God knows how I managed to fall asleep. Guess I’m just drained from everything that’s happened. Or Sean really does have terrible taste in books.
Putting the book into the bag, I stand up, stretch my arms and legs, and then brush off the bits of dirt from my arse.
The growl of an engine reaches me, and my shoulders lock with panic.
“They’re here.”
With a fierce heartbeat, I cower behind a bush. Through the vines and brambles, I see a lorry coming towards me, heading for The Facility. You can do this, Freya. Be brave. I focus on the dead cat lying on the road. This is the only way.
For Ben!
The lorry is almost here.
I’m not ready.
Closer...
Nerves ripple through my body.
Closer...
I can’t breathe.
The sound of brakes squealing punctures the air. The lorry comes to an abrupt stop in front of the dead cat. There’s a man sitting in the passenger seat. Through the window, I see him shouting. He’s distracted.
It’s now or never!
With a sharp breath, I bolt to the side of the lorry, my body hunched, and then I roll underneath, scrapping my back against the rough tarmac. Through the heat and strong diesel fumes, I see pipes, a thick wheel axel, and other pieces of metal that form the bottom of the vehicle. What the hell are you doing, Freya? You’re gonna die!
The engine starts up again, the noise piercing my eardrums, vibrating the ground beneath me.
“Jesus Christ!” I whisper, desperately searching for something to grab.
Close to the rear, there’s a grey pipe. It looks pretty solid. Like a python, I slither over to it, and grip it with both hands. I scream through my teeth when my skin burns. It’s the exhaust-pipe! Idiot!
I hear the grinding of gears.
Move, Freya!
Next to the pipe, there’s a flat piece of metal, with a thin gap separating it from the vehicle. It’s cold, so I grab. The lorry starts to move just as I wedge my feet into the gap, lifting my body off the ground.
Terrified beyond comprehension, I watch the road beneath me whizz by; my hold slipping with every uneven surface the lorry passes over. Sweat runs into my eyes, stinging them, so I close them tight. Not being able to see somehow makes the journey even more horrendous.
A minute or so passes and the lorry jerks to a stop, but the engine is still running.
I open my burning eyes. We’re here.
I quickly adjust my grip, and tuck my hips even tighter in case a security guard notices my drooping body. Within seconds, we’re moving again, this time much slower. The ground has changed from a cracked road to smooth concrete. A car park, maybe?
The lorry reverses, and the engine cuts out, the loud rumbling sound replaced by music. It’s faint, an old rock song playing through a distant speaker.
Heart in my throat, I listen as the doors click open. I hold my breath when I see boots pass just a metre from me. Sean’s? Impossible to tell.
“Got forty-nine for you, Dave,” a man says, his deep voice echoing. I think we’re inside.
“Jesus,” Dave says. “Michael’s really piling them in this week. We’ve already had three deliveries today.”
“Hi.” That was Sean’s voice!
“All right, boy,” Dave says. “You two back again?”
“Can’t keep away,” a female voice replies.
Erin.
Stinking bitch! You’re gonna be sorry you took my brother away. Let’s see how brave you are when it’s me pointing the gun at your face instead.
I hear the clanging of the lorry’s rear doors opening, and then the sound of someone climbing inside.
My arms and shoulders are aching, my sweaty fingers slipping from the metal. Hold on, for Christ’s sake. I grip even tighter, adjusting my leg position at the same time. What if they find me?
Shut up, Freya! You can do it!
Suddenly, my eardrums pop with the sound of a gun firing.
In fright, I drop from the lorry. A second shot drowns out my painful yelp as my back hits the concrete.
Eyes closed, I cover my ears with my hands, praying that the next bullet isn’t aimed at me.
Who are they shooting at? Vampires?
More shots are fired. Maybe seven. The force shakes the lorry.
And then silence. Just the sound of my ears ringing.
“Welcome back,” I hear another man say. The voice seems familiar.
Michael Matthias.
