Blue Skin (Book 4): Blue Skin

by Jenkins, Steven

  Sean and I share a petrified gaze, bodies stiff, frozen in time, a plan of action nowhere in sight.

  Another thud reaches us. A punch? A kick?

  Should we find help?

  From where?

  “This is our supermarket!” a third man barks, his voice much deeper, more aggressive. “You thieving little prick!”

  Do we make a run for it?

  “Please. Just let...me go,” the second man begs, his words fractured with distress. “It’ll never happen again.”

  “Damn right, it won’t!”

  “We need to do something,” Sean whispers, just as a cry of agony echoes around the supermarket.

  “Like what?” I ask, trying desperately to ease my soaring pulse, to settle my breathing.

  I wince when someone shouts: “Slice him, Tommy!”

  Sean releases my hand and doubles his grip on the crowbar, brandishing it like a sword. “I don’t know. Anything. They’re gonna kill him.”

  “What if something happens to one of us? I can’t lose you again.”

  “You won’t lose me. I promise. But I’m not gonna just stand here and do nothing.”

  I pause for moment, that selfish girl I used to be creeping back to the surface. But he’s right. We have to do something—otherwise I’ll never forgive myself. “Okay—but I need a weapon.”

  “Your pocketknife,” Sean suggests, glancing at my jeans pocket.

  “No, it’s too small. It’s not threatening enough.”

  He offers me the crowbar, but I refuse it when I spot the fire extinguisher attached to the wall at the end of the aisle. “Follow me,” I say, and we tiptoe over to it.

  “You think that’s gonna work?” he whispers with distrust in his tone.

  “Yeah.” I unhook the red cylinder from the wall. “I hope.”

  Cowering behind a bare cereal display, we peek onto the next aisle.

  There’s a thin man, mid-thirties, sprawled out on the floor, blood dribbling from his brown hair, down to the side of his bruised and swollen face. “Please. I made a mistake,” he says, holding his arms up, shielding his body as a skin-headed man stands over him, wielding a flick-knife. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s too late for ‘sorry’,” a blond man says, tensing his huge, muscular arms as he slams his baseball bat down onto the man’s chest.

  I cringe with loathing when the thin man cries out, grasping his ribs in agony.

  I can’t watch.

  Not anymore.

  Petrified, I take a breath and motion for us to make our move. With the crowbar firmly in Sean’s grasp, and my hand on the fire extinguisher trigger, we creep towards them.

  The blond one raises his baseball bat above his wide shoulder, preparing for another swing.

  “Hey, arsehole!” I shout.

  The moment he turns to us, I spray him in the face with white foam. Blinded and disorientated, he drops the bat and it rolls towards me. I throw the extinguisher and grab the bat instead. The blond one slides on the foam, crashing down to the floor, so I whack him hard on the thighs. With eyes saturated, he screams out, gripping his legs.

  “Drop the knife!” Sean orders, flaunting the crowbar in front of the shaved-headed man.

  “Do you have any idea who I am?” he says, a smirk across his gaunt face, a large chip in the front tooth. “I’m Tommy fucking Reid!”

  “I don’t give a shit who you are,” Sean replies. “Drop the knife or your boyfriend’s gonna lose his head.”

  Tommy Reid laughs.

  I slam the bat across the blond man’s arm, the force throwing him onto his side.

  “Come on...Tommy,” the blond man says, his words broken with pain. “Do what he says!”

  Tommy shakes his head, and his smirk dissolves.

  “I won’t ask you again!” Sean snaps, taking a step closer.

  “For fuck’s sake, Tom!” the blond man pleads, his eyes burning red. “Just drop the knife!”

  Tommy pauses for a moment, clenches his broken teeth, and then finally releases the weapon.

  “Now kick it to me,” Sean orders.

  With another sneer, Tommy boots the knife and it disappears under the shelf. “Whoops.”

  “Let’s go, Sean,” I say, my attention switching from Sean to Blondie, and now to the exit.

  “Yeah, you better listen to your girlfriend...Sean,” Tommy says, “and fuck off out of my shop.”

