by Ken Preston
“Tom,” Steffanie croaked. “I need to go back inside.”
Patches of skin on her forehead and cheeks had begun to bubble and blister. Some of them had popped and were weeping tiny rivulets of pus and blood. Her arms and legs weren’t faring much better. Underneath its sheet, the living corpse was twisting and groaning, obviously in pain, and Steffanie was struggling to keep hold of it.
Spots of rain started falling from the overcast sky.
“This way, follow me,” Tom said.
Running as fast as Steffanie could keep up, and helping her hold the thing in her arms, Tom guided them around to the front of the service station. People were milling in and out of the entrance, pushing past each other, eager to get inside out of the rain, or back to their cars and on with their journey.
Some people stopped and stared when they saw Tom and Steffanie, and the bundle writhing and moaning in Steffanie’s arms.
Tom looked around, wildly.
There! A lone man, walking back to his car, arm extended, holding his key fob out. Tom saw the lights on a sleek Mercedes flash as the central locking deactivated.
Things were looking up, they would be travelling in style.
“Follow me!” Tom hissed and set off at a sprint across the car park.
He reached the man just as he was opening the driver’s door, his back to Tom.
Grabbing a fistful of shirt and jacket collar, Tom yanked the man backwards, and then smashed his head against the roof of his car, his face hitting the sleek body with a wet crunch.
Someone screamed. The businessman was struggling, his arms out, swinging blindly at his attacker. Tom dragged him up again, saw his face briefly, the nose bent sideways, blood streaming down over his mouth, and then smashed his head back onto the car roof again.
This time the man went limp, and Tom let him fall to the ground, sliding down between two parked cars, leaving a trail of blood against the Mercedes. He opened the back door, shoved Steffanie and her writhing, groaning bundle of joy in the car.
Some onlookers were approaching him, confusion, fear, outrage on their faces.
“Stay the fuck back!” Tom shouted, slamming the rear door shut. “Or I’ll fucking run you over!”
He squatted down, scooped the bunch of keys off the wet tarmac, stepped on the man lying on the floor and climbed into the driver’s seat. As the car reversed, shooting out of the tight parking space, the wheels bumped over the unconscious man’s arms and legs. Tom twisted in his seat, saw figures leaping out of the way, heard screams. He spun the steering wheel, shoved the gear stick into first, and slammed his foot on the accelerator.
The car shot forward.
* * *
“Well, that was a waste of time,” Emma said, as they stepped outside, leaving the Travelodge receptionist staring at Coffin’s back.
“What did you expect?” Coffin said. “Did you really think if you waved your reporter’s card in front of her nose, she’d spill her guts to you?”
“All I wanted was Tom Mills’ room number. Was that too much to ask?”
“Apparently, yes. I told you, you should have let me do the talking.”
“Huh,” Emma snorted. “I can just see that. Miss ‘Butter Wouldn’t Melt’ in there sees you struggling to fit yourself through the door, she’s going to fall in your arms, is that what you’re saying? Or maybe you’ve got a way with women you haven’t shown me yet.”
Coffin didn’t reply. He looked out across the car park, in front of the entrance to the service station. A crowd was gathering, and then he heard someone scream.
“This looks interesting,” he said. “Let’s take a look.”
Coffin and Emma ran across the car park, towards the disturbance. There seemed to be a fight going on in between two parked cars. Somebody else screamed, high and loud, and Coffin saw it wasn’t a fight at all, but an assault.
“Fuck me, it’s Tom!” Emma shouted, and dived into a sprint.
Coffin leaned into his run, saw Tom getting in the car, saw it reverse, and buck wildly as it drove over the man lying on the floor. The crowd leapt out of the way as one, making way for the Mercedes reversing in a tight bend. Coffin heard the crunch of gears, and then the car was shooting forward.
“Emma!” Coffin roared.
The reporter was directly in front of the car as it sped towards her. She leapt to the side, trying to get out of the way, but the car’s bonnet clipped her left thigh, and she flipped over, landing on her back beside the Mercedes as it sped towards Coffin.