My blood burns with acid rage. I’ll never forget that voice as long as I live. Balling my fists up, I picture rolling out from under the lorry, kicking the gun from his hands, and pounding my knuckles into his head. I imagine Sean calling to me, begging me to stop, trying to pry me from Michael’s lifeless body.
But I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t. Not if I’m face to face with that murdering coward!
“Glad to be back, sir,” Sean says, his voice weak, nervous sounding. “Thought you had a few days off.”
“Yeah,” Michael replies. “No chance of that, I’m afraid. We’ve got too much work on.”
“Nick said you need us to help you with something?” Erin asks.
“Yes. I need you two in the lab today. And Nick, I need you to cover Reese in the furnace.”
“What happened to Reese?” Nick asks.
“One of the inmates bit him last night.”
“Oh, Jesus. Is he going to be okay?”
“He’ll be all right. They’re keeping him in for a few days though. The blue bastard tried to rip his throat out. Reese is lucky to be alive.”
“Sounds nasty,” Sean says. “Hope he gets better soon.”
“Me, too,” Michael says. “Now, first things first: Sean, Nick—let’s get these Hemovores to the Containment Zone. Erin, give Dave a hand wheeling these bodies to the furnace.”
“No problem, sir,” Erin says.
There’s a choir of snarls and rattling chains, followed by the loud humming sound of the tail-lift lowering.
“That’s it, Sean,” Michael says. “Sooner we get it done, the sooner we can all go home.”
13
I’ve been staring up at this dirt-covered wheel axel for an hour. Maybe longer. I’ve heard voices and footsteps come and go, vampires dragged out of the lorry, the sound of trolleys being wheeled across the floor, most likely stacked up with dead bodies. Don’t think I can take much more of this. Even though there’s no shortage of air, being stuck under here feels like I’m in a coffin, or trapped in a car-compactor at the junkyard. I haven’t felt this claustrophobic since Kathy Martin locked me in the stockroom in Primary school. I was only in there for a few minutes before they found me. Thought I was going to die.
There’s no way to know for sure if it’s safe to crawl out, but apart from the music playing on the radio, it’s been pretty quiet for at least ten minutes.
Maybe it’s clear. Should I make a run for the door?
What door? I don’t know anything about this place. Sean’s only described some of the layout. What about the security cameras? How many staff am I going to run into? Where are the exits?
This is the world’s most half-arsed rescue mission ever!
Screw it! I ain’t waiting under here all day.
Over at the exhaust pipe, I slowly poke my head out. I’m in a garage, about the size of a tennis court, with breezeblock walls, and a high ceiling. Lots of shelving with an assortment of tools and small plastic boxes. Steel cupboards. Stacked up tyres. Grease-covered machinery. A smell of oil in the air. At the far corner, there’s a door with a toilet sign at the centre. Is that where the man is?
I check for security cameras. There’s none that I can see. And no other staff members either. I roll out from under the lorry, and then stand; my knees and ankles aching as I straighten them. On tiptoes, I creep along the side of the vehicle, my sights on the double doors across the room.
Near the back of the lorry, something catches my eye on the right. A kettle on
top of a shelf. There’s steam coming from it.
Warily slinking forward, I notice a table and chairs. A jolt of panic shunts me when I see a shaved-headed man sitting at the table. He’s dressed in a green boiler-suit, with his crossed legs resting on another chair. A newspaper in his hands. A sandwich in front of him.
Before I can even think about back tracking, he looks up from his paper.
With a gush of adrenaline, I charge towards him, driving my foot into the table. The force pushes him backwards, and he lands painfully on his back. As he scrambles to get up, I leap onto him, and aim a fist at his chin. He blocks it with his forearm, and then rolls away. In desperation, I throw a hard kick, catching him in the ribs. He cries out in agony, reaching for a large metal spanner on the floor. Just as his fingers graze the tool, I plunge forward, my feet landing on his hand to the sound of bones snapping. Yelping like a dog, he yanks his crushed hand from beneath my foot, and tries to crawl away, so I punch him again, this time catching the side of his face.
