Blood War (The Bloodeaters Trilogy Book 1)

by Rees, Kevin

‘Move away from him, little man. He has been turned,’ one of the captors growled. ‘Can you not see in his eyes how he laughs at us? At you, even?’

  Ignoring the man, Eddie gently reached out, aware all eyes were fixed on him and lifted his head. ‘Phil...It’s me, Eddie.’

  For a brief second there was a seed of recognition that crossed the other man’s face. But as soon as that brief fragment of humanity surfaced it was snuffed out again. Phil lunged forward towards Eddie’s hand and bit down hard.

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘You do not listen well, do you?’ said one of the men holding the snarling thing between them. ‘He is turning into Krev Jedlik — Bloodeater. They have infected him. Now he’s Jaik, halfway there. If it were me, I would rather make a poisoned meal than a servant for those devils.’ Laughter rippled between them.

  Lars came up behind Eddie and said something to the men who dragged the doctor downstairs. A single shot, followed by two more, rattled off the cold walls, sending a spasm through Eddie. He didn’t turn or run down the stairs in horror, to find a man, who a day before had saved his girlfriend’s life, was now lying on the floor with three bullets through his skull. He shut his eyes as if in deep prayer. But Eddie had long given up on any thoughts of a god, he was searching for the face of the sniper in Iraq who died next to him. He again found those sharp, green eyes that accepted some things that had to happen were at the shitiest end of the stick.

  ‘I want a gun.’

  ‘Sixsmith said you are...’

  ‘I don’t give a toss what Sixsmith said. Give me a weapon. Any fucking weapon!’ Eddie turned to Lars. The Swede stood a few steps down the stairs, putting him at eye level. ‘I was once like you — a soldier, of sorts. I was trained by the Army to heal, but I ended up taking lives. I made that decision to save the people around me. What use am I to you if I can’t fight on an equal footing, Lars? I need to be a part of this — a full part of your team, not someone you have to hand hold. That could put your squad in even more danger if you have to defend me.’

  Lars shook his head. ‘We can protect you.’

  They both swung around to the sound of footsteps coming up behind Lars. Maya appeared over his shoulder with eyes set on Eddie — her swollen lip was still trickling a little blood. She continued to walk up the stairs until she stood on his step. Maya turned and faced Lars. He appeared confused and shot a warning glance to Eddie. Slowly, she drew out her Glock pistol. Lars hesitated, trying to read the intention in her face. He covered the trigger on his gun while his mind somersaulted with indecision. Maya held the gun towards the nurse.

  ‘He makes sense. He has proved himself in battle, according to Sixsmith, and he wants revenge for what he has seen happen to his friends.’ She locked her stare with Lars, challenging him to disagree. ‘Also, Commander, we cannot afford to risk our lives defending him if he can defend himself.’ Maya spun the pistol and offered it to Eddie.

  He took it without a word and checked it expertly before jamming it into a thigh pocket. Eddie nodded his thanks to the woman and walked down the steps. He had found the crossroads and taken the hardest turning. No more the healer. The battle lay in the morgue and, with or without the help of the troops, he would go there and take back Kat.

  Lars advanced on Maya and stood over her. His face was pale, and a fine twitch flicked at the corner of his left eye. The blow came before he was conscious of delivering it. Maya gasped as his fist drilled into her stomach, dropping the woman to her knees. He grabbed her hair and yanked her face to his. She glared up in defiance.

  ‘You will not cross me again. Do you understand, Maya?’ He spat her name in fury.

  Feet ran towards them, closing the space quickly. He turned to face three soldiers intent on protecting the daughter of Karl Felton. Lars launched himself from the step and crashed his massive body into theirs. The soldiers below stood and watched. The three leapt up and drew their knives. Lars had been first onto his feet and took one of the soldiers closest into his long arms before the man could fully unsheathe his blade. Lars drew his knife and pressed it to the man’s throat.

