A sudden overwhelming need to fill his heart with the sight of her delicate features landed a sledgehammer blow to his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment, and hunted out the delicate scent of her which rode the currents of the night air. First, I must do one last patrol. But as his gut wrenched and his mouth flooded with saliva, another realization drove disappointment through him. Grave sleep, I’ll have to wait awhile longer.
He had already inspected the mausoleum in the chapel cemetery where he would confine himself before he unleashed the bloodlust of grave sleep. Using it saved him a trip back into London, to the hospital, where vampires used the secure confinement of cadaver drawers. Harming another vampire in grave sleep had the equivalence of first degree murder in vampire culture, and Principal Julian delivered harsh penalties to those stupid enough to offend. Luckily for me, Julian is on my side.
“Hey, Greg, tell Rebekah I need to sleep first. But I’ll come and find her soon.”
Greg nodded. “We will clean up camp and make ready to move out. We’ll bury the food scraps and garbage out in the woods while you are gone. But don’t worry, we’ll be careful.”
“Make it within the hour, the vampires will have finished harvesting crops by then, and some may still fancy a snack before the sun comes up.” Connor glanced at the cloud-cluttered purple night sky and added, “It’s set to be a dull day, though. And I don’t have to tell you vampires are out there twenty-four-seven. I think you were the first to discover that sun and shadow limits us, not night and day.”
“We’ll be ready when you give the word,” said Greg, “You’d better get going.”
He’s right, let’s take one thing at a time. Phase two is almost complete. Inside the chapel, only three humans remained, Greg, Oscar, and his Rebekah. The rest had safely made the ten-mile trip to the new eco-shelter, with Greg escorting and Connor running interference. And, even though they were still underground, the caverns, dug out of packed earth and lined with rocks made from clay, retained heat. Unlike the church.
The new habitat was warmer by several degrees, which made the difference between living and dying.
Waving farewell, Connor reeled around and vanished into the night to satisfy himself all was well in the woods before he surrendered control to the psychopath inside his head for grave sleep.
Rebekah’s group of humans, at least, knew more about vampire sleep requirements.
Vampires had perfected a state of permanent awareness, but brain tissue did not rehydrate spontaneously like muscle fiber – and three cerebral sleep centers had evolved. When opening the floodgates to hydrate the chosen compartment of the brain, inhibitions tumbled down, and the appetites contained inside took over. Our problem lies in wrestling with the triple personality disorder unleashed to run riot.
Connor’s gray eyes glinted with pleasure. Of course, the relaxation of revival sleep has been my salvation. The brain center which reduced vampire stress levels released an inmate who gentled his touch, and tempered the movement of every sinew. In that state, when his body hungered for hers, he could touch Rebekah and not break bones. He had still to master the bruising, but he was happy to spend decades getting that right.
The surrounding woods were clear, and Connor’s control was crumbling. It was never a good idea for him to think of Rebekah when grave sleep was calling. As he crossed the graveyard, the three sluggish heartbeats echoed through the walls of the chapel in a mesmerizing rhythm. It would be so easy to give in to temptation.
Resolutely shutting down the thought, he entered the mausoleum.
He effortlessly moved aside a boulder almost as tall as his six-foot three-inch height, and a rusted wrought iron gate groaned in protest when he pushed it open. The stone steps leading into the dank, dark space below were slick with lichen and rainwater. In winter, they would become sheets of black ice. Connor’s boots barely skimmed the surface as he glided down and came to rest on the flagstone floor. Lifting a square grate at his feet, he descended to the dark subterranean chamber of the crypt.
If he was only releasing the volatile aggressive drunkard of rapacious sleep, just closing the metal gate and lying out on the stone altar in the room above would be enough. Or stand in the corner like a stone statue as I did on many occasions when vampires were still in hiding from humans.
Sadly, he had seen humans die when a vampire, thinking he could withstand the fragrant blush of blood fumes when a human passed by, found his control fractured. And the human newspapers reported one more horrific murder.