His body goes limp, and his eyes begin to close.
I almost go for a third strike, but stop myself.
Panting, I climb off the unconscious man, and try to catch my breath. Unable to process what just happened, I scan the room for anyone else, but the garage is bare.
I’ve got to get him out of here. Tie him up somewhere.
I search the shelves for rope. Nothing. Then the steel cupboards. There’s a bundle of wire, but it’s too thin to hold him. I open a drawer and find a roll of grey duct tape. Unravelling a long strip, I fix it over his mouth. There’s another steel cabinet at the other side the garage. Just as I pass the rear of the lorry, I notice all the empty shackles inside. That’ll have to do. With a pungent stench of sweat coming from the man, I drag his heavy body over to the lorry, and drop him on the tail-lift platform. Gasping for air, my arms and back aching, I push the green button at the side of the opening, and the tail begins to lift us at a snail’s pace. “Come on, move, you slow piece of shit,” I say through gritted teeth, my eyes nervously watching the double doors for HCA. “Move.” Once the lift completes its sluggish ascent, I haul him over to the side, and then shackle his wrists and ankles to the vehicle. I try to ignore the blood splatter on the walls and floor, but it’s impossible. I bet it’s so easy for these murdering bastards. Just another dead vampire. That’s all. No one’s brother. Sister. Just a disease infested sewer rat.
That’s all Ben is to these people.
Glaring at the shackled and gagged man, I clench my fists. One more punch to the head? Another bone shattered? It’s not like this murdering prick doesn’t deserve it.
Snap out of it, Freya. There’s no time for bullshit revenge. He’s going to wake up soon. He’ll start banging his feet against the floor. Someone’ll find him. Raise the alarm.
It’s time to go.
“Arsehole.”
There’s something white sticking out of his top pocket. I grab it. It’s an ID badge. David Priest. There’s a black strip on the back.
It’s a security key-card!
I stuff it into my pocket and then jump off the lorry.
With a bit of luck he’ll be all the way back to Ammanford before anyone finds him.
I pull down the shutter at the rear of the lorry, and then head for the double doors.
Sit tight, Ben. I’m coming!
I’m coming for you!
14
The stench in the air is revolting. Like stale meat scrubbed with disinfectant. I try to pretend it’s just an overflowing bin, and not the scent of dead bodies, but the further along the grey, empty corridor I walk, the more overpowering it gets.
With so many security cameras above me, I keep my head low, and will my stiff body to relax, to walk as naturally as I can, hoping to pass for a member of staff.
To my left, I come to a room. Is Ben inside? I glance through the window, but it’s just a standard office. Desk. Filing cabinet. Swivel chair. There’s a half-open door to my right. A fridge. A kitchen. Looks like a break-room. I move away in fright when I see a bald man watching TV on a red sofa, his feet up, the remote control resting on his lap.
What’s the point checking all these rooms. He’ll be in the prison.
Chained up again.
My throat catches because he’s been through Hell. How is he ever going to trust another human?
How is he ever going to trust me?
I pick up the pace, my focus on the set of double doors in front.
The sound of footsteps reaches me. They’re coming from behind, the noise bouncing off the stone walls.
Keep cool. No one knows you’re here.
But what happens when they find that shackled guy? I should have never left him in the van. I should have stuffed him in one of the cupboards—and then looked for a bloody gun. What was I thinking? I’m a sitting duck out here.
The doors are just a few metres away. For all I know, Michael is standing right behind them, with a gun aimed directly at my head.
More footsteps coming. And laughter, too.
They’re close!
Through the glass panels of the double doors ahead, I see a figure.
Oh shit!
Got to hide.
In a panic, I try to open the door to the left of me. Locked. There’s a security panel by the handle.
Voices. Just metres away.
Pulse racing, I pull out the ID card and swipe it along the panel. Nothing happens. No click. Just a tiny flashing red light.
The footsteps are getting louder.
I’m screwed!
I try the card again. Still nothing.
The double doors are opening.