  ‘Stop!’ The word was issued through a painful gasp as Maya got slowly to her feet. The world was on a pivot and she had to reach out and steady herself before walking down the steps. ‘Stop this. My father would be ashamed. Mostly ashamed of me for disobeying an order from my superior.’ She placed each foot carefully before trusting her balance. ‘Now put away your weapons and let’s fight the real enemy, shall we boys?’

  Lars let his man go and stormed down the stairs. He didn’t look back at the woman who may have just saved this mission, and possibly his life. Maya watched him disappear, weighed down heavily by the reality of command. She had left him little choice by defying him in front of the squad, all because her ego was pricked. Very few women made it through to combat, and already a First Blood had got the better of her.

  A voice broke the silence from below. ‘Are we just going to stand around or do we follow the nurse with a gun?’ A chorus of laughter spread through the team, erasing the standoff. Lars, it seemed, was fully engaged again.

  Maya drew in a deep breath and descended the steps slowly, keeping her face as still as a porcelain doll’s. She briefly acknowledged the three men who would have fought to the death if they had to, before she joined the others. Maya stood a little distance behind Lars and let her eyes bore into his wide back.

  Lars waited alone by the swing doors as the men gathered themselves. He was remembering something Karl had said to him before he set out on this mission — be careful of the things you covet. Lars knew there could be no going back. This had been a brutal lesson. His team had factions; those loyal enough to put the mission above everything, and a minority holding onto a tradition of unwavering duty to Karl Felton and his kin. He signalled to move and went through the doors after Eddie. His personal battle would have to wait. His war was out there in the morgue with Father.

  11

  Senate Chamber – Central America

  Several young men in purple habits pressed lighted tapers to sconces set in rows along the wood-panelled walls holding red candles in twos and threes with their distinctive cinnamon scent already riding high on the warm air. Others were busily brushing rich blue silk covers on the nine heavy, ornate chairs, while others were polishing the intricately carved wooden arms and legs until they reflected the devotee’s face. The tasks were carried out in complete silence, not through some idealised religious practice, but through the pursuit of purpose and commitment to their council of nine who would shortly enter the chamber.

  The nine chairs were arranged on a raised dais shaped in a semi-circle with the chair at the centre of the curve elevated marginally above the rest. This chair was much bigger and grander. It was also inlaid with gold and platinum, which complemented the blood-red silk of the seat. It had one single carving, depicting a giant with a long spear carried over his shoulder. On the spear were hundreds of dead bodies pierced through the chest and hanging limply like dead rabbits. The giant was the first acknowledged warrior of the Third Bloods, Bervant, who — their legends recorded — single-handedly defeated thousands of Bloodeaters in one day, later prevented them from becoming more dominant in the fractured land that became Western Europe. His teachings on war and tactics brought many from around the world to learn new ways to fight the emerging threat from Bloodeaters. But even he couldn’t prevent the war that moved with the momentum of an unstoppable juggernaut down through history.

  A bell rang twice, signalling the council were about to sit. The central chair was checked again for its alignment on the raised step to ensure the President was not seen to be facing to the right or left of his senators, but remained centrally impartial. Satisfied, the young men filed out of a secret door hidden behind the president’s chair. As their door closed, another opened at the far end of the room.

  President Gabriel Aquino led his eight senators into the chamber and was immediately assailed by the intoxicating perfume
of the candles. After decades of politics, he still didn’t much care for the smell of cinnamon. He walked towards his chair, breathing through his mouth while focusing on the ornate carving on his seat. Some of Bervant’s bones were reputedly tossed into the molten gold that had been married with the wood in a hope to endow the sitter with his worldly wisdom. Aquino respected the legend and truly hoped it were true.

  He had made few constitutional changes in his presidency compared to his predecessor, and those were mostly to satisfy the majority. His critics didn’t forgive the abolition of ceremonial dress the senate historically wore when attending council. Gone were the heavy robes, chains of office and tall headwear. Aquino had them replaced with light suits and hand-made shoes. Some traditionalists accused him of insulting those noble past presidents’ who resided in his seat and were able to intelligently see the need to keep faith with history. A minority ignored him and continued wearing their “costumes” as if the twenty-first century had yet to visit the chamber. Once outside, these same men and women could be seen enjoying the modern world and its technologies, even bringing some of it into the chamber when, embarrassingly, their phone would ring, and there would be a great hunt through swathes of material to switch it off.

