Death City

by Sam West

  But the sound was wrong, somehow, the purr of the engines too deep, too clunky. Too loud and heavy.

  He realised what it was in the second before he saw it, and, as such, he yanked on Zara’s arm, pulling her through the front gates of the house they happened to be standing in front of, dragged her behind the bushes of the front garden, and pushed her down by her head.

  The only problem was, this stretch of hedge was only hip high.

  “Hey,” she protested, but she still allowed to be manhandled in this way, as if she had overall resigned herself to trusting him.

  As she complained, the deep, industrial roar of those engines was joined by the ear-splitting screech of metal on metal as the two army tanks ploughed straight through the abandoned cars in the road. The two cars skidded sideways as if they were nothing more than toy cars, and the army tanks just toy tanks wielded by an unruly toddler playing a fun game of smash-up-the-cars.

  “Stay down,” Luke said as he peered through a gap in the hedge, not removing his hand from the back of her head.

  The tanks continued to thunder up the street and Luke’s heart pounded in abject terror. So intent was he on watching the receding tanks, he hadn’t noticed the figure that had been shambling down the garden path towards them. It was some sixth sense that caused him to spin around on his knees, rather than any real noise that the woman had been making, for the commotion out on the street had easily drowned out this bitch’s moaning and groaning.

  But still he didn’t notice her until she was on top of him, and sinking her teeth into his arm.

  “Fuck,” he screamed, instinctively throwing her off him the second the brilliant pain exploded in his bicep; pain that shot through his arm like he had been electrocuted.

  Being elderly, small and frail, she was easy to throw, but the damage had been done. She had bitten him.

  A state of absolute incredulity curled around him, the shock of this all too pertinent fact far outweighing the pain.

  Zara, no longer being pinned down by him, scrambled to her feet.

  “Stay down,” Luke ordered, struggling into a sitting position and clutching his throbbing arm, peering over the short hedge as he did so.

  The tanks thundering down the street seemed oblivious to them, and the last thing he wanted was for that fact to change.

  Because things were different now. The army wouldn’t help them, they would kill him, because he had been bitten. And just like his brother before him, he knew that he was as good as dead.

  The old woman lurched back to her feet after briefly sprawling on the ground. She was wearing a pink frilly dressing gown that hung to her ankles, the belt of which had come partly undone, revealing an enormous pair of flesh coloured knickers and long, narrow breasts that hung to her shapeless waist, her nipples grazing the waistband of her underwear.

  Her dead eyes fixed on him beneath the frizzy white hair that was coming loose from its bun, her mouth chomping on the night air.

  Luke struggled to his feet, wincing in pain. He didn’t feel at all right, and not because of the pain radiating out from his bicep. He felt light-headed, suddenly shivery and like he wanted to throw up.

  Is this how it starts? he wondered.

  Despite his terror, a cold resolve hardened in his heart.

  There was no way that he wanted to end up like his brother.

  Through his swimming vision, he watched Zara lurch over towards the driveway. She bent over and retrieved something by the gatepost.

  A rock, he realised.

  With a war cry, she lunged forwards onto the grass and lobbed it at the woman. It was the size of a small brick, and hit her square in the chest. It sent her staggering backwards, but she didn’t fall down.

  And not for a second had she stopped looking at him with her cold, dead, hungry eyes.

  “Get away from him,” Zara screamed, but his brain was kind of fuzzy now, and he barely heard her over the chattering of his own teeth.

  Not having much choice in the matter, he allowed himself to flop backwards, a great tide of nausea washing over him. Over the ringing in his ears, he was aware of Zara shouting, of movement above him, although his vision was rapidly dimming, and everything was blurring.

  Extraordinary pain flared in the side of his neck, shooting through his body, crippling him with the intensity of it.

  “Kill me,” he said.

  Or maybe he had just thought it, he couldn’t be sure.

  The blazing pain dialled down a notch, and a curious sense of floating overwhelmed him, as if he were drunk, and on the deck of a boat out at sea.