The vampire council existed even then. Jack the Ripper and The Butcher both risked exposing us as monsters and suffered the penalty. Jack’s psychosis had earned him death – Connor’s fingers twitched as he remembered the kill, out in the dark London streets.
The Butcher was not so lucky.
His body was condemned to petrify until it resembled granite, but he was fed enough human blood to retain brain function; he had an eternity to think over his crimes. He remained the most infamous resident in the London Hive’s vampire internment facility. Julian’s twelve-decade reign as principal is certainly hard line. Though, the crimes are different now.
Connor was committing the one – threatening the food supply – which carried the harshest penalty. By keeping a group of humans out of Human Farm Factory Eight, he risked the same fate as The Butcher. He had the grace to feel guilty about sucking Julian into this, too. But it is too late now.
“So, let’s get this done.” Delving into his pocket, Connor pulled out two vials of human blood, flipped the lids, and downed the contents.
It was the last piece in the puzzle of vampire survival. The vampire brain could not function on animal blood alone. Those who tried it, refusing to relinquish their lone hunter status, suffered vampire dementia. The vital daily dose of human blood forced vampires into tending to the needs of humans on the farm, and subjected them all to visiting the hospital blood dispensary to collect their rations.
Like lions without teeth, vampires were victims, too.
With a wry grin, Connor pushed aside the lid of the sarcophagus and lay down inside. The heavy stone brushed his chest as gripping the rough surface, he dug his fingernails in and excavated a shower of stone chips. He dragged it across and settled it back into place.
Connor’s body jolted into spasm as the human blood pooling in his throat filtered into his carotid artery and entered his cerebral cortex. The stone coffin shook, showering gravel down from the plinth onto the hard floor as the seams grated with the force of his muscle spasms. He grimaced. Summoning iron will and digging deep, he reined in each sinew and locked his cramped limbs in place.
Deathly stillness settled like a lead weight onto his chest. Bloodlust drew his lips back, baring his teeth, and the growl rattling in the back of his throat splattered flecks of blood on the underside of the closed sarcophagus lid, mere inches from his snarling muzzle.
Chapter 2
Rebekah heard the muffled approach of feet padded with animal-skin, and disappointment settled on her shoulders. Connor is never that noisy. Greg’s footfall scuffed along the polished stone floor of the catacomb passageway until, eventually, the candlelight danced his shadow over the walls.
Focusing on something other than Connor, Rebekah sighed in relief, knowing Greg’s return meant one thing. “Leizle and Thomas made it, then?” she whispered, smiling warmly.
Entering the chamber, Greg shouldered his shadow aside and filled the doorway. “They did,” he said, lowering his utility belt carefully onto the ground at his feet.
“Of course, they did, lass. Did you ever doubt it?” said Oscar.
Rebekah pulled an ‘are you kidding me?’ face, and said, “This is Thomas we’re talking about, master of huge cock-ups. He’s tested Connor’s patience before.”
“Well, maybe turning seventeen has made the difference.”
“I don’t think so,” muttered Greg, “I almost slapped a gag over his mouth. He’s got no idea how to be quiet.”
&
nbsp; Rebekah shot Oscar a smug look. She had known Thomas since he was two, and Leizle since she was three years old. Rebekah, herself, had been a dazed and confused six-year-old when Uncle Harry told her human society had ended. For her, looking out for them had helped make sense of a strange new world. Fifteen years on, they were like a brother and sister to her, but, at twenty-one, she felt more like their mother at times.
“But they are both safe?”
“Oh, yes,” said Greg wryly, “mission accomplished, and Connor is glad we are on the last run.”
Rebekah darted a hopeful glance over Greg’s shoulder.
“He’s here, but he has to sleep,” he said, as he eased his kit-bag from his back and rubbed a palm over the dark stubble on his chin. His keen eyes alighted briefly on Rebekah until he gathered her nod of understanding. Sleeping was vampire code for ‘steer well clear’.
“I’m sure he won’t be long, lass. Anyhow, we’ve got chores to fill the time,” said Oscar with forced enthusiasm. He jerked his head to indicate the zip-lock plastic bags of garbage and food scraps. “We’ve got those to get rid of, and the roasting pit needs damping down and emptying. But for now, eat up.”