  This happened as Praetor Thoragan placed a foot in the great room. The respectful silence was broken when ringing sounded from beneath his robes. Smiles flagged the faces of a few, who felt the timing so apt. Thoragan flushed, and pushed his way through the in-coming throng, while wrestling with the heavy material to find his phone. When he found it, he jabbed the button hard to answer. ‘Thoragan. Who is this?’ he demanded. The reply seemed to deflate his anger. ‘Oh, its you. What have you got for me? Umm...are you sure he’s there?’ He shuffled from one foot to the other, glancing around incessantly for anyone lurking in the shadows who might be listening to his conversation. ‘Proceed as planned and let him know a package is already in place and what the content is.’ Thoragan ended the conversation abruptly and stared vacantly ahead. Small twitches around his eyes, coupled with words formed silently on his lips mirrored the machinations in his mind. A chuckle broke to the surface, followed by a clap of his flabby hands.

  Aquino was beginning to address the council when Thoragan re-entered the chamber. He appeared distracted and pushed open the wooden door, sending it crashing into the few vacant chairs left in the room. All eyes turned towards him as he shuffled to his seat. The Praetor ignored them and sat without any apology for the disruption. He was known to demonstrate his arrogance without refrain.

  The President stopped speaking and stared at the man, who had to eventually acknowledge the silence shrouding the chamber. He bobbed a head that held very little contrition, following it with a pompous wave of his hand. It was as much as Aquino expected from Thoragan.

  ‘I will continue.’ Aquino turned back to the assembly. ‘I have asked for your attendance tonight to brief you on an operation that’s currently underway, which is of special interest to this chamber. We are all aware of the important legislation voted on by this senate, and the powers you have granted me to deal with the growing threat of the Bloodeaters, led by Father. Their increased activity has infringed on our position — more so in the last fifteen years — where targeted assassination of council members had been deliberately calculated to tip the status quo in favour of chaos. Our scientists have been killed in numbers never before witnessed, especially those involved with the vaccine program. Given the many losses, I am still optimistic we are on course to complete the research and begin testing,’ he paused before continuing. ‘However, of greater concern is an escalation of hunting and feeding being carried out in cities in Europe, and in North America. Father seems to want to throw away the anonymity of our two races and bring us to the attention of all governments across the globe. We will not allow that. We cannot allow that. If the First Bloods knew the truth, the balance of power on this planet would shift in their favour as the majority population. We would be exposed and possibly destroyed in the wave of hysteria that would follow. That is why, honoured members, I am pleased to inform you that tonight an operation is in progress in the United Kingdom, led by Karl Felton.’ Aquino paused again to let the whispers die away. ‘He has tracked Father, and is currently engaged in a cleansing mission.’

  ‘May I speak, sir?’ Thoragan said, waving his hand.

  Reluctantly, Aquino gave way. ‘I give the floor to Praetor Thoragan.’

  The fat man pushed himself up from his chair and stood with both hands clasped to the lapels of his robes. A globule of spit clung to his chin that didn’t go unnoticed by those watching him. ‘May I be the first to congratulate you, President Aquino, on this momentous news, and I am sure I speak for the council members present in sending our gratitude and thanks to Karl Felton, who may rid us of this Father character in the next few hours.’

  Aquino interjected, ‘Praetor, I accept your thanks and would like to assure you Karl Felton will capture or kill Father.’

  ‘Of course President Aquino. I would not impugn the tactical skills and judgement of Karl Felton. But, I only make the point that several times this...this Father has evaded capture, even from you, President Aquino, when you commanded a team in Panama. Wasn’t Father holed up in a mine? One way in, one way out, and yet somehow you let him go.’

  The council erupted at his impertinent taunt. They shouted at Thoragan who stood as passively as an iceberg, staring idly at his thumbs tucked into his jet-black robe.