  An image of Cathy’s face flared briefly in his mind. Except it wasn’t Cathy, he realised. It was Zara.

  And then there was nothing at all.

  *

  Zara grabbed the old bitch’s white bun as she dropped to her knees next to the guy called Luke, but great clumps of her hair came away in her hands. The woman didn’t even seem to notice as clearly nothing or no one was going to stop her from biting Luke’s neck.

  Anger washed through her, momentarily blotting out all else as she aimed a kick at the woman’s head. The woman fell sideways, then almost immediately righted herself again, latching on to his ruptured neck once more, like the disgusting leech that she was.

  “Get away from him,” she screamed, dimly aware that she was hysterical but beyond the point of caring. “Get away from him you fucking bitch.”

  She screamed in shock when the woman did just that. She straightened up, her blood-rimmed mouth still chewing, her dead eyes fixing on her.

  Zara staggered away from her, casting around herself for a weapon of some sort, but there was nothing, and a howl of angry frustration escaped her lips.

  The deep rumble of an approaching engine snapped her attention away from the approaching woman, and she watched in a bug-eyed state of disbelieving shock as a man on a motorbike drew level with the hedge.

  He grinned at her, revving the engine.

  Zara blinked. Where the hell had he come from? He was film-star handsome – improbably so – and he wore a long leather jacket that made him look like he had stepped straight off the film set of The Matrix. To complete the look, he even had some harness contraption slung around his shoulders, and what looked very much like a samurai sword resting in a holder at a rakish angle between his shoulder-blades.

  “Hop on, sweetheart. What say we blow this city?”

  The woman continued to lurch in her direction, unmindful of the handsome, dark-haired stranger on the motorbike. Still smiling, the stranger reached into the waistband of his black cargo pants, pulled out a gun, and shot the woman in the side of the head.

  She went down in a spectacular eruption of blood and gore, flopping face-first onto the grass.

  “You have to destroy the brain,” he said, still with that boyish grin plastered on his face. “It’s just the way it is. They’re dead already, and that’s the only thing that will stop ‘em.”

  All she could do was stand there stupidly, unable to move, to so much as draw breath.

  He revved the engine again. “Are you coming or not?”

  “Who are you?” she managed to get out.

  As she spoke, so Luke sat up, and fixed his dead gaze upon her, his mouth chewing on nothing. Without a moment’s hesitation, the stranger shot him in the back of the head, and down he went again in a spray of blood.

  “Just your friendly knight in shining armour. But you can call me Ryan. Lucky for you that I was passing by.”

  “Jesus,” she sobbed, staring at Luke in horror. He had been a good man. He had tried to help her.

  For the first time, the grin dropped from the man’s face and he looked beseechingly over at her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t have a choice. She stopped eating your friend because he was dead, and they don’t taste as good when they’re dead. They don’t eat their own kind.”

  Someone screamed close by, the sound mingling with more gunshots and shouting, drifting to her from down the road wher
e the army men were. The insanity was all around her; it was everywhere, chaos that was breaking out all over the city.

  “We have to go. Now,” he implored.

  She nodded, and, without further hesitation, ran the short distance around the hedge and hopped onto the back of his bike.

  “Hold on tight,” he shouted over his shoulder. “It’s okay, we can get around the roadblocks.”

  She gasped in shock at the speed with which he accelerated away, swerving left in the opposite direction to the army tanks. She wrapped her arms tightly around his rock-hard middle, thanking her lucky stars that this stranger had come along when he had.

  “Thank you,” she said into his leather jacket where her face was pressed, but her voice was lost beneath the roar of the engine.

  My knight in shining armour, indeed.

  She closed her eyes and clung on tight as they sped off into the waiting darkness.

  The End.

  Hello, dear reader, you’ve reached the end of Death City. If you enjoyed the tale, please look out for the sequel, which is coming soon.