  Sean takes the wounded man’s hand, and heaves him to his feet.

  Weapons pointed ahead, eyes locked onto Tommy and Blondie, we slowly back away towards the checkout counters, and then bolt to the exit, slipping through the gap between the glass double doors.

  “Follow me,” the man says as we dash across the car park, down a narrow cycle path, until we come out onto a deserted street. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a set of keys and points them at a mushroom-coloured VW campervan. Sean and I slide open the back door, scramble inside and slam it shut. The man gets into the front, jams the key into the ignition, and the weathered engine rumbles to life.

  And we’re away.

  8

  “My name’s Ethan,” the wounded man says, checking the campervan’s mirror to see if anyone’s following.

  I glance through the back window, but all I see is an empty country road surrounded by thick forestry. No cars. No vehicles.

  Sean peers into the front. “I’m Sean.” He motions to me. “And this is Freya.

  “Hi.” I move next to Sean. “So, what happened back there?”

  “Good question.” Ethan stretches across the dashboard, opens the glove compartment, and takes out a packet of wet wipes. “One minute I’m looking for supplies, the next some dickhead is punching my lights out.” He takes out a sheet and cleans the blood off his face. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t shown up. I owe you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say. “Where are you from?”

  “Here. Well, close enough. Copplefield.”

  “That’s where we’ve been staying,” Sean points out. “Near the church.”

  Ethan glances at him with a look of concern. “It’s not safe there. You should get out like I did.”

  “I know,” I say. “That’s why we ended up in the supermarket. The last shop in town was raided last night.”

  I see a sign for Copplefield.

  “Listen, I’m staying with some friends way out in the countryside,” Ethan says. “You’re both welcome to stay. No blues. And no twats like Tommy fucking Reid.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” Sean says, “but we can’t.”

  “Are you sure? We’ve got plenty of food. Plenty of space.”

  Sean shakes his head. “Honestly, we’ll be fine. We’ll probably be moving on soon, anyway.”

  “Okay,” Ethan says, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “Fair enough.”

  The idea of spending another night in that hotel sends ice-cold revulsion through my veins. The sooner we move on, the better.

  There’s a police car and a HCA van parked outside Copplefield Stores. I duck down, pulling Sean with me. With just the top of my head visible, I peep through the window as a police woman questions a man opposite the shop.

  About a quarter of a mile further on, Ethan pulls up by the church. “Is this close enough?”

  “Perfect,” I reply, patting Ethan on the shoulder.

  Sean slides the door open and steps onto the pavement. “Thanks, Mate.”

  “No. Thank you, guys. I won’t forget this. If we run into each other again, I’ll buy you both a pint.” He snorts. “Maybe by then the world will be back to normal. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  “Yeah. That would be awesome.” Sean looks at me. “Ready?”

  There’s a hair salon just past the church. Derelict. Boards covering up the windows and doors. The sign cracked and hanging by a thread. The white front reminds me of Rebecca’s Salon back home. I bet this place used to be wonderful. A hot cup of coffee. A radio playing in the backg
round. Women sharing funny stories. The perfect hairstyle for the perfect night out.

  Now look at it.

  It’s not fair.

  “Come on, Frey,” Sean says, nervously checking out the street for the HCA. “We better go.”

  My mind is racing, dreading the idea of spending another night in the hotel. Or any hotel for that matter.

  “Freya?” Sean waves his hand in front of my face. “We have to go.”

  “What are we doing?” I ask with a sigh.

  “What do you mean? We’re looking for Ben?”

  “We’re never going to find him. It’s a needle in a haystack.”

  “So, what? We can’t give up.”

  “Sean, I love you so much, but I can’t put you through this anymore. It’s too dangerous. The gym was too close for comfort. We could have got killed. Or worse—ended up being stockpiled like that poor man.”

  With a confused grimace, Sean leans against the van. “So, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying we should go with Ethan. Be with other people. Safety in numbers. Or at least try. This town is a dump. And the next town will be a dump, too. And the next after that. I’m tired of it all.”

