“Shurrup, Carrie, you div,” I say at normal volume, laughing. “Who the hell would be out here at this time chopping … ?” Then I hear it. It’s not loud but Carrie’s wrong, it doesn’t sound like wood being chopped, it sounds more like something’s being sharpened on wood, kind of like when our cat used to run its claws down the doorframe.
“You hear it,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I breathe out. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I hear movement behind me. My stomach drops hollow. Swallowing hard, I loosen my arm from Carrie’s grip and we both, very slowly, turn around.
It’s standing about ten feet away. Its yellow eyes are protruding like beacons in the dark night, and they’re fixed onto me.
It’s obvious why it’s here. You would think I would have tried to make a run for it by now or screamed, or done something. I don’t know why I haven’t. All I do know is I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from its penetrating stare. It tilts its head, almost as if contemplating me, chilling me to the bone.
Then I feel Carrie’s hand search for mine. She grabs hold, interlocking our fingers. I can feel her fear almost like it’s pouring out of her skin and sinking straight into mine. A silent communication passes between us, and in the same instant we both turn and run.
I don’t get far.
I’m hit in the back. The air is knocked out of me. I’m going down. I’m pinned to the floor. I can’t move. My face is pressed into the mud. I can’t catch a breath. I’m suffocating. I feel a searing pain tear down my right side. I cry out but no sound comes. I manage to move my head slightly. I get a glimpse of Carrie’s red hair. The pain intensifies. I feel like I’m being ripped open...
The last thing I hear is screaming. An ear-piercing scream. And I can’t tell if it’s coming from Carrie or me.
Chapter 2
The Transition
Saturday, 1:03am
“You got her? Careful, she’s bleeding out pretty bad. She’s lost a lot of blood already. Nathan, press down hard on her wound. Sol, get the first aid kit. I’ll stitch her up for all the good it'll do her. Poor lass ... What the hell happened? ... Was it one of them? ... I didn’t know there was any in the area ... Is he dead? ... He won’t have been alone, there’ll be others ... Hey, she’s coming round...
“Can you tell me your name, honey?”
I blink up at the blurry figure hovering above me. “Where’s Carrie … ?”
Saturday, 2.55am
“Sorted?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think anyone could have seen you move the bodies?”
“Nope, there wasn’t a soul around for miles.”
Saturday, 4:15am
“It hurts … ”
“Ssh, don’t try to talk. Just sleep.”
“Where’s Carrie?”
“Sleep.”
“But it hurts … ”
“I know it does. Sleep.”
Saturday, 10:30am
“How’s she doing, Nate?”
“She’s sleeping at the moment.”
“You wanna get some rest? I’ll take over watching her.”
“Nah, Dad, I’ll stay with her. I brought her here. I feel like I should be the one to be with her when she passes.”
Saturday, 16:44pm
“She still alive, Nate?”
“Yes, she’s still alive, Sol.”
“You look knackered, son. Why don’t you go get some sleep? Sol can stay with her.”
“No. I’m alright.”
“Mind, it shouldn’t be much longer now. I’m surprised she’s lasted this long, to be honest.”
“Maybe we should just put her out of her misery.”
“Christ almighty, Sol!”
“I’m just saying! I mean, look at her.”
“I know, but I didn’t raise you to say things like that.”
“What, so we’re just gonna sit by and watch while she dies an agonising death?”
“No, son, but we’re not playing God either.”
Sunday, 12:02am
“Arggh!! What’s happening to me? It hurts! Help me, please help me!”
“It’s okay, honey, we’re here. Sol, go get some more of those painkillers. Nathan, fetch a bowl of cold water and some towels, will you? She’s really burning up.”
“The pain ... you’ve got to make it stop … ”
“I know, honey, it’s gonna be okay ... Nate, soak that towel and lay it over her stomach where the wound is.”
“God, Dad, look at her. Maybe I shouldn’t have saved her. Maybe I should have let that bastard kill her and have been done with it, instead of putting her through all of this agony.”
“You did the right thing.”
“I’m not so sure anymore. I’m starting to think maybe Sol’s right, maybe we should just, you know, end it for her.”
“Sol talks shit.”
“I am still here, you know.”
“Well you shouldn’t be. Go get those bloody painkillers! Nate, I know you, there’s no way you could have lived with yourself if you’d walked away and let him kill her.”
“I know, but I just didn’t know it’d be like this, and it’s been a day now. Shouldn’t the infection have killed her? I didn’t think they lasted this long once infected.”
“Neither did I but–”
“Arggh! Help me! Please! Help me!”
“I’m here, honey. Sol, where the bloody hell are you with those painkillers?!”
Sunday, 06:30am
I want to go home. Carrie, is that you? I’m so sorry, Care. Help me, please ... help me ... I can’t take the pain anymore ...
Sunday, 13:05pm
“You’ve gotta make it stop! My body’s on fire, I’m burning. Help me, please!” I grab hold of the blurry figure beside me. “You’ve got to make it stop!” A strong hand untangles mine from their clothing, and encompasses it. “Don’t leave me, please.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Alexandra. I’m staying right here.” A hand brushes over my clammy forehead. “Just try and relax. I’m going to get something to make you feel better.”