  Thanks for reading, I appreciate your support more than I can say. Below, I have enclosed a sample of The Nanny, which is available now on Amazon.

  Thank you again, I wouldn’t be doing this without you.

  Sweet nightmares to you all,

  Sam West.

  THE NANNY

  AN EXTREME HORROR NOVELLA

  BY SAM WEST

  CHAPTER ONE

  The sight of the mansion at the end of the winding, gravel driveway took Lauren Elliot’s breath away. Her architectural knowledge was somewhat limited, but, judging from the clean lines of the white building and the neat rows of perfectly symmetrical, long, sash windows, the place had to be Georgian.

  “Wow,” was all she could say, gazing up at its imposing, white façade through the windscreen.

  The grandeur aside, the sheer size of the place was dizzying and not at all what she had been expecting. The three-storeyed building was seven sash windows wide on the second and third floor. The wide, red porch leading to the front door was flanked by two large, white pillars which extended all the way up to the roof. Sure, she knew that the Hiddlestons were millionaires, but this was simply something else.

  I can’t believe that I’m actually going to live here.

  With a trembling hand, she turned the key in the ignition and severed the engine, swivelling around in her seat to look out of the rear window as she did so.

  At the end of the long, gravel, tree-lined driveway, either side of which could be glimpsed acres of immaculately landscaped gardens, the high, wooden gates that she had just driven through were closing automatically, sealing her inside as surely as a rat in a trap.

  For a ridiculous moment panic swelled in her chest, a sense of impending doom curling around her.

  A shaky little laugh escaped her lips. Stop being so melodramatic.

  But it as sure as shit was liking stepping into another world, making her feel very much like she was Alice falling down the rabbit hole. She put her overreacting down to a simple case of nerves, to the reality of starting this new job finally hitting her. An acute sense of woeful inadequacy manifested itself as butterflies in the pit of her stomach, causing her to softly groan.

  Come on, Lauren, get a grip, for Christ’s sake.

  But a mix of nerves and the sheer awe-inspiring splendour of her surroundings kept her pinned in place, a million doubts assailing her. She was out of her league here. She wasn’t posh enough for a place like this, not good enough to be working for the Hiddlestons…

  Fleetingly, she glanced down at the knee-length, blue and green, small-floral print dress she wore. At the time of dressing this morning, she had thought that the slightly loose-fitting, cotton garment, pulled in at the waist with a green-cloth belt had been the embodiment of casual elegance. Now, however, she felt decidedly shabby and girlish – a far cry from the image of ‘professional young woman’ that she wished to project.

  Too late now, she thought, trying not to think about the fitted, dove grey, formal woollen dress which she had decided against wearing at the last minute.

  Gathering herself together, she pushed open the door of her light green, beat-up Vauxhall Corsa, her ballet-pump clad feet connecting with the gravelled ground. Was she all right to leave the car here? she wondered. She was parked at the point where the gravel driveway opened up to an area roughly half the size of a football pitch in front of the mansion, right next to the fountain. This fountain was complete with a life-sized, naked, stone woman standing in the middle of the circular pond, the water cascading from what looked like a large plant pot which was balanced on one shoulder. Its opulence struck her as bordering on vulgar.

  Wrenching her gaze away from the stone woman, she walked around to the back of the car, popped the boot and retrieved her little black suitcase on wheels. Just as she slammed the boot and glanced once more in the direction of the mansion, she saw Mr Hiddleston descending the short flight of the stone, porch steps.

  He cut an imposing figure, and her heart instantly started to hammer as he approached. He was an undeniably handsome man. Far too old for her, of course, and not to mention married, but a girl couldn’t help but look. As unprofessional as it was, she found herself admiring the hard lines of his ruggedly handsome face as well as the sheer width of his shoulders in the immaculately cut, dove-grey suit. He was a refined kind of guy, but there was an air of danger about him, something incredibly tough and streetwise behind the languid, icy-mannered confidence that bordered on arrogance which only extreme wealth and privilege could bestow.

