The corridor took them past the entrance to the dining area. Even by the light of their torches they could still make out a dark patch where the blood had been inadequately cleaned up only days before. It was a constant gruesome reminder to everybody of the horrors that had befallen so many of them on the base and it always made Millington reflect. As they passed the door Bannister seemed to sway slightly and leant against the wall for support. Millington was about to ask if he was all right when he thought he felt, rather than heard, a disturbance coming from somewhere in the dining hall.
“Did you notice anything?” he asked.
Bannister said nothing but Millington felt uneasy. “Let’s just take a quick look inside.”
He pushed the door ajar. Tentatively he peered through before quietly leading Bannister into the dining room, probing the dark with his torch. He gingerly stepped around a table and chairs, taking care not to bump into them. Bannister slowly followed his friend. The faintest of sounds just beside him in the darkness was accompanied by the delicate perfume of wisteria. Unnoticed by Millington, after a few moments Bannister’s torch remained still. It hung from a limp hand at the side of his body. Had Millington turned around he might have seen Bannister swaying rhythmically behind him as though to some unheard beat, like a snake rising out of a basket at the behest of its charmer. Had he shone his torch into his old friend’s face he might have noticed the glazed look in his eyes that were now focused on infinity and the sweaty pallor to his skin. Unfortunately however he was too preoccupied to consider checking on his friend. There was a shift in the air pressure, like driving through a tunnel at speed or as though someone had opened a door, allowing the faintest of draughts to circulate. Millington felt the hairs on his arms rise. He could see nothing. He checked himself and then moved forwards stealthily. There was something, he just could not put his finger on it. His bare feet hardly made a sound. He partially covered his torch with his thick fingers in order to reduce its glare and adjust his eyes to the dark.
Suddenly he thought he saw a shadow somewhere in the depths of the kitchen. He turned and made his way in a crouch towards the serving hatch which was roughly where Bannister’s torch now pointed. To his left he felt a movement. He whipped his torch around but there was nothing, just the ghost of his imagination. Again, the hairs on his arms. He continued cautiously. As he neared the hatch he once more had the sensation of movement and twisted to his right. Again nothing. He turned back to the kitchens and removed his hand from the head of the torch.
In the beam standing right in front of him was a figure roughly the same height as he was himself but much thinner, with a willowy frame like an escapee from a prisoner of war camp. His arms were emaciated, ending in long, delicate fingers and cruel looking nails. They were more like claws with a layer of black dirt under them, as though the person had literally burrowed his way under the walls of the kitchen to be there. He was dressed in dark clothes but it was the pale face with the sunken, piercing blue eyes that caught Millington’s attention. They looked terminally sad, pitiful, as though the man had been crying for a lifetime.
“Who the hell are you?” Millington shuddered as he stepped back in shock and dropped his torch. His heart was racing and his palms now slippery with sweat.
The man tilted his head in an odd fashion, jerked it to the side like a bird of prey spotting a small rodent in the grass far below. He drew his lips back, revealing long yellow fangs in the gently swaying light from Bannister's torch. He hissed like an angered swan, crouching slightly as though tensing to spring.
Millington had not a second to prepare himself. Adrenaline was pumping throughout his body. As the man crouched he stepped back instinctively. The man lunged suddenly with amazing speed. It was only because Millington was so on edge and moving already that he was able to react in time. He flinched and raised a foot, lashing out in defence. With the combined speed of the assailant’s advance he was able to strike him with force in the centre of his chest and knocked him back a couple of paces; after all, Newton’s third law applies to every creature, be they human or vampire.
Although Millington was roughly the same height as the man he must have weighed many kilos more. Millington’s body was significantly more bulky but without a wasted pound of flesh. His muscles and sinews were finely honed through a lifetime of rigorous training, fighting and competing in tournaments. It was as though he had spent his entire life preparing for this confrontation, for this one pivotal moment. He could have spent another twenty years of constant, hard training however, and it would not have got him any closer to being anywhere near ready for this titanic clash.
Through years of practicing combination attacks Millington instinctively followed up the successful kick with a punch, catching the man hard on the cheek. Ordinarily a strike so forceful would have sent an opponent reeling and Millington was surprised that the blow to the face hardly moved the other. He took it calmly. His watery, penetrating eyes fixed resolutely on Millington, but now the red tinges at the edges looked to be burning with rage rather than bloodshot through tears.
“Who the fuck do you think you’re messing with?” Millington growled. Like the Alsatian that Farzin had dispatched so recently, Millington had few physical equals and was unused to being challenged. But, survival is never a guarantee, even for the fittest. His bravado was powered by his adrenaline but may not have been so strong if the dim lighting had afforded him a better view of his opponent. Had he time to contemplate the situation he might not have been able even to muster the strength to defend himself. Millington ducked and grabbed at his torch. He stepped swiftly forwards again and swung it hard. It was approximately thirty-five centimetres long, made of toughened aluminum. It would have made a reasonable weapon against an ordinary opponent, wielded with such force. It seemed as though Farzin would not move but at the last moment his hand flicked up with impossible speed and deflected the torch, knocking it out of Millington’s grasp and sending it crashing into the depths of the kitchen. Millington followed the attack with another kick but this time Farzin was faster; much faster. He grabbed the foot and hoisted it up, sending Millington literally somersaulting backwards. He crashed into tables and chairs. Wood splintered and glasses smashed.
