The lands of Wallachia were immensely superstitious and tales of the darker times were held as true by the older folk. When children in surrounding villages mysteriously started to disappear, the locals became fearful that a return to their unmentionable past was imminent and a call to arms was quickly answered. They tracked the killer of their offspring down to a deserted cowshed, far from any habitation. The building was set ablaze as Tania rested within, alone, engulfing her in the flames. Less experienced than Farzin, she panicked and was cut down as she tried to flee. Farzin knew unequivocally that Tania had been innocent of the crimes for which she had been slaughtered. He knew this with such certainty because it had been he who had committed the despicable acts. The fact that mere humans could deprive him of the one he had chosen, the one he cared for, had wounded him deeply. Any last vestiges of empathy or compassion, of humanity, had vanished that day. This had twisted his already bitter heart to contempt towards the pathetic humans for the unforgivable wrong he reasoned that they had done him. Over the years that contempt had blossomed into loathing and an insatiable yearning for vengeance. He was as much a slave to his desires as the impure, that he now viewed so disdainfully, were to theirs. Despite the turning of Flavia, his second, his heart remained aloof and resolutely fixed on the darker emotions; one can never quite replace one’s first, after all.
Every once in a while as he strode towards RAF Headley Court he paused to contemplate something; a delightful blood stain on a wall, an intriguing discarded item of torn and ragged clothing or the beautifully warped chassis of a crashed vehicle with charred human remains in the front seat - such a waste of nourishment, that one. He was not interested in what had happened in each case. Other than the horrors each scenario might have borne witness to, all had one thing in common; they all made him happy, or perhaps rather, they temporarily replaced the gnawing anger in his vampyric heart with the dull contentment of retribution.
He stopped in front of the police station and admired a smear of blood outside the Thai restaurant just next door. I love the smell of blood in the morning, he thought with a malicious grin. The flutter of a crimson, velvet curtain in one window caught his eye and reminded him of a tongue darting back and forth over a recently opened artery, the first, metallic hint of fresh haemoglobin hitting the back of the mouth followed by the lazy decline into decadent revelry as the warm liquid courses down the throat. For a moment he was motionless, thinking back to past lives and past existences that he had erased without care. Some of the faces came to him now but not in a tormenting way, rather as one would look fondly through the pages of an old photograph album. He stood like that with a slight smile for some time and possibly his serene countenance made the German Shepherd feel at ease.
It padded softly towards the dark figure, its tail wagging in hope but its head lowered subserviently. Farzin had long been aware of it before it had known of him and he was irritated by this disturbance of his reminiscing. When the dog was only a few steps away it stopped abruptly, some innate sense suddenly alerting it to danger. Its tail tucked between its legs, its lips drew back revealing sharp teeth and it growled in terror for possibly the first time in its life. An Alsatian tends to be ‘top dog’ in the canine world. During the course of a normal life little might ever happen to frighten one. This feeling of fear was a new and disturbing emotion for it, but one whose taste Farzin was well acquainted with and had developed quite a penchant for. The dog abruptly turned but Farzin moved way too fast for it. He leapt the separating distance and snatched the animal by the scruff of its neck before it could flee, hoisting it off the ground in one thin, pale hand. He held it outstretched at the same level as his face, staring into its eyes as it wriggled and howled in fright. Fear has a similar effect on any animal, be they human or hound, he mused to himself as he watched its pupils dilate and its tongue loll out. It avoided looking at him and writhed and wriggled in his unshakable grasp as he held it still, its whining growing louder and more agitated.
After a while its efforts had subsided a little and growing bored, he shook it with a quick, ruthless flick of his wrist, snapping its neck instantly. With an experienced hand he drew a sharpened thumb nail across its neck, slicing through skin and opening up its vein. A moment later and he had peeled the fur away from the wound. He drew in a mouthful of the distasteful liquid and gulped it down without any enjoyment. He winced and repeated the action before violently tossing the corpse aside with a grimace, sending it crashing through a window of the restaurant.