  Sean doesn’t respond because he knows this life of living on microwave meals, scraping cash from his grandparents, staying in grotty hotel rooms has an expiry date—and that date expired months ago.

  “What do you think?” I ask with a shrug. “Should we give it a try?”

  Sean ponders for a moment.

  “What’s the plan, guys?” Ethan asks. “You staying in this shithole—or are you coming with me?”

  Sean jumps back into the camper and slams the door shut. “We’re coming.”

  In my stomach, there’s an army of butterflies, in a full-blown battle, as I kiss him on the lips, drawing him into a vice-like hug.

  Ethan pulls away from the curb. “That’s awesome. You won’t regret it.”

  “Wait!” I blurt out, causing Ethan to hit the brakes. “We need to get our stuff from the hotel.”

  “What stuff?” Sean asks. “Everything we own is right here. Money. Shoes.” He shakes the rucksack. “Crowbar. Muscle-head’s baseball bat.”

  “We have other clothes, Sean.” I slide open the door. “We can’t just leave them.”

  “What are you doing?” he asks, reaching for my arm as I leap out of the camper. “I’ll go.”

  “No, it’s fine.” I say, racing off. “I’ll be quicker.”

  In seconds, I’m back inside the hotel room, and wondering if it’s somehow shrunk overnight. Even the mildew smell seems worse. I fill a plastic bag with jeans, a few t-shirts, some loose change from the shelf, and anything else that’s worth keeping.

  It’s a sad state of affairs when your entire life fits into a ten-pence shopping bag.

  Standing in the doorway, thoughts of the farm invade my mind. The night Maggie’s son saved us from those vigilantes. Promised us a safe haven. What if this is the farm all over again? What if Ethan’s luring us to another Maggie?

  No. Not possible. There was only one Maggie—and she’s dead. And even if I am being led into another trap, this time will be different. This time I have Sean.

  And everything’s better with him.

  I give the stinking room the middle finger, slam the door, and leave this hotel for hopefully the last time.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Sean asks as I climb into the campervan.

  “No,” I slide the door shut, “but let’s do it, anyway.”

  Sean takes my hand and we sit in the back of a stranger’s van, heading to yet another unknown place. And those warring butterflies make a comeback as Ethan starts the engine and drives off.

  At the end of the junction, a HCA van whizzes past us. Too fast to see who the driver was. Michael Matthias, perhaps? No, not him. Not that prick. It’s paranoia. That’s all. He’s dead. Left to rot in The Facility.

  A fitting grave for a monster.

  But just like those awful b-movies in Sean’s collection—monsters never stay dead for long.

  Part III

  MICHAEL MATTHIAS

  9

  Marie is fast asleep next to me, hugging the quilt tightly, her chest rising with every gentle breath.

  I wish I could sleep as soundly, instead of spending five hours staring up at the ceiling, or at the clock, willing the pain to soften.

  The bones in my ankle crunch as I climb off the bed. The doctor said it’d be fixed by now, but what the hell do they know?

  Barefoot, I tiptoe across the carpet, avoiding the creaky floorboard by the wardrobe, and make my way to the bathroom.

  The bags under my eyes are prominent, the skin loose. I prod them with my thumbs, and then open the cabinet above the sink. Reaching inside, I take out a bottle of painkillers and drop three pills into my hand. I hate codeine, it makes me nauseous, dizzy, but paracetamol is horseshit, and ibuprofen is even worse.

  I throw the pills into my mouth, wash them down with water, and then go over to the laundry cupboard. Pushing my arm inside, I feel about for the bottle. It’s stuffed in at the very back behind the towels. I unscrew the cap, take a swig, then another, before returning the bottle to the back of the cupboard.

  With loathing, I glare at my face in the mirror as the whiskey warms my stomach, and then I leave the bathroom.

  10

  “You can’t be serious, Mike,” Marie says, her tone filled with disbelief. Disgust even. “You’re not ready.”