  “Miss Elliot. Lauren. Welcome. I’m delighted that you’re here.”

  He spoke in clipped tones, extending a smooth, large hand towards her. His grip was firm, and a shiver ran through her at the dry, hard feel of his palm against hers.

  “Hello, Mr Hiddleston. I’m very happy to be here.”

  “Please, call me Wilbur.”

  He smiled broadly at her, displaying perfect teeth. Her heart fluttered at the way his pale blue eyes glittered, the fine lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes and down his cheeks only heightening his sex-appeal, lending his face a near-cruel edge rather than a worn look. She guessed him to be in his late forties, an age where some guys, as in, the non-pretty-boy types, reached the height of their good looks.

  Stop it, she chided herself. Mooning over her new boss simply wouldn’t do.

  “Wilbur,” she said, feeling the heat rush to her cheeks when she said his name, like it was taboo to do so, despite his assertions to the contrary. She cleared her throat. “Am I okay to leave my car here?”

  She glanced over at her old rust bucket, cringing at how shabby it looked against the backdrop of these opulent surroundings.

  Just like me, she thought mournfully.

  “Yes, it’s just fine on the forecourt for now, but you may move it into the garage a little later. Come, let us not worry about such trifling matters at this moment, you must meet the family. And your new charge, of course.” He smiled, and, if she didn’t know better, she would say that the look in his gleaming eyes was more predatory than friendly. “It’s time to meet the family.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Fenton Hiddleston rested his hot cheek against the cool window pane, watching the girl on the forecourt with his father.

  The girl was pretty. No, scrap that, he decided, she wasn’t pretty, she was beautiful – there was just something so incredibly fresh and vibrant about her. She was as blonde as his father, her long hair gleaming in the mid-morning, summer sun. She even looked a bit like him, too – the same classical good-looks, strong jawline and tall, statuesque figure.

  In fact, from what he could see, she probably looked more like his own father than he did. But maybe he was wrong about this, seeing as he was peering down at them from the second floor, so some detail was lost.

  Why can’t I look more like Father?

  Fenton took after hi
s mother. The face that was so cute on her was near gerbil-like on him. He longed for his dad’s height and big bones, for even a hint of that devastating face in his own – a face that wasn’t unlike Daniel Craig’s, with its aggressive lines and piercing blue eyes to match. Instead, he had his mother’s big, brown eyes, delicate features and thick brown curls. He was twenty-one but looked about twelve, an effect further enhanced by the fact he was barely five foot eight.

  Life really was a bitch sometimes.

  “Fenton? What are you doing?”

  He spun around guiltily, even though he wasn’t doing anything wrong. His mother was glaring at him – as much as any woman could glare with the amount of Botox she had pumped into her forehead – her arms folded across her small chest in disapproval.

  For a somewhat diminutive woman, she had presence. Fenton felt sure that one icy stare from her would be capable of making a seven-foot heavyweight wrestler tremble in fear.

  Or maybe he was merely projecting, this just being the effect that she had on him.

  “I asked you a question, Fenton.”

  “I am only looking out of the window, Mother. I was curious to see Mrs Barton’s predecessor.”

  “As it happens Fenton, I was just coming up to get you. Your father wishes to formally introduce the nanny to the family, so your curiosity is about to be assuaged.”

  Fenton’s stomach flipped at the thought of seeing the beautiful girl up close. He frowned slightly at this sudden bout of positively school-boy arousal. It wasn’t like there weren’t plenty of beautiful girls at Uni – he even had his pick of most of them, seeing as he came from such good stock. There was more than a trace of bitterness at this thought, for what good was wealth without love?

  Fenton’s childhood had been a cold one, having been sent away to boarding school at the age of seven, only coming home at the longer holidays. And even then, he was often sent off on various, organised trips. Skiing in the Alps. Diving holidays in the Caribbean. Anything so that his parents wouldn’t have to look at him for all those such long weeks on end.