Tom was desperate, Coffin could see that. The engine roared as the car surged towards Coffin. He stepped out of the way, in between two parked cars, and let Tom speed past. Unlike the hospital, there was only one way out of this car park, and that was the exit lane back onto the motorway. Tom was driving in the opposite direction, would have to do a loop around the car park full of cars to get to the exit. There was no chance he could sneak out by driving the wrong way along the entrance lane, that was too busy with cars coming in.
But if he was quick, Coffin had a chance of intercepting him at the exit.
A quick glance back at Emma, and he could see her climbing to her feet, helped by a couple of onlookers. Coffin started running.
He dodged between parked cars, past families, a mother pushing a buggy, a dad riding his young son on his shoulders, an elderly couple holding hands as they walked back to their car. Ordinary people, living ordinary lives. And all of them staring in wonder at this huge man in a black leather jacket, his battered face covered in blood-stained dressings, pounding past them.
Coffin risked a quick glance back, saw the Mercedes screaming around the farthest corner of the car park. He ran past the petrol station, cars queueing up at the pumps. There was another queue of traffic in the exit lane, vehicles backed up on the motorway in the morning rush hour traffic jam.
Too late, the Mercedes screamed past in a low gear, swerving at the last moment to avoid rear ending the car at the end of the exit lane queue. The Mercedes bounced along beside the line of cars, half on the road, half on the verge, ploughing through the vegetation.
Coffin charged after him. All that undergrowth was slowing Tom down. And Coffin was sure he’d seen at least one person huddled in the back seat. Children and adults stared at him from inside their cars as Coffin ran past. The Mercedes wasn’t going slowly enough, Coffin was losing ground.
He pulled up short when he heard a tinny car horn blaring.
Emma was sitting in her Fiesta right behind him. She stuck her head out of the open window, and shouted, “Get the fuck in, will you?”
Coffin snatched at the door handle, yanked it open and threw himself headfirst inside. Emma didn’t wait for him, and the car bucked forward whilst Coffin was still attempting to fold his legs inside the Fiesta. Thin branches scraped against the side of the car, battering the open door, and snagging at Coffin’s feet.
The Mercedes left the exit ramp, and bounced off the verge, back onto the road. Back on a flat, solid surface, with no obstructions, the Mercedes picked up speed.
“He’s driving up the hard shoulder!” Emma said. “We’re going to lose him!”
“Well, follow him!” yelled Coffin, still trying to right himself and get his feet inside.
“That’s what I’m doing, you idiot,” Emma snapped, struggling to control the steering wheel whipping around in her hands as the tiny car bounced over the grass verge.
Suddenly they were on the hard shoulder too, and the Fiesta’s tiny engine screamed in protest as Emma stamped on the accelerator, trying to keep up with the powerful Mercedes. Car drivers stuck in the traffic jam hit their horns in protest as they watched Emma illegally passing them.
“We’re losing him,” Emma said, hunched forward in her seat, as though trying to propel the car forward.
Coffin twisted around in his seat, one hand gripping the open door, as he finally hauled his feet inside the car. “Can’t you go faster?”
Emma glanced at him. �
��Yeah, if maybe you got the fuck out of my car!”
“Great,” Coffin grunted.
“Wait, he’s braking, I think he’s stopping!” Emma shouted. “We’re catching up with them.”
Only a few seconds later, and Emma screeched to a halt behind the Mercedes, unable to go any further, blocked by another car on the hard shoulder, its bonnet open and the traffic stuck on the main carriageway.
Coffin half fell, half climbed out of the Fiesta. He charged up to the Mercedes, grabbed the back door handle, and pulled the door open. He could see two figures lying on the floor in the footwell, covered with a sheet. Tom had twisted around in the front seat, staring at Coffin, wide eyed.
“For fuck’s sake, don’t do it, Joe,” he said.
“What’s going on, Tom?” Coffin growled.
“Just leave it, Joe, please,” Tom said. “You pull that sheet back, you’re walking into a fucking house of horrors.”
