Frostbitten: The Complete Series

by Bera, Ilia

  Guilty.

  Death.

  The next morning, Tarun found himself in handcuffs, being walked through the thick iron gates of The Fort Daevins Penitentiary. It was the darkest day of the year—one of three that the sun didn’t so much as peek over the horizon.

  “Take a good look—have a good smell,” the prison guard said as they approached the large iron doors of the windowless cement building. “It’s the last time you’ll ever see the glorious mother nature.”

  Tarun stopped and looked around. The mountains looked more beautiful than ever, even in the dark gloom of the arctic winter—their colossal magnificence, their unforgiving splendour. Tarun began to tear up.

  “What’s the matter? You people believe in second lives and all that shit, don’t you?” the guard said.

  “No,” Tarun said.

  “Oh,” the guard said. “Well, you should have thought of that before you killed all those people then.” The guard began to laugh.

  “I killed nobody. I’m innocent,” Tarun said.

  “Sure you are,” the guard said as he opened the door and pushed Tarun in.

  “I would never hurt another man.”

  “Okay man, sure.”

  “I don’t believe in violence.”

  “Smell that?” the guard asked.

  The prison smelled rotten—like old milk and rotting flesh. The stench in the air was thick; you could taste it’s sour tinge on the tip of your tongue. The guard took a deep breath in through his nose and smiled. “Learn to love it, Ghandi. Because that’s all you’re going to smell for the rest of your short life. Ghandi went to prison, right?”

  Tarun was led down a series of dingy, never-before-cleaned hallways. The smell only became more and more foul. The guard led Tarun into a small room with a stack of old faded orange jumpsuits.

  “Strip down,” the guard demanded.

  Tarun reluctantly obliged. As he took off his shirt, the guard began to laugh.

  “They’re going to love you,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Let’s just say you have a very feminine figure.”

  Tarun stared at the guard for a moment, taking a moment to understand what he was saying. His face flushed and turned white.

  “Hey—I’m just warning you,” the guard said.

  “I—” Tarun tried to speak.

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re innocent. I get it,” the guard said.

  Once in his new faded orange jumpsuit, Tarun was led down another series of labyrinth hallways. The noise of rowdy inmates became louder and louder with every single step. Tarun was led through a large empty cafeteria, complete with blood-stained floors and greenish-brown mouldy tables.

  “That hallway there leads to the new wing. That’s where they put low-risk offenders—not like you.” The guard pointed down a long hallway which ended at a mechanical steel door. “It’s nice over there. They just finished renovating it a couple of years ago,” the guard chatted nonchalantly. “Everything’s run a computer system—timers open all of the cells, instead of keys you use fingerprint scanners and swipe cards. They’ve got it all: TVs—it’s actually pretty nice. Sometimes I forget that it even exists, I hardly ever have to go over there.”

  The two continued walking. “There’s no fingerprint scanners where you’re going. Just me and this rusty key ring.”

  Tarun looked down at the guard’s belt, attached to which was a large ring with dozens of keys attached to it.

  “Just down that hallway is the chair,” the guard pointed out. At the end of a long hallway was an open door. Through the doorway, was the old iron chair—the last chair Tarun would ever sit upon. “Most people here are waiting for their turn. From what I understand, they want to push you to the front of the line.”

  “So be it...” Tarun muttered. There was nothing he could do or say to persuade anyone of his innocence at this point.

  “Can’t promise it will be too soon, although you’re going to wish it was. They haven’t found a replacement for the old executioner yet. But hey—once they find one, it will be quick. That’s better than most people get, am I right?” the prison guard asked with a laugh.

  “Why don’t you do it?” Tarun asked.

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you do it? You just pull the lever, right?” Tarun asked.

  The guard stared at Tarun in silence for a moment. “Man, there isn’t enough money in the world to get me to do that.”

  “You’re a good man,” Tarun said.

  “What?”

  “Even though I killed all those people—as far as you know, that much is true.”