“Dad, that morphine...”
“I’m getting it now.”
“I don’t understand how she’s still alive.”
“Me neither, son. Me neither.”
“She’s going through the transition, though, isn’t she?”
“Seems that way, Nate.”
“Do you think she’s gonna survive?”
“If you’d have asked me yesterday, I’d of said no, but now I’m not so sure. The girl’s a fighter, I’ll give her that.”
“She’s human, though. I just don’t get it, but it’s bad though, isn’t it, if she makes it through?”
“Well, it’s not great, son, no.”
A large shadow hovers over me. “Here, sweetheart, this’ll take the pain away.” I feel the needle pierce my skin. “Thank y … ”
Sunday, 23:55pm
“She’s asleep?”
“Yep.”
“So she survived, then.”
“Looks that way.”
“And the bite?”
“Healed. She has the trademark scar.”
“She’s changed, then. She’s one of them.”
“The only one. She’s in trouble, isn’t she, Dad?”
“We all are son ... we all are.”
Chapter 3
The Morning After
Ooh my whole body’s stiff. I must have slept in the same position all night. I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus. My head hurts – a lot. Painkillers needed ASAP. I run my tongue around my dry mouth. Urgh, it tastes like the inside of a toilet, not that I know what the inside of a toilet tastes like, but, well, you know what I mean.
Great idea Alex. Drink copious amounts of alcohol to numb the pain. Downside, I’m now going to pay for it today with the mother of all hangovers. And, of course, the hurt of Eddie’s betrayal is back with a vengeance.
“Ugh,” I groan, blinking open heavy eyes, rubb
ing my sore head and stretching my achy limbs out. It takes a few seconds before my eyes come into focus and, when they do, I find myself staring across at cream walls, cream walls I don’t recognise.
Where am I?
I skim my eyes over the room on my journey, catching sight of the time on the wall clock - 7:03am. Then I see sitting in a chair over by the window, not far from the end of the bed I’m currently laid in, a man, a man I most certainly do not know. From my quick appraisal, I see he looks to be in his late twenties, early thirties, is fairly good looking, tanned skin, dirty blonde hair which hangs messily in his eyes and skims the collar of his plain black T-shirt, which looks like it’s seen better days. So do his jeans, for that matter. One leg is crossed up onto the other one, his bare foot resting up on his thigh. He looks a bit rough and tired, and is rocking some serious stubble on his face.
“Hi,” I say. My voice comes out scratchy. I push the dark blue duvet cover back and slowly sit up. My head is so woozy. It’s practically wobbling on my neck.
“How are you feeling?” he asks me. His voice is deep and gruff. It sends an unexpected, but pleasurable, shiver over my skin.
I look at him again, this time more closely. His eyes meet with mine and I notice what an extraordinary shade of green they are. Really bright, like the colour of the first leaves in spring. Actually, looking at him properly, I see that he is very good-looking – my first appraisal really didn’t do him justice at all. Must have been my initial alcohol haze blurring my judgement.
“Hungover,” I finally answer with a sheepish grin.
He doesn’t smile back. Mine very quickly falls from my face.
I run a self-conscious hand over my blonde hair. Then I notice I’m not wearing my outfit from last night. I went out in my grey skinny jeans and Rock and Republic top. I’m currently wearing a grey T-shirt which is way too big for me. A man’s T-shirt judging by the size of it.
Ahh crap! I didn’t get that drunk last night that I did the deed with a complete stranger, did I, a very good looking stranger, but a stranger, nevertheless? Funny though, I don’t recall seeing anyone as good-looking as him in The Grange. I mean, I’d definitely remember him, I think. Oh God, I hope we used a condom.
“Erm … ” I wrap my arms around my chest. “This is gonna sound like a really shitty thing to say but ... who are you and where am I?” I cast a glance around the room, quickly taking in my surroundings.
The guy’s certainly tidy, I’ll give him that. This room is the epitome of cleanliness. There are no clothes lying around, no photos, no mementos – nothing. There’s a stack of books over on the desk by the window but even they look tidy. It seems like everything has its place here, except for me that is.
He puts his foot down to the floor, leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands together. “Who are you?” he throws back at me.
What? Okay, this is getting weird. He doesn’t remember me and I don’t remember him. Maybe he was just drunk as I apparently was. I reach back into my memories but nothing is there, just a foggy haze covering last night’s events. It sets off an uncomfortable feeling rolling around my stomach.
“I’m, erm ... Alex – Alexandra.” I pat a hand to my chest, a nervous laugh escaping me.
“I know what your name is,” he states bluntly, brushing his hair out of his eyes, his stare on me unwavering. “What I want to know is, what are you?”
Eh? What does he mean – ‘what am I?’. Jeez, this guy is really rude, and also quite weird, and I have no clue how to answer that. So, well, I won’t.
The silence is heavy. I’ve never been great with silences. They make me all nervous and fidgety. “Look, erm … ” I stare at him, willing him to fill the gap and tell me his name. He doesn’t. I envisage banging my head against a wall. I rub my nose. “I’m sorry but you’re gonna have to help me out here as I seem to have ... misplaced your name.”