“What are you talking about?”
Tom shoved the car into gear, looked in his rear-view mirror.
Coffin reached inside the car, grabbed a fistful of the sheet, and pulled.
The Mercedes shot backward, the open door knocking Coffin off his feet. There was a crunch as the rear of the Mercedes slammed into Emma’s Fiesta, the bonnet crumpling under the impact. Someone inside the Mercedes slammed the back door shut. Coffin rolled out of the way as he realised Tom was turning the car in a tight curve, about to drive right over him. Coffin rolled up onto the grass verge. Twisting his head round, he looked back as Tom drove the big, sleek car past Coffin, the wheels scraping his back as the Mercedes squeezed between him and the broken-down car.
Coffin jumped to his feet, reached out for the Mercedes, his fingers briefly touching the car’s shiny, waxed shell, before sliding off as the Mercedes sped up, back on the road. Coffin could hear the Fiesta’s starter motor whining, the engine spluttering, and failing to catch.
The Mercedes, still on the hard shoulder but with nothing blocking its way, roared up the motorway, past the line of stationary cars stuck in the traffic jam. Moments later it had disappeared from view.
Coffin looked down at the sheet hanging from his clenched fist.
“Shit,” he growled.
dracula
Abel moored the narrowboat on a pretty, wooded stretch of canal. A light rain dappled the calm surface of the dark water. The afternoon was grey and overcast. Abel wore the old man’s clothes, and a big parka, the hood pulled over his head, shielding his face from the light. With the coat, and the thick gloves on his hands, Abel had enough protection from the sun, hidden behind the clouds, to keep him from harm, but it was still an irritant. More than anything, he wanted to get out of the light, and find a dark place to sleep. The narrowboat cabin was shady, but the curtains were not thick enough, and still let a little light in.
He could not find the rest he needed in there.
But also, he felt the need to find Steffanie, and the Father. Abel had not come this far in his journey to return the Father to his former glory and power, only to be thwarted now. For over 100 years, the Father had been lying in his tomb, letting the blood regenerate his frail body. Now he was out, he needed fresh, warm blood to drink, and finish the process of bringing him back to full strength and youthful vigour.
A man walked along the towpath with his dog, a big, old slobbering thing, with muddy paws. Abel turned his back on the man as he passed him, and ignored his cheery, “Good morning!”
Abel resisted the urge to pounce and kill both the man and his dog.
Abel locked the doors to the narrowboat cabin. It wouldn’t do for someone to be wandering past and, spotting the unlocked cabin door, decide to have a nose inside, see if there was anything worth stealing. Marge and Alf looked quite comfortable, stuffed underneath the seating on either side of the cabin, if a little bloody and the worse for wear. The intruder would receive quite the shock on seeing them.
In fact, dear old Marge and Alf were posing Abel a problem. After having had a good search through the contents of the narrowboat, Abel had discovered that they booked the boat for another two weeks from the hire company. So, as long as nobody discovered their dead bodies, Marge and Alf would not be missed for a while yet.
The problem was, if Abel left it much longer before getting rid of them, the two pensioners would begin stirring, and before he knew it, they would be clumsily staggering around the tiny cabin, colliding with everything in their path, and demanding a nice meal of warm, fresh blood.
That would make life a little complicated.
Abel walked up the steps leading from the canal towpath, and followed the footpath across the playing fields and into town. If he could find a hardware shop, then he could easily deal with the problem of Marge and Alf. They simply needed sawing up into several pieces, and those pieces stored in separate bags. That way there was no chance of them turning, and Abel could keep the body parts stored on the narrowboat until he had to abandon it.
By that point, he wouldn’t care who found the bodies.
Abel found a small hardware shop in the town and bought himself a saw and several rolls of black bin liners. Inside the shop, he pulled his hood down, so as not to appear suspicious. But he kept his mouth shut, not wanting to reveal his pointed teeth, and he paid the shop assistant with Alf’s money, from a faded leather wallet.