  “Okay…” the guard said.

  “But still, you wouldn’t pull the lever on me. Not even for all the money in the world, you said. You’re a good man.”

  “Just keep moving, okay?” the guard said.

  With heavy metal cuffs still around his wrists, Tarun was led through another iron door, into a large space, filled with barred cells. The moment Tarun entered the room, all of the heads turned, and the loud voices of the high-profile criminals became silent. Everyone watched as Tarun was paraded down towards his cell.

  Everyone in the building knew who Tarun was—at least, they thought they knew. Accused of murdering over one dozen people, Tarun’s alleged crimes made the other criminals in the building look like petty thieves. Even to the criminals in The Fort Daevins Penitentiary, Tarun was a monster.

  The long walk ended in a flickering, dimly lit cell, with a particularly nasty body-odour.

  “Don’t expect a warm welcome, kid,” the guard said as he pulled a key from his belt. “Give me your wrists.” The guard began to undo Tarun’s handcuffs. He looked up into Tarun’s eyes. The guard wasn’t sure what to believe—he was overcome by the realization that he may be leaving an innocent man in the worst place on the planet. “Try not to look weak,” the guard said quietly. “Keep your head up—and for the love of God, don’t let them see you cry.”

  The guard turned around and closed the cell door. Without looking back, he walked away.

  Tarun looked around the small cell. There was a rusty metal bunk bed bolted into the floor, a metal toilet and a green-tinged old metal sink. A bearded man—only a few years older than Tarun, with a large scar on his face, sat on the bottom bunk. The other inmates in the prison had shaved heads—this man did not. This man had hair down to his chest, and a face with years of untouched hair growth.

  The man looked up at Tarun. His eyes were dark, tortured. The scars and the deep lines running through his face made the man look twice his age.

  Tarun looked away from the intimidating man.

  “You must’ve done somethin’ real bad to end up in this cell, here with me,” the man said. There was a slur to his voice—probably from the nerve damage done by whatever left the large scar across his face.

  “So they say,” Tarun replied nervously. He walked up to the bars and looked around the prison. The many heads of the many inmates were still turned towards him—still silent as they inspected the fresh meat.

  “They don’t like you,” the bearded man said.

  “I can see that,” Tarun replied.

  “They really don’t like you,” the man said again with his slurred speech.

  “I don’t blame them,” Tarun said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tarun.”

  “What kind of name’s that?” the man asked.

  “It’s Indian.”

  “Place full of cowboys isn’t no place for an Indian,” the bearded man said.

  “Not that kind of Indian—I’m from India.”

  “What’s that?” the man asked.

  “India?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s a country. In South Asia.”

  “Asia, like you mean China?”

  “South of China,” Tarun said.

  “India, huh?” the bearded man said. His eyes remained dark and intimidating as he stared at Tarun. The man snic
kered for a moment before returning to his dead stare. “The Indian—From India. That makes sense, don’t it?”

  Tarun nervously looked back at the coliseum full of criminals.

  “Tarun, the Indian from India. Is it pretty in India?” the bearded man asked.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Think I’d like it there?”

  “Yes.”

  “How you know that? You don’t even know me.”

  “I think everyone would like it there. It’s the greatest place on the planet.”

  The bearded man cracked a smile again before returning to his dead stare. “So why’re you here then?”

  “I made some mistakes.”

  “I don’t mean here in the slammer, I mean here in the country.”

  “I know—I made some mistakes. Have you ever heard someone say that the grass is greener on the other side?”

  “I’ve heard that, yeah.”

  “Well—It’s not always true.”

  “You got some green grass over in India?”

  “The greenest.”

  “Hm,” the bearded man said as he thought. “I’m tryin’ to remember what the color green even looks like. It’s kind of like blue, right?”

  “Kind of like blue, yeah,” Tarun said.

  “All we got here is grey and orange.”

  “I noticed.”

  The bearded man looked down at the ground and returned to his thousand-mile stare.