  ‘Silence! Come to order in this chamber!’ Aquino’s voice carried enough power and authority to cut through the consternation. ‘I am sure Praetor Thoragan has some explanation for the history lesson he has raised. Also, given the broad military experience he so obviously can draw on, he can provide us with his view on the tactics we should employ to bring Father to justice. He can also educate me on my failed attempt given his vast knowledge of battlefield tactics. I give the floor to you, sir.’

  Thoragan could only stare at Aquino. He was being taken down a spiralling path that could kill his political future as easily as a mouse taking cheese from a trap. Thoragan struggled to play for time as his mind tried frantically to find a way to evade the question. Eventually, he smiled at Aquino and sat back down accompanied by roars of laughter from the assembled men and women. He offered another contrite nod of his head to Aquino, who turned his back on him and returned to the council.

  Soon Aquino would come back to this chamber and stutter an apology that Karl Felton, their greatest hunter, had again lost Father. Then he would seize his opportunity to strike. Thoragan’s network of gossiping mouths would question how one president and one prospective president had let their enemy go free. He would place doubt into malleable minds and steer them to consider not their leader’s incompetence, but their complicity in allowing Father to simply walk away and evade capture every time he was cornered. Could it be in the ruling council’s interest to allow the Bloodeaters to continue their unstoppable pogrom against the First Bloods, he would question. It would require more money and investment overseen by the council, of course. If there were no Bloodeaters then the council would be redundant. Many political careers, and the privilege that office brought with it, would be snuffed out.

  Also there was the vaccine program. How long had their scientists worked on a way to develop a chemical bullet that would push the DNA of Bloodeaters back into the primitive state of the First Bloods? Ever since Karl Felton’s wife had tried to develop the vaccine on her own without council approval, the attacks had increased when the Bloodeaters learned of its purpose. Her murder had been directly related to her private research and carried out by Father intent on preventing their genocide. It wouldn’t take much. A few awkward questions in certain influential ears was all Thoragan needed. He would ask why, after heavy investment, hadn’t a breakthrough been made. Surely Marissa Felton’s research could be replicated. Or, were the scientists governed by a higher authority and ordered to drag their heels, perhaps?


  A bell rang, dragging Thoragan back to the noisy chamber as the members began to file out. He remained seated, watching Aquino and his senator’s huddle together to discuss more sensitive information he hadn’t divulged to the chamber. The secrets only the elite should know. Thoragan sneered at them. He would learn what was being said soon enough. He watched the last person leave before he got up. As he left, his phone rang again as he walked out of the chamber.

  12

  The man called Father leant casually against a wall with one leg cocked and resting on the flaking apple-green plaster of the small morgue. He’d changed into appropriate clothes: black trousers, black round-neck jumper and a long, black leather coat that reached down to his black leather boots. The colour of his clothes contrasted with the pure white of his hair, which made him appear pale and vulnerable — a mistake that cost the lives of his countless victims in their naivety. His body was lean, but not gaunt. And his face held that young-old quality some would hope to see in themselves as the biological clock ticked unstoppably towards death.

  Around him, an organised procession was moving like worker ants, each person knowing their task and ignoring any distraction to that purpose. Even so, there was an unspoken urgency developing that began to push groups together naturally, who sensed what needed to be done for the good of the Brood. Two men tore metal shelves off the walls leaving huge gouges in the plaster. Others pushed metal autopsy tables out into the corridors complete with the corpses stretched out like fish on a supermarket counter waiting for the knife to fillet them. Even the lifeless sacks of bone and organs would not be spared humiliation in the defence of Father. They sandwiched the bodies between the metal and plastic adding dead weight to a barricade protecting both corridors.

  One of the men sat at the pathologist’s grey metal desk whilst the others manoeuvred around him. He was listening intently to a small black box pressed tightly to his ear while turning a thin, silver aerial in a widening circle above his head. His patience with the rudimentary equipment was rewarded with a burst of squawk and chatter before the signal drifted away. He tried again, fumbling with the aerial to locate the signal until he locked onto a clear transmission. It was Felton’s radio operator receiving an update from the assault team.