A moment later two figures emerged slowly from within the building and headed towards Farzin. Both men showed the same ravages of bodily degeneration. Both men had fresh blood over their clothes. The first man shuffled with a pronounced limp and moved slowly. The other, a soldier in army uniform with a shock of dirty, blond hair and bite marks on his neck, was faster and got to Farzin first. Farzin marveled at their enthusiasm and admired their total and complete lack of fear. We can all learn something from even the most basic and ignorant of creatures, he thought as he lashed out with a well-placed boot, sending the soldier flying back several metres. He landed and seemed to be winded for a moment but slowly got back to his feet and again came at Farzin.
Meanwhile with a piercing keening sound the other flung himself enthusiastically at the potential prey. Farzin grasped hold of him by the neck and held him at arm’s length. With the same well-practiced movement that he had used on the dog, he slashed his hand across the man’s throat, parting the skin and revealing a thin, red line. Fascinating how their blood does not appear to flow with quite the same viscosity as that of a healthy adult, he thought. A definite indicator of disease and undoubtedly undesirable to drink. Exactly what would happen to one of us if we were to consume that impure blood though? A very interesting question indeed…
The soldier came at him again and Farzin again kicked him in the stomach, sending him hurtling back, smashing noisily into a metal dustbin. For a second time he sliced his hand across the other’s neck gouging a little deeper and revealing a little more bloody flesh and pulp. The wound was now possibly an inch deep and there was still not all that much blood, although the flow had started to increase. Another slash and the cut was now significant. The man’s knees gave way beneath him and Farzin let him sink to the ground but he still displayed an admirable lack of fear or self-regard. He still grasped at Farzin as his blood flowed freely and seemed determined to do him unto death. The soldier had dragged himself to his feet once more and approached again but perhaps demonstrating a little more caution with this attack. However Farzin now grew tired of the game and this time he did not kick his attacker away. Instead he snatched and grabbed the man by the sides of his head, vaulted around him and yanked him off his feet. He whirled the man around and within less than half a revolution there was a satisfying snap of spinal cord and he released the creature, sending him looping lifelessly through the air.
He turned his attention back to the man he had left on his knees and could not even be bothered to finish the job. Blood oozed and pulsed regularly from the deep slash across his neck and he would not last long. Farzin turned and strode away. It puzzled him why, even now, when human society had dissolved and any semblance of intelligent thought had disappeared, even now these pathetic creatures still tended to group together. Little better than cattle in that respect, he thought as he made distance towards his objective. Flavia had described well enough the whereabouts of the military station and he had more important matters to attend to.
He eventually arrived at Headley Court with a barely controllable sense of delight. As he approached he became more guarded and cautious, no longer affording himself the pleasure of his new-found carelessness. He slowly circled the base, keeping a discrete distance from it, confining himself to shadows and avoiding putting himself in a direct line of vision. He listened and tested the air as he walked, trying to detect any life from within. The scent of humans was palpable and left him feeling a little overwhelmed. He ended up near t
he main gates and sat quietly in contemplation for a while in the shade of a large tree, enjoying the proximity to his prey. He could see the main guardroom within which sat a man in military uniform. He felt an enormous temptation to dispense with caution entirely and just rush forwards and sink his teeth into the warm flesh and drink of the man’s blood, but he had greater plans for these pathetic humans and managed to control his urge. Besides, the expectation was delight in itself; for the present time. He could tell very little from his position on the ground and was considering changing his vantage point when an odd feeling washed over him, that of slight movements below the threshold of normal perception, as though the shadows were elongating with the passage of the sun but moving in the wrong direction. He started to become aware that he was no longer alone. As gradually and silently as melting snow he rose to his feet and turned.