  “What’s your name?” Tarun asked.

  “Peter,” the man said without looking up. “Peter Riley.”

  CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

  BEST FRIENDS & WORST ENEMIES

  Brittany had always been the type of person to hold on to everything. She would never throw away a gift, a souvenir, and she would especially never throw away a photo—a memory. More than anything, she cherished her happy memories. She didn’t have anything else.

  Megan knew this all to well; not just from a lifetime of extremely close friendship, but she knew this because, the night Tarun was incarcerated, Megan broke into Brittany’s house and went through her drawers.

  She wasn’t doing it in a malicious way: She was simply waiting for Brittany to return home. Bored, she decided to go through Brittany’s old photos—a trip down another’s memory lane.

  Brittany had always kept all of her photos in a number of old shoe boxes. Megan started with the oldest. The two best-friends were in nearly every photo together—Birthday parties, memorable sleepovers and school events—everything was chronicled in Brittany’s memory boxes.

  The heart warming reminiscing was quickly shadowed by regret. One little mistake ruined not only Megan’s life, but Brittany’s life too. Not to mention the regret that lingered inside her heart—the regret she felt for abandoning Brittany at the worst possible time.

  And for what?

  Brittany’s box of happy memories stopped around the time she’d made that awful mistake, when she turned Brittany into a vampire—when she herself became a vampire. There was only one other picture dated after that fateful night:

  A picture of Kane and Brittany, laughing in the library—the photo she’d taken just a week before. Megan’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the photo. She knew that face—she knew Kane all too well.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Hanna!” Brittany’s voice called out from outside of the house.

  Megan scrambled to replace the boxes of photos into their rightful drawer.

  Slam!

  The front door of the home shut and the sound of Brittany walking through the house became louder and louder as Brittany approached her bedroom. As Brittany walked into the room, she didn’t notice her old best friend sitting in the corner.

  Brittany stretched out her back and took off her coat, letting it fall onto the ground next to her bed. She grabbed the base of her blouse and then pulled it over her head, leaving her in only her lacy black bra. She exhaled deeply from her long day.

  “Hey,” Megan said softly, in an attempt to not startle her friend.

  Brittany jumped back and quickly covered her chest with her hands. Her eyes went wide and she let out a little whelp before seeing who was in her room.

  Megan sat still with a smile as Brittany’s initial shock wore off. Brittany’s tense body began to relax as she recognized the blonde beauty sitting in the corner.

  “M—Megan?” Brittany asked.

  “Hi.”

  “What—Where—How did you get in here?” Brittany asked. Megan opened her mouth to answer, but Brittany skipped ahead to the next question—the more important question: “Where did you go? Why did you leave?” Brittany asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Megan said simply.

  “Sorry? Where did you go? Tell me.”

  “I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.”

  Brittany stared at Megan for a moment in a state of silent disbelief. “I needed you…” she said. Her eyes began to well up with tears.

  Megan stood up and walked up to her friend. With open arms, Megan hugged Brittany tightly. “I’m back now,” Megan said. Megan couldn’t help but begin to tear up herself.

  Still hugging her friend, Brittany wiped the tears from her eyes. “Don’t leave again.”

  “I won’t,” Megan said. “Unless you come with me.” Megan smiled as she released her friend from the tight hug.

  Brittany wiped the second wave of tears from her eyes and then looked her old best friend up and down. “Oh my God, I hate you,” she said.

  “I’m really sorry, Brit.”

  “No—You’re still so pretty. You’re still a million times prettier than me,” Brittany laughed.

  Megan smiled. “I’d take your body over mine any day.”

  “You’re so full of it.”

  Megan smiled and began to walk around the room. “So your place… It’s different.”

  Brittany looked down at her feet. “It’s like the Adams Family in here. I hate it.”

  Megan picked up a jar of Brittany’s rat blood. “Is this… Rats’ blood?”