Rebekah took the plate he held out and made a show of forcing down slices of pit-roasted rabbit and jacket potato. The meat was succulent, having been slow roasted in a terracotta pot buried beneath glowing coal embers. Connor had rigged up the oven inside an empty stone sarcophagus. This was no time for misplaced sensibilities; after all, vampires not being able to smell the meat was far more important than the relocation of a long-dead relative.
Connor was an efficient fire starter, generating heat by rolling a thick twig between his palms until it burst into flames in his hand, setting alight the bed of kindling, and then fueling the fire with nuggets of coal. Dragging the stone lid almost into place, he fanned the flames with a tireless constant flow of vampire breath. Once the fire was ablaze, the potatoes and meat sealed inside the cook pots were buried in the hot coals, and the sarcophagus lid closed, trapping the heat, extinguishing the flames, and containing the smell.
They could only eat hot meals at certain times, when vampires were either harvesting and planting crops to feed the humans on the farm complex, or attending council sessions in London, but Connor was always on hand to shift the four-inch thick heavy stone slab aside, and from there, Oscar came into his own.
Oscar had fed them for fifteen years in the old eco-town, and making something out of nothing much, was his forte. But even though the spice-marinade cooked rabbit fell from the bone and was delicious, all Rebekah tasted was sawdust.
A dart of color danced across her vision, and a vise closed over her skull. “Great,” she muttered. A headache, just what I need.
The heated stone of the sarcophagus warmed the chamber, and suddenly Rebekah craved cold, refreshing cold, against her skin. Pulling the collar of her shirt open offered no relief and nausea swilled in her stomach. Connor’s cool touch would have been her idea of heaven about now.
“Are you ok, Rebekah?” Oscar plucked her plate from her fingers and peered into her pale face.
The blonde feathered strands of her hair suddenly felt like a heated cap, and sweat broke out on her brow. “It’s just too warm in here,” she whispered. A dull cast to her gaze ruined the impact of a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine.” And I will. I can fight off a vampire in the woods, and face Connor’s anger without flinching. I’m made of sterner stuff than this. On a stronger voice, she said, “I’m fine, and we’ve got chores to do, remember?”
Greg exchanged glances with Oscar and shrugged. Checking his watch, he said briskly, “Connor said, within the hour.”
Moving in coordinated silence, the three of them filled black duffle bags with zip-lock pouches of clothes too wet to salvage, and food scraps and vegetable peelings, setting aside the cooked meat wrapped in candle wax-coated muslin cloths which sealed in the smell.
Straightening and shouldering the heaviest of the bags, Greg cast a final glance around the catacomb chamber. “Ready?” His voice rumbled with excitement.
Rebekah swallowed when her stomach performed another somersault. Nerves are good.
She shoved her walking boots into the deer-hide covers which would deaden the echo of her footfalls to a whisper, and followed Oscar and Greg out along the roughly hewn stone passageway. Leaving the candlelight behind, she followed the dancing beam of Greg’s flashlight, knowing that if it disappeared around the bend up ahead, she would be plunged into darkness.
Mounting the steps and emerging into the chapel above, Rebekah welcomed the draft of cool night air brushing over her clammy forehead, and the cotton-wool fog cleared from her thoughts. Hitching her backpack higher, she copied Greg and Oscar as they pulled their boots free from the deer skins, and emerged to cross the graveyard.
On the other side of the railings marking the boundary of the chapel grounds, Oscar pushed a nylon cord into Rebekah’s hand, and with sure fingers, she depressed the trigger on the clamp at her waist and slipped the loop over the metal clasp. Yanking hard on Oscar’s end, signaling she was ready, they set off into the woods, tethered together.
The bite of frost in the air fanned her damp hair and chilled her scalp, and Rebekah pulled her hood tighter around her face, gasping when turning her head sliced pain across her vision once more.
“Rebekah?” Greg’s urgent tone was barely a whisper.