I rub the card against my boiler-suit, and then try the lock again.
A tiny green light replaces the red one. In a panic, I yank the handle down and slip into the room, closing it softly behind me.
In the darkness, I lean against the wall, praying to God that no one saw me.
Footsteps outside. Men talking.
Cupping my heavy breath, I glare at the handle, imagining a pack of HCA officers bursting in.
Need to hide somewhere.
I try to inspect the room, but it’s too dark to see anything, other than the outlines of a desk and some shelves. Maybe there’s another door at the back. Hands in front, I slowly skulk in the blackness like a blind man.
I hear laughter outside again.
I speed up until I’m touching a smooth wall. Running my palms down it, I feel something hard. A desk maybe. A cupboard.
Through the glass on the door, I see something move past.
Are they leaving?
The sound of talking starts to fade, along with the footsteps. Relief washes over me and I let out a long breath. I’ll wait a few minutes. Make sure they’ve gone.
These corridors are too risky. Too many HCA. Too many cameras. There has to be a better way.
I rest my head against the wall, and concentrate. Come on, Freya. You’ve sat through hundreds of James Bond movies with Sean. How would 007 bust someone out of a top-secret facility? Well, first of all, he would have killed off the guards with a fountain pen. Hacked into the mainframe and turned off all the cameras.
Hacking?
Jesus—I don’t even know what a mainframe is.
I look at the ceiling? It’s too dark to see, but maybe there’s a ventilation duct up there, big enough to crawl through.
Shut up, Freya. You’re talking shit. Even if there were an air duct, there’s no way of knowing where it would lead.
Stick with the plan. The corridor.
I wait another minute before I’m ready to leave the room. Just as I creep forward, something brushes past my leg. I judder with fright.
What the hell was that?
A mouse? A lab rat?
Ignoring it, I continue forward. Before I get even a foot away, I come crashing down, cracking my head on the hard floor.
I scream when something locks onto my ankle. A hand, squeezing onto me
. Fingernails painfully digging into my skin. Gripped with horror, I try to shake it off, but it’s too tight. I kick out with my other leg, but all I hit is air.
A second hand clutches my leg, dragging me towards it.
Squirming wildly, I kick out again. This time I catch something. There’s a low hiss, and its grip only tightens around my ankle. I punch out blindly, hoping to connect with its face. Nothing. Just air again.
I can’t move, its clutch like a bear-trap. I swing another punch.
Still nothing.
In a panic, I frantically search the floor for a weapon, but all I feel is the leg of a table. I try to move it, but it’s fixed to the concrete. With every buck of my hips, every blind punch, just brings me closer to the beast. Its weight is on me. Its hips pressing down on mine. There’s a rattle of chains as its hands press onto my wrists. Pinned to the cold floor, I feel its hot breath slither over my face. And then an excruciating pain cuts into my shoulder as its razor-sharp teeth lock onto me. Without control, I release another howl, bucking my hips even more violently.
The more I fight, the more the creature presses down. Through the pain, through sweat soaked palms, I try to worm my right arm out of its grip. Impossible. It’s too strong.
I keep trying.
There’s movement. An inch, maybe. I channel every last ounce of strength to it.
Another inch.
The agony in my shoulder is beyond comprehension.
My hand is almost free.
Keep pulling.
I’m tired. Everything dreamlike.
Don’t give up.
You need to stay conscious.
For Ben.
Just another inch.
My mind flashes with images of Mum. She’s lying on the floor. A gunshot wound to her chest.
I’m standing over her dying body.
She whispers something.
I lean in closer.
She whispers it again.
She’s telling me to fight.
She’s telling me to never give up.
To keep Ben safe.
I yank my hand free—and then I push my thumb into its eye. With a yowl, it lifts its head from my shoulder. Keep fighting. I grab the loose chain, wrap it around its thin neck, and then pull as I hard as I can. Choking, it squirms hysterically, releasing my other wrist, allowing me to grasp the chain with both hands.
Blue Skin (Book 3): Blue Skin Page 4