  “Yeah, it helps with the—”

  “—The cravings?” Megan said. “Yeah. I used to keep jars of it around my bed too. It smells rancid though.”

  “I know.”

  Megan continued to look around the room. “Pentagrams, incense—the works,” she said.

  “Like I said—I live in The Adams Family house.”

  “You should get a sunstone. It works better than all of this stuff,” Megan said.

  “I had one—It went missing.”

  “Have you heard about the vampire community over in Europe? They’re making a lot of advancements in this kind of stuff: figuring out the science behind it, taking it out of the stone ages.”

  Brittany laughed. “Community? Until this week, I thought I was the only vampire on this planet.”

  “I’ll put you in touch with some people. This rats blood thing is so last decade,” Megan smiled.

  Brittany laughed. “You always were the trendy one.”

  “Speaking of which—your wardrobe is so last year.” Megan and Brittany both started to laugh.

  As the laughter died down, Brittany looked into Megan’s eyes and smiled. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

  The two hugged again. Brittany placed her face on Megan’s shoulder. Then, she noticed something under Megan’s shirt—a large patch of ruffled skin, harsh to the touch.

  “What is that?” Brittany asked, releasing Megan once again.

  “What?”

  “On your back—Is that a scar?” Brittany asked.

  Megan turned around and took her shirt from the base. Slowly, she pulled her shirt up to her shoulders, revealing a massive scar—covering her whole torso. She was completely disfigured.

  “Oh my God—Megan!” Brittany said in shock. She placed her hand on her mouth in an attempt to contain her shock.

  From Megan’s neck to her knees, her body was covered in horrible burn scars, healed over with rippling scar tissue. There
were only small patches of clear skin.

  “At least I’m still alive, right?” Megan said softly as her smile dissipated.

  “What happened?” Brittany asked.

  “Well—I guess you could say, this is why I’m back in Snowbrooke,” Megan said as she let her shirt fall back into place.

  “What do you mean?”

  “James died. He was killed.,” Megan said—her voice cracking as she held back her emotions.

  “Megan—I’m so sorry.”

  Megan walked over to the bed and took a seat. She looked down at her hands and began to fiddle her fingers nervously. “I shouldn’t have left Snowbrooke, Brit. I shouldn’t have left you.”

  “What happened?” Brittany asked as she took a seat next to her old friend.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

  LEFT FOR DEAD IN NIGHTFALL

  “There’s a little town on the northern tip of the East Coast; it’s called Nightfall,” Megan said. “It’s beautiful—the most beautiful town you’ll ever see. It’s in a little valley, between two tall, steep mountains. The mountains are so steep, they almost curl over the little town. Because of them, the town is almost always in shade, except for a few days a year.

  “Nightfall is even more north than Snowbrooke, so you would think it would be absolutely freezing—between the shade and the location—but it’s actually not. The mountains are positioned in this perfect kind of way, that the wind is pushed right over head. You can’t fly into Nightfall, or around it because the wind above the town is so strong that it will actually pull a plane down into the mountainside. But somehow, there is never the slightest breeze.

  “The town is below sea-level—Far below it; It’s almost a half a mile below sea level, as a matter of fact. So all of the heat comes from the Earth’s core. Can you believe that? It’s actually deep enough that the heat from the Earth’s core is stronger than the heat from the sun. Don’t get me wrong, it’s no tropical paradise, but I don’t think the temperature ever drops below freezing—at least it didn’t when we were there, that I can remember.

  “James said he knew about it from some old Cottage Country Magazine that his dad kept in his workshop. James said that he always wanted to move there—even before he turned. It’s really beautiful, Brit. The whole town is always lit up with these warm orange lights that spiral up the valley. During Christmas, they go and put red and green filters over all of the lights. It’s mostly older people that live there, people who like to keep to themselves. There’s no internet or cable. Apparently there’s a bunch of lead in the mountains that mess with cell tower reception. It’s nice though, having no internet or cable. I thought it would be miserable, but it was actually so relaxing.