The shop assistant was a pretty young thing. She was bright and soft and virginal, and Abel could not help but imagine what it would be like to taste her blood, and see her beautiful, pale flesh shrink beneath his cold touch.
He could have hours of fun with her.
As the girl handed him his change, Abel stifled a giggle, and strode out of the shop before his impulses got the better of him. Maybe he could pay her another visit, when he had more time to indulge in despoiling her perfect, youthful body.
As he walked down the tiny high street, Abel passed a newsagent. On the top newspaper on the stand, Abel saw the headline, Birmingham Vampire Strikes Again!
The Birmingham Vampire paused, reading the story on the front page, and wondering who could be imitating his kills. As far as he knew, he and Steffanie, and the Father, were the only vampires in England at the moment. And Abel had been very careful to lie low until that unfortunate incident with Coffin.
His only mistake really, had been allowing Tom to persuade him to kill Steffanie in the first place. But he had needed to give something back to him, stop him moaning about how this so-called ‘deal’ of theirs was turning out to be a little one sided. How that man could whine and moan! Abel had been seriously tempted to sink his teeth into Tom’s neck sometimes, just to shut him up. But then, if Tom had turned, Abel would have had to put up with his moaning for hundreds of years.
Far better really, once he had served his usefulness, to simply disembowel him, and let him bleed to death whilst watching Abel suck on his intestines. Or maybe he could fuck Steffanie whilst Tom watched. That man was so pathetic, he could see the pitiful desire for her in his eyes, every time he looked at her.
Abel had enjoyed seeing Tom’s face, the first time he encountered Steffanie at the house, after her death. Whatever deal he’d had going on with Steffanie had obviously gone wrong somewhere. Once he’d got over the shock of seeing her up and about again, he’d looked like he was about to piss himself he'd laughed so hard.
But whatever Tom needed from Steffanie, it turned out she wasn’t giving it up easily.
Abel walked on, mulling over the newspaper story, again. He had no interest in Tom or his affairs, other than the supplies of blood he could provide. And soon Abel wouldn’t even need him for that.
The vampire stopped walking as a thought occurred to him.
The little boy!
He had turned after all.
Abel giggled, and then looked around, almost guiltily. It was a good job the day was overcast and damp. He really did not want to be noticed at the moment. Tucking his head down, and pulling his hood even further over his fa
ce, Abel walked on.
Maybe later, after he’d finished his DIY job on Marge and Alf, he would go looking for the boy. Chances were, he wouldn’t have gone far from his ‘birthing’ place, and his first kill. There was a good chance that Abel would find him.
* * *
Emma dropped the bag of books on the table, followed by her keys. Wearily, she pulled off her denim jacket and let it drop to the floor. She was standing right by the coat hanger, but she was too exhausted to give a fuck about being tidy. After watching Tom disappear in the distance, and then despairing over the state of her car, Emma had called the AA. With the traffic backed up like it was, the rescue truck took over two hours to get to them, and then another couple of hours to hitch up the car and drive her to a garage.
Joe Coffin had decided not to hang around and wait. He climbed over the fence and set off walking across the fields, still clutching the sheet he’d pulled off Tom’s mystery passengers. Emma had tried persuading him to hang around, get a lift back in the tow truck with her, but he wasn’t having any of it. Said he couldn’t stand waiting for things to happen, said he’d rather be walking than hanging around, unable to take any kind of action.
Emma was sure his main reason was that he didn’t want to be caught up in an insurance claim as a witness, and risk being noticed by the police. After all, what the hell was she going to tell her insurance company? That she’d been involved in a car chase, pursuing a man who might be partnered up with the Birmingham Vampire?
Emma decided it would be easier if she told her insurance company that she’d been in a collision with another car, but the driver didn’t stop. And, although the traffic had been moving slowly, it had moved, and two hours later when the tow truck guy arrived, there was nobody around who had seen the collision, and no witnesses to contradict her story.
And she seriously doubted that Tom would be calling her to swap insurance details.
Emma picked up the bag of books and traipsed wearily into the living-room. She upended the bag and tipped them over the coffee table.