling foot pounded down on the gas pedal—desperate to get out of town. He couldn’t go back to prison—not after everything he’d been through.

  His old Mustang swerved dangerously on the icy streets as he made his way onto one of the small highways that headed north, out of town.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  UNJUST REVENGE

  The snowy town of Snowbrooke had become dark and silent. Only the high-pitched wind was audible over the stark night silence.

  Patiently, Brittany was still waiting for that perfect moment to strike.

  Aside from the faint glowing streetlights, Wade’s living room window was the only source of light on that starless winter night.

  Wade paced back and forth in his pyjamas, waiting for Michael to return with his daughter.

  Laura was fast asleep, completely oblivious to Wade’s parental nerves, and the possibility that her daughter may be in danger.

  Wade walked over to his jacket, which hung next to the door. In his coat’s pocket, he retrieved a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He quickly put the jacket on his body, opened the back door gently and stepped outside. He walked all the way down to the alley before lighting his cigarette, to keep his bad habit a secret from his sleeping wife.

  Brittany watched closely and quietly, her eyes a dark red colour and her sharp fangs ready to bite. She looked around the neighbourhood from her spot in the tree. There wasn’t a soul nearby.

  She gently slipped down from the tree and flipped up her hood. Quietly, she began to walk towards the oblivious, smoking Wade Fenner.

  “Does your wife know that you do that?” Brittany asked as she stopped a few feet away from Wade.

  Startled, Wade swiftly spun around. He placed his hand on the centre of his chest. “Jesus—What are you doing here?”

  “I was in the neighbourhood.”

  “It’s nearly two in the morning.”

  “So?”

  “So—It’s thirty below. You should be at home in bed. Your family is probably worried sick.”

  Brittany laughed. “Is that why you’re up? Worried sick about your kid?”

  Wade looked at Brittany for a moment suspiciously. “Are you spying on my family?” he asked.

  “Can you please tell me why do you think I’m such an idiot?”

  “Brittany—This isn’t the time or the place for that conversation. We can talk about it tomorrow at class,” Wade said.

  “So you agree that you think I’m an idiot?”

  “No—You’re far from an idiot. Although, right now, you’re being an idiot.”

  “I’m not an idiot.”

  “Brittany—please. Let’s have this conversation another day.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Okay, you’re not. I need to get back inside—and you should go home,” Wade said as he turned back towards his house.

  Suddenly, Brittany grabbed Wade tightly by the neck. She squeezed so hard; her nails pierced Wade’s skin, drawing blood.

  In Brittany’s eyes, the red blood glowed brightly.

  “What are you doing?” Wade yelled in his deep, booming voice.

  “Let’s face it, Mr. Fenner. Your life ended with your precious hockey career.”

  “Le
t go of me!” Wade said.

  Then, without warning, Brittany leaned forward swiftly and stuck her fangs into Wade’s neck. She began to suck his sweet, fatty blood.

  Wade tried to scream but his body was quickly consumed by shock. His eyes became wide and his mouth dropped open. Quickly, as the blood was draining from his veins, his skin was becoming white.

  He gasped and gurgled as his muscles went numb and his body went limp. Brittany slowly lowered the dying teacher to the ground as she continued to suck his blood.

  “W—Why?” Wade asked as he drifted out of consciousness.

  Brittany’s petty revenge was strangely satisfying. She wasn’t just sucking the blood of Wade Fenner, but also the blood of every person who had ever assumed she was an idiot. In a way, it was an amazing moment.

  But the moment was short lived.

  As if on cue, Wade’s newborn baby, Lily began to cry. After a moment, the light to Lily’s bedroom turned on, and Laura walked in to comfort the crying child.

  Brittany looked up at the window. She didn’t know that Wade had a newborn baby. She had assumed that Wade only had Michael.

  Reality stung as it sunk in quickly. Brittany had just killed a father and a husband.

  “Wade?” Laura called out as she began to realize her husband wasn’t home. “Wade, honey?” she called again.

  Lily continued to emotionally cry, as if she knew that her father was no more.

  Brittany’s fangs receded back into her gums, and the red flushed quickly out of her eyes. She had to leave before she was caught. She stood up swiftly and looked around.

  With Lily in her arms, Laura was exploring the house, looking for her husband. Her eyes were wide and she was carrying a lot of tension, knowing something was amiss.

  Brittany’s eyes began to well up with tears as she looked back down at the deceased teacher, and the blood stained snow.

  Brittany was a murderer, a villain, and a monster.

  She began to run—her vision blurred by her cloudy tears.

  She ran home faster than she’d ever run in her life. Once she was home, she pulled out her cellphone. She noticed an unheard message.

  “One unheard message,” her phone said.

  “Uh—Hey, Brittany. This is Andrew from class. What’s up? Hope you’re doing all right. I hope that I’m not waking you up, or anything. I was just wondering if maybe—if maybe you wanted to meet up sometime. You can—I don’t know—vent some more, and I’ll listen nonjudgmentally. Or, you know, we could maybe grab a drink or something. But—uh—not like a date. Just as friends.

  “No—Like a date. I’d like to go out on a date with you. So, um—call me back and let me know. I really like you, Brittany.”

  Brittany’s mind was being overloaded. She couldn’t process everything that was happening. She liked Andrew—she really liked Andrew, but she was totally ignorant to the fact that he was interested in her.

  She’d never even considered the idea of dating him.

  But in that moment, more than anything, she needed a shoulder to cry on. She needed someone who could listen to her “non-judgementally”.

  She dialled Andrew’s number and waited for a response. After a few rings, Andrew’s phone went to voicemail. But Brittany was desperate. She called again—and again and again.