  I pour myself a third cup of coffee, nursing another migraine, and sit at the breakfast table. “Stop nagging me. I’m more than capable of going to work.”

  “The doctor said you should be taking it easy for at least another week.”

  I sigh with annoyance, and then swig down my coffee. It’s boiling hot, but I endure it anyway. “Look, I’m fine.”

  She sneers. “Fine? You said that yesterday—and look how that turned out.”

  “That was a one-off. I hardly ate a thing all day.”

  “It was more than that, Mike. And you know it. There’s a limit to how much—” She cuts her rant short when Joseph enters the kitchen, dressed for school, apart from his tie, which is draped over the chair. God knows why they bother wearing a uniform. It’s hardly a school anymore. Two teachers. Sixty students. Give it another three months and we’ll be home schooling him.

  “Morning, Joe,” Marie says, beaming. “Did you finish your homework?”

  He shakes his head and sits. “I can’t do algebra. It’s too hard.”

  “Have you asked your father to help you? Maths isn’t exactly my strong suit.”

  Joseph doesn’t reply because he’s already asked me. Several times.

  “Will you help him?” Marie hands him his school tie.

  “Maybe later,” I say, her words barely registering. “If I’m back in time.”

  Marie goes to say something, but hands Joseph a plate of toast instead.

  “It doesn’t matter, Mum,” he says, wrapping his tie around his collar. “I can ask Dexter to help me. He won’t mind.”

  With annoyance, Marie looks at me. “Can’t you go through it with him quickly? It was meant to be in yesterday.”

  “Fucking hell, Marie!” I snap, hammering my fist down on the table. “We’re at war! The Facility is gone! Most of my friends are dead! And the city is crawling with vampires! So excuse me if I don’t give a flying-fuck about Joseph’s fucking homework!”

  Marie freezes, her eyes wide with shock, a retort locked away behind her lips.

  With teary eyes, Joseph pushes his untouched plate away and gets up, his chair screeching against the floor tiles. He swings his satchel over his shoulder and marches over to the back door.

  “Where are you going?” Marie asks.

  “School!” he says, spitting his words across the kitchen, and then leaves the house, slamming the door behind.

  In another life, I’d chase him down, tell him to apologise for storming out, tell him to
give his mother a kiss goodbye, but instead I sit in silence, sipping my coffee like a useless prick.

  Marie wipes down the worktop surface even though it’s clean. Anything not to speak to me, or look me in the eye.

  I take a bite out of Joseph’s toast. This is the first time I’ve eaten breakfast in weeks. Lately, everything tastes like cardboard, bland and dry.

  Even whiskey.

  The back door opens and Esther rushes in, her head down, her hair damp and brushed tight to her head.

  “Where’s Philip?” Marie asks.

  “You’re too late,” she replies, stopping in the doorway, desperate to escape the kitchen. “He’s gone.”

  “I want to speak to him. And his parents. I’m not happy with you staying over there. You’re too young.”

  “I had no choice, Mum. It was past curfew.”

  “That’s not the point. You know how long it takes to get home. You have a watch, don’t you? And a phone? And the sky’s right above you. You’re not blind.” Marie peers down at me. “Do you know where your daughter stayed last night?”

  I take another bite of toast. “I’m guessing her boyfriend’s house.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  “Look, I’m sorry, Mum,” Esther says. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Sorry isn’t good enough,” Marie says. “Is it, Mike?”

  “She’s home.” I finish my coffee and take the empty cup to the sink. “She’s safe. What the hell’s the problem?”

  “Aren’t you going to back me up?” Marie asks. “This is your family, too. It’s not fair that I’m left with all the responsibilities.”

  Slipping on my jacket, I chuckle. “Responsibility? You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Please, don’t fight,” Esther says. “We’ve got enough—”

  “I’m responsible for keeping those vampires from breaking down those doors,” I bark. “I’m responsible for keeping my staff alive. Do you have any idea how hard it is to knock on someone’s door and tell them that their husband is dead?” My knuckles pop as I make two solid fists. “Do you? So, why don’t you cut me some fucking slack?”