What he saw gave him a thrill and made him smile, his brain working fast. He took a step forwards, for the moment forgetting about the worthless humans in the base behind him. This new discovery was quite possibly the answer to his demonic prayers. He was immediately filled with schemes and possibilities, the plans that he had already considered now seemed adroit and complete. This would herald the downfall of Darius, that pompous, self-righteous fool. He would make him regret every unjust word, every frustrated dream, every time he had been forced to kowtow and comply. This new discovery would also help him to fulfill his long-burning desire to subjugate all these pathetic humans and place himself in an unassailable position as Clan Leader. He smiled once more and opened his arms.
“Well met…”
CHAPTER 6
Both corridors stretching away to either side had double fire doors made of solid wood with a small panel of reinforced glass that did not allow them to see very far beyond in the gloom. Lewis checked that his troops were ready. “I’ll go first, then Hutchison, Singleton, then Samuels. Bannister, bring up the rear, keep checking your six. Ready?”
He did not wait for replies. He moved guardedly towards the western doors. His SA80 was in one hand, torch in the other. As the others moved ahead Bannister prodded Samuels in the ribs and glared at him, ‘no mistakes.’ Samuels looked back at him and missed his step, faltered and clattered into the wall, earning him a disapproving frown from Lewis. He hung his head a little lower and trudged on.
Wood’s group had already disappeared from view up the stairs as Lewis slowly nudged the door open and shone the beam down the length of the corridor. There was rubbish strewn all over the floor, papers from offices, some broken furniture and personal effects from someone’s desk. Towards the end of the corridor the light from the torch glinted off something shiny that Lewis could not quite make out. Seeing nothing moving he opened the door more fully, paused a moment and then entered. His band of soldiers followed him reluctantly into the darkness.
Everything was quiet as they moved forwards apart from the unavoidable crunch under their boots of the debris of disaster. They paused at each office and carefully looked inside. Each time they opened a door a gun was pointing and ready. After peering in they then moved fast into the centre and checked behind the door, weapons following every move.
So far each office was substantially the same; a desk with a chair and a couple of extra seats for visitors; normally a filing cabinet or bureau against a wall, or toppled and smashed; sometimes a white board for displays or presentations, but very little of interest to them at this stage. Occasionally a poignant message or last farewell was scrawled on a white board. God forgive us; save our souls. Barbara I love you. No more! Some of the offices had the titles of those who would be the last ever to occupy them: Dr Pitt – Procurement (Animal), Panoussis - Marketing Strategy, Furtado – UK Sales Manager. In his office there was a large framed photo sat face up on the desk. It was a picture of a smiling family, a man holding his beautiful Indian wife, young baby son in her arms and hope for the future shining brightly in her eyes; all gone now, both the people and the hope. Lewis stared at the photo; death was starting to lose its anonymity and it was hard to come to terms with. Like the people in the photo he was slowly losing any feelings of optimism he may have held for survivors.
Wood’s troops had found much the same on the floor above. There was very little that promised any value to them. The offices here suggested more the mechanics of running a large, multinational company than anything yet to do with the actual drug production or research. There was a clearly discernible odour of burning that grew stronger as they progressed. Half way along the corridor they came across a self-service café where the smell was stronger still. Around the doorway there was a mass of broken furniture. Survivors had been sheltering here. There were two large desks and a couple of tables and chairs that had been used to block the entrance. The barricade had not held as the infected had clearly managed to break in regardless. Wood could almost imagine what it must have been like.
There were vending machines to the right and scattered around them were wrappers from confectionary and empty cans of fizzy drink. A load of buckets and pots were collected in a corner. There was a television fixed to the wall, some garishly coloured tables with hard-backed chairs screwed to the floor and a large sink which had the remains of a fire in it. The room narrowed in the middle, creating a suggestion of a partition from the next section which opened into a more relaxed area with a couple of pool tables and a selection of comfortable sofas, all in bright, simple colours with a proliferation of the company blue scattered amongst them. Some of the sofas had been moved and the cushions rearranged on the floor. There was a notice board behind the sofas with various pamphlets and articles of company propaganda. The rim of the board was thick and made of some kind of dark wood which looked both genuine and expensive. The leaflet that stood out most was a glossy A5-sized advert mentioning the success of Mnemoloss and a celebratory party that had been planned for ‘significant’ employees.