His dirt-smeared, camouflaged face loomed before her as he waited for an answer.
Rebekah shook her head gingerly. Pointing skyward, drawing a circle in the air and jabbing her thumb back over her shoulder, she indicated her return to the chapel.
Greg frowned, held up three fingers to communicate the thirty minutes they expected the trip to take, and unclipped her rope from her belt.
As she turned back, focusing on the black silhouette of the chapel spire rising above the trees, the dancing lights in her vision confirmed it was the right decision. Stumbling blindly through the woods, she would have put them all in danger.
The metal railings surrounding the chapel glinted in the gloom, and the moonlight breaking from behind a cloud, cast the marble facade of the mausoleum, where Connor slept, into stark relief. Without thought, Rebekah found herself drawn there, and before the voice of reason could tell her to go back, she slipped through the rusted gate Connor had left propped open. I won’t stay. I just want to be close to him for a moment. Digging into her pocket, she popped two more beta-blockers into her mouth, even though her heart rate was already sluggish in her chest. It can’t hurt.
Moving carefully down the steps into the altar space, Rebekah found the iron grate in the floor. Using both hands, she pulled on it, fighting against the thick moss clinging to its edges. It shifted suddenly, her blood pressure peaked, and the headache unleashed a sparkling shower of pain. She cringed, preparing for the death knell clang of iron on stone when the grate slipped from her grasp, and breathed a sigh of relief when the blanket of moss muffled the clang to a dull thump.
It’s too late to turn back now. Putting aside the voice arguing with that, Rebekah descended into the crypt. Though the black shadows thickened, she could still make out the hulking shape of the sarcophagus elevated to waist height, commanding the space from its plinth.
A shiver rattled through her as she realized that Oscar’s makeshift oven in the catacombs obviously offered more warmth than she thought. But the idea of spending half an hour alone inside the chapel was not appealing. Her five-foot six-inch height suddenly seemed too tall for her sluggish heart to cope with, so, she found an alcove and folded gratefully down into it. Drawing her knees up inside the tent made by her oilskin coat, she curled around the ball of heat of the warm meal inside her belly. She rested her pounding head back on the wall, closing her eyes as energy drained away, and, as she drew comfort from Connor being nearby, the heavy shroud of sleep crept in.
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The burning fuse-wire of heat raced through the neuron pathwa
ys inside Connor’s brain and, gradually, he pushed back the crimson curtain of blood which clung to his mind. The stone weight inside his chest eased as he drove the breath from his lungs, and his eyes snapped open.
He surfaced slowly from the resting semi-conscious state. Waiting for the waves of ecstasy to ebb, his stomach a hard wall and his groin tight where a scent of Rebekah still filled his nostrils, he smiled in anticipation. Dreaming of her was a permanent feature of sleep now, but this dream seemed more vibrant. I can almost taste her scent.
As he moved the age-pitted coffin lid aside, the grinding of the rough stone vibrated through his body. His fingers curled around the edge of the slab, he held it steady on the seesaw pivot point until his feet touched the floor, and then, pushed it smoothly back into place. I never know when I may need it again.
He now understood the elder vampires in London who shunned the stainless-steel cadaver drawers of the morgue, preferring to seek out mausoleums as places more fitting to their status. Grave sleep was certainly more vivid than I expected.
Leaving the crypt, he dragged the grate in the floor across, swept out of the arched doorway, closed the gate, and pushed the boulder back into place. Swooping between the crumbling array of neglected headstones, he approached the chapel, and melted into shadow as he slipped inside. In habitual deathly silence, he approached the altar at the rear, and passed through the heavy oak door behind it.
Connor descended into the bowels of the building and moved briskly along the underground passageway.
He knew it was empty before he reached the cavern; its sweeping domed ceiling marked it as the central chamber of the catacombs, its walls now punctuated by the wooden screens which hid the human remains from view. But, for him, the air was laden with calcium-flavored fragments. He laid his cold palm on the warm stone of the sarcophagus oven, idly scoring grooves into its surface as he ran through Greg’s words.
SURVIVAL Page 2