Misplaced? Is that the best I can come up with? Well I suppose it sounds better than saying ‘forgotten’. That would sound way, way worse when addressing the man I quite possibly have recently had sex with.
“Nathan Hargreaves,” he says, and that’s when I notice just how intense his voice actually sounds, clear and precise, like every word he says really, really matters. I know he’s a bit odd - well, a lot odd - but I can certainly see why I fancied him in my drunken state. The guy is hot. And I’m talking Matthew McConaughey hot.
Maybe I’m being too hard on him; he might not be rude at all. He’s probably just feeling as awkward and uncomfortable in this ‘morning after’ situation as I am and this is how he deals with it.
One thing I do know for sure is that I would really like to get out of here as quickly as possible, taking with me whatever scrap of dignity I have left. Drunken-vengeance-on-your-cheating-ex-sex is obviously never a good idea.
Mental note to self – I, Alexandra Jones, do solemnly swear to never, ever drink again, or to ever again have sex with a complete stranger, regardless of how insanely good-looking he may be.
I shuffle myself forward, perching on the edge of the double bed, and let my toes sink into the thick shag pile carpet. “Well, Nathan Hargreaves, if you wouldn’t mind pointing me in the direction of my clothes, I’ll get changed and get out of your way.”
“Your clothes are gone.”
“What?”
“Your. Clothes. Are. Gone.”
“Gone. Where?”
“They were burnt.”
“Burnt?” My voice shoots out with a high-pitched incredulous tone to it.
“Yep, burnt.” He nods.
It takes a few seconds for that to actually register. Then it does. “And can you tell me just why the bloody hell my clothes have been burnt?!” My voice has hitched up a good couple of notches further, now bordering on hysterical.
“They were ruined.”
“Ruined?!”
“Yep.” He nods again, resting back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.
I stare at him, bewildered. Just exactly what kind of sex did I participate in that would have resulted in my clothes getting ruined? Possibly the kind I don’t want to remember. I’ve got this really bad feeling creeping across my brain. I’m actually completely and utterly speechless. I really have no clue what to say. That happens rarely, if ever. I massage my aching temples with my fingers, trying to grasp a hold of all of this.
So overnight I’ve somehow turned into a woman who has sex with a complete stranger, a slightly weird stranger might I add, that results in my clothes getting ruined to the point of incineration and I have no memory of said sex. Which I suppose in a way is kind of shame because he is really fit. But still, it’s all just too frigging bizarre. This is not me at all. I don’t do stuff like this. I feel I’ve woken up in bizarro land. Maybe I had some form of bad reaction to the alcohol I was drinking last night which is why I can’t remember anything ... or I could have had a seizure, or something. I could have even had a stroke. I mean it is possible. You hear about these weird things happening to young, healthy people, or ...
Oh God. A cold feeling creeps down my spine.
He could have slipped a roofie in my drink last night. I might have been date raped.
I swallow hard and let a careful eye roam over him. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would need to slip a girl a roofie to get her to sleep with him, but then you just don’t know anybody, and he did burn my clothes. He might have been burning the evidence.
Okay, just calm down. You don’t know that’s what happened. Keep rational and try to get out of here, as quickly as possible.
I clear my thick throat. “Look, Nathan, burning my clothes seems ... erm – a tad extreme, but it’s okay, it doesn’t matter, if you can just lend me some trousers to wear to go home in,” I gesture to my bare legs, “I’ll get off.”
“You can’t go home.”
A hollow feeling drops in my stomach. I gulp down. “Why not?” My voice wobbles.
“Because
there are thing we need to discuss.”
I’m starting to sweat. My palms are clammy. “Look Nathan, I won’t tell anybody you raped me, I swear!” My voice comes out all breathy and high-pitched. So much for the calm approach, Alex.
“I didn’t rape you!” His face is incredulous.
“You didn’t slip me a roofie?”
“No! ... Well I did give you some morphine but–”
“WHAT?!” I jump up to my feet.
He leans forward. “Purely for medicinal purposes.”
This guy is mental. “Why the bloody hell would you give me morphine?!” Jesus Christ, I know I was in pain over Eddie – but morphine!
He pauses eyeing me curiously. Lines of concentration form on his forehead. “Alexandra, do you really not remember a thing about what has happened to you?”
“Obviously not!” I scowl. My heart is beating out of my chest. “But I’ll put that down to the fact you’ve being feeding me drugs ... oh God, you’re one of those pimps that takes girls off the streets and gets them addicted to drugs and turns them into prostitutes, aren’t you?!” My future suddenly maps out in front of me. I can see myself all greasy hair, short skirts and ripped tights, getting into strangers cars ...
Oh God. I can’t breathe. I’m going to pass out. I start to hyperventilate.
“Just calm down for fuck's sake, will you,” Nathan says irritably. “You’re completely safe here with me. I haven’t, and am not planning to, hurt you.”
Putting my hand to my chest, clutching it, trying to calm my breathing, I raise a suspicious eyebrow at him.
First Bitten Page 2