They entered the room and Wood quickly crossed to examine the ashes in the sink. Millington and Straddling joined him. The fire had spilled over onto the floor singeing the dark blue carpet and there were still several broken chair and table legs that had only been half burnt, lying amongst the ashes.
“I wonder why they lit it,” Millington mused.
“Who knows?" Wood muttered. "Cooking? Heat or defence maybe?” There were bloody marks on the wall beside the sink and some shredded clothes scattered around the room. “Lord only knows what kind of horrors took place here and I’m increasingly thinking I don’t want to find out,” he said.
Millington nodded and pointed behind them at the vending machines. “They’ve all been emptied. Somebody must have had an almighty sugar rush.”
“Well we'd better make sure that anyone we shoot is indeed diseased and not just some desperate, dirty survivor who’s crashing after their glucose-overload.”
Wood got on the radio to Lewis and reported their findings. Just then Dr Handley let out a muffled grunt and Mayoh called them over. The two men had proceeded through to the games area where the stench of burning was strongest. A couple of sofas had been set alight and one had been overturned. There was not much left of it other than a few rags of blackened cloth clinging to the charred frame. It was not the sofa that had caught their attention though but what lay beneath it. The burnt corpse of an adult was sprawled face down, pinned under the heavy furniture, legs pointing towards them and hands crossed in front of its face. Its clothes had burned or melted onto its limbs and the skin was all but gone.
Beside the burnt sofa was a slightly charred shoe. There was a long streak of dark, dried blood that led across the room to a corner and some more remains of torn rags and a bloody mess of rotting flesh. None of them got any closer to the corpse as the stench of decaying tissue and the swarm of flies kept them away.
“Poor sods,” was Straddling’s only comment as he turned on his heel. The rest of them stood staring for a moment, before following him back into the corridor. Handley was the last to go, casting one last
morose look back before he left the room.
The corridor was coming to an end and as Lewis progressed it got darker. Fewer doors were open with light spilling in from the windows and they turned their torches back on. The corridor seemed to be more littered with broken furniture. Paper lay everywhere and some plant pots had been smashed, scattering dirt which had been trodden into the floor. Lewis’s torch again picked up the same reflective object. It was a white coffee mug painted colourfully with the words ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ scrawled in a child’s handwriting across the side. It depicted a stick man with blue hair, a red face and arms and a brown torso, holding a golf club.
The penultimate door on the left was open and there was a body lying partly out of it. The corpse was that of a man in a grey suit and white shirt with very blond hair that had come away in clumps. He protruded into the corridor with dislocated and broken legs still partly in the room. He was face down and his arms splayed out in front of him reaching half across the passageway. The sleeves of his suit jacket had been torn down to the dark lining and there was blood on both arms.
As Lewis edged around the corpse he motioned to Singleton to avoid looking at it but to keep her attention focused ahead. Singleton skirted past with her back to the wall, staring resolutely at the end of the corridor. Lewis was pleased that she made no commotion this time.
As Hutchison passed by he was distracted by the open doorway. Something in the office caught his eye. He stepped a little too closely and trod on one of the outstretched hands. Suddenly the body sprang into life with a snarl making them all jump. The diseased man’s head reared up like a cobra in a basket, spittle and rage flying everywhere. Hutchison leapt back with a gasp, stumbling out of reach. The next nearest person was Samuels. The man lunged at him, biting and scratching as he grabbed his ankle. He knocked the soldier off balance and sent him to the floor, cracking his elbow as he landed on the hard surface. Samuels screamed. There was a brief scuffle as the man clawed his way up Samuels’s leg, growling, gargling and biting. He was coughing up phlegm and blood with his fleshy lips pulled back to reveal his rotting, yellow and black teeth and purple gums. Samuels desperately tried to kick him away and scramble backwards out of reach until the shot rang out, momentarily deafening them all.
The Blood of the Infected (Book 2): Once Bitten, Twice Live Page 6