  But she was completely unaware that Andrew was dead.

  “Pick up!” she cried in frustration.

  After she’d lost count of her attempts to get a hold of Andrew, she dropped her phone onto the ground and began to cry. She put her face into her hands and sunk down to the ground.

  “What did I do?” she asked herself.

  She looked back down at her silent little phone. Then, she had another idea.

  She picked up the phone and dialled another number. She waited.

  “Hello?” a familiar voice said.

  “Kane? It’s Brittany.”

  “Hey. Right now isn’t a great time.”

  “I—I need to talk to someone,” Brittany said into her phone.

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Kane asked.

  “I just can’t be alone right now. Can you please meet me?”

  “I—I don’t know if I can, Brittany.”

  “Please—I need someone to just be with me right now.”

  Kane sighed.

  “Meet me at the café across from the library, okay? It’s open twenty-four hours.”

  “Brittany—I don’t know…”

  “Please. I’m begging you.”

  Kane sighed again. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you there.”

  Brittany wiped the tears away from her eyes as she hung up the phone.

  Kane was already twenty minutes out of town. Another hour of driving, and he would have been in the next town, safe from the police.

  But he couldn’t just leave Brittany when she was so desperate.

  Kane pulled his Mustang over to the side of the road and thought for a moment. Angry with himself, he slammed his car dashboard with the palm of his hand.

  The glow of Snowbrooke’s city lights was still faintly visible through the heavy falling snow.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CASSIE FENNER

  While the cold wind howled through the forlorn winter streets, there was one spot in Snowbrooke that refused to go to sleep.

  At a big house on the outskirts of Snowbrooke, on a little road called Moncton Street, an annual biker party was loud enough for the whole silent town.

  Michael pulled up in his dad’s car up. The loud bass from the party music pierced the solid car door.

  The street was loaded with parked motorcycles. On the front lawn of the rough and tumble house was a large oil drum, around which stood a number of bearded bikers—all with cigarettes hanging out of their chapped mouths.

  Michael stepped out of his car and began to walk towards the party house. Sounds of screaming party-goers and smashing bottles became louder and louder as Michael came closer and closer to the ajar front door.

  As he reached for the door handle, the door burst open. An older biker with a young teenage girl under his arm drunkenly stumbled out of the house.

  Michael turned and looked at the girl. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen, while the man was easily into his thirties.

  “Hey,” Michael said to the biker, reaching forward and placing his hand on his shoulder to stop him.

  “What?” the biker replied sharply and drunkenly.

  “How old is she?” Michael asked.

  The biker scoffed and turned away from Michael. “None of your fucking business.”

  The biker took his young date and continued to stumble towards his parked hog. Michael wanted to go and stop the biker scum, but he had another, more important prerogative: his sister.

  Michael entered the loud party. Flashing strobe lights made it difficult to see anything through the crowd of dancing college partygoers and drinking, rowdy bikers.

  Michael squinted as he scanned the room for his young under-age sister. There was a large age gap between the high school kids and the bikers in the house.

  “Cassie?” Michael called out. The deep bass from the music drowned his deep voice out. He may as well have been a mute.

  He walked through the thick crowd of people. Thanks to his mighty athletic size, Michael was able to see over the heads of all the party-goers. But unfortunately, Cassie was nowhere to be seen.

  Michael found himself at a long wooden staircase, on which was a small group of high school kids snorting cocaine.

  “Hey,” Michael yelled over the loud music.

  One of the kids turned to look at him, with cocaine smeared on his nose and upper lip. “What?” the young boy asked with a crooked grin.

  “Do your parents know you’re here?” Michael asked.

  The kids started to laugh. “Yeah—Obviously,” one of the kids replied sarcastically.

  “Do you know Cassie—Cassie Fenner?”

  “Cassie Fenner?”


  “She’s short and thin, with curly brown hair.”

  The kids started laughing again.

  “Well do you know her or not?”

  “Aren’t you that guy who got kicked off The Winnipeg Jets?” a kid asked.

  The fallen-from-grace hockey star stared at the bratty kid for a moment.

  “Yeah—It was you. Michael Something. It was because you couldn’t score any goals,” the kid continued, laughing as he wiped the excess coke off of his nose.

  Michael walked up the stairs, passed the kids. He didn’t look back as the young group snickered at his expense.

  At the top of the stairway was a hallway lined with doors. The hall was unfinished. The walls, floor and roof were lined with old plywood, and there was a musty lingering stale odour in the humid party air—like a dirty, abandoned bottle depot. At the end of the hall, a couple of kids stood making out. The boy had his hand under the girl’s shirt and he was friskily groping her breasts, like a horny anteater.

  As Michael walked down the hall, he could hear moaning—people having sex behind closed doors. Without hesitation, he opened the first door—pushing it open swiftly.

  On the bed were two young students going at it. They were too preoccupied to notice the door had been pushed open. The girl was a chubby redhead—not Cassie.

  Michael continued down the hall towards the next door. He grabbed the handle and tried to open the door, but it was locked.

  “C’mon baby—take it off,” a deep male voice said on the other side of the door. “Take it off like the slut you are.”

  Michael took a step back from the door. Then, in one swift motion, he booted the door open with the heel of his boot, shattering the lock and sending shards of wood flying through the musty air.

  In the bedroom was a thirty-something year old biker with a thick stubble beard with his hands on the breasts of a familiar teenage girl. There were dark bags under the girl’s eyes, her hair was a mess, and her body looked weak.

  She was wearing nothing but a bra and panties and her body appeared limp, as if her bones were made from rubber.

  It was clear that she had been drugged. The biker swiftly looked back at the forced open doorway where Michael stood.