Back in the conference room the sound of the fracas brought the hushed conversation to a sudden end. There was a rapid exchange of glances before they all leapt at the door. If they had known that their colleague’s life depended on their speed they could barely have moved faster.
A shadow from behind Bannister detached and moved closer to Farzin, hissing gently in his ear.
“Come my love, don’t toy with him. Let us be out of here quickly.”
Farzin ignored the admonition and stepped forwards slowly towards the floundering man. Millington’s arm hung by his side at an awkward angle as he pitifully tried to get back to his feet. He backed away from the slowly advancing vampire. Desperately he turned to his friend who still stood mesmerized by the door, his torch vaguely illuminating the macabre scene.
“Get outta here mate, run.” Even when faced with such extreme peril his thoughts were still for his friend, the protective instinct running deeply through his veins.
Farzin struck Millington with the back of his hand. He broke his jaw and cheek bone, sending him flying once again through the air. He crashed through more furniture virtually at Bannister’s feet and on this occasion he did not have time to get up. Farzin was on top of him as he landed. In the idle light of Bannister’s torch it seemed as though the dark figure engulfed Millington like an oil slick surrounding a floundering seabird. Bannister hardly moved. His vision was still fixed on one of the other shadows with an expression somewhere between rapture and hunger.
Suddenly the door was flung open and light from several torches penetrated the darkness. Denny shrieked, “Vampires!”
He fired his pistol at the silhouette crouched over Millington, screaming and advancing defiantly. Farzin had heard their approach before they even got
to the door. He looked up from his feast as they entered and roared, a visage full of fangs and fury. Denny fired then fired again, his own rage and mental instability making him seemingly immune to the terror in front of him. Farzin leapt up and away in a single bound, into the shadows of the kitchen. The torches tried to follow him but it was impossible. He was gone already.
With the shots fired, Bannister seemed to be roused from his catatonic stupor. For the first time in a while the fog of blindness lifted and he saw his best friend choking at his feet. He gasped as reality flooded back, threw himself down beside Millington and clutched at him, wailing inconsolably. “What have I done? What have I done?”
“You’ve done quite enough.”
A pair of strong hands hauled him off the choking man whilst Singleton knelt beside him, but it did not take a doctor to diagnose the situation. Millington’s throat had been unceremoniously ripped apart. The air coming up from his lungs was filled with blood and red bubbles spewed forth like froth at a pontoon. His eyes were open and staring upwards as he tried to talk but he formed no coherent words.
Singleton frantically tried to stem the bleeding but it was clearly hopeless. Even in a well-equipped hospital this man would have had only moments to live. She started to weep with frustration and bitter sadness. “I can’t, I can’t,” she sobbed.
Bannister shook himself free from the hands that held him and he scrambled back to hold his friend’s head. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
For a moment Millington looked up and focused on his best friend. He closed and opened his mouth a couple of times like a fish out of water and it looked as though he might be trying to smile. He held his bloody hand up and touched Bannister’s cheek but then his spluttering started again and the bubbles spewed forth once more. After several painful seconds of labored breathing and choking the bubbles ceased.
Nobody spoke. It was like a scene from a nativity play with the holy family in the stables shrouded in their own pool of light, with blood adding a ghoulish taint to it all. Finally there were footsteps from the kitchens.
“Whoever they were, they’ve gone,” Wood said in a quiet voice. “They came in through a window but there’s no sign of them now.”
Bannister was sobbing uncontrollably, cradling Millington’s head in his arms. Singleton tried to put an arm around his shoulders to comfort him but he shrugged her off. “This is all my fault, I’m so sorry.”
In an insane moment such as this, it was Denny who, for once, represented the voice of reason and brought them back to reality. “Just because they’ve gone from here, it doesn’t mean they won’t go elsewhere. We’ve got to start some patrols and protect everybody.”
“He’s right,” Lewis snapped. “We need to get everyone in the same room right now.”
Lewis motioned to Wood to follow him and started towards the door when they heard the sound of commotion. There was a scream in the night, then a raised voice and more shouts.
“Come on!”
The two soldiers ran through the door and straight into Newman. He was out of breath and pale. There was a slash of blood across his forehead.
“The medical centre,” he panted looking terrified, cowering behind them.
Lewis needed no further explanation. He turned to Denny as Wood started sprinting. “Stay here and guard them all,” then he ran after Wood into the night.
They reloaded their Brownings as they ran, slapping the magazines into place as they arrived at a scene of total carnage. In the dim candle light Hanson’s body was protruding out of the door of the medical centre. He faced upwards with open, sightless eyes into the night. His head and chest looked as though they had been doused liberally with tins of red paint and there were splashes of blood all over the nearby walls and even on the ceiling. They did not pause but stepped around him quickly and entered the room within. A trolley bed had been overturned and a table lay smashed on its side.
Howes sat in a chair by the desk holding a hand to his neck as blood spurted through his fingers. There was so much already that it seemed incredible there was enough left in him to cause such an outpouring. As they entered and rushed to him he turned to look at them, holding his other hand out towards them in a desperate plea for assistance, a pitiful and terrified look in his eyes. He tried to talk but not much more than a burbling sound came out.
“Stay with me man,” Wood screamed, “don’t let go.”
Howes tried again to speak, his choking voice coming out in rasps. “The horror,” it sounded as though he whispered, although Lewis could not be sure. “The horror…”
Wood got down on his knees as Lewis looked on helplessly. Wood placed his hands on Howes’s neck, over and around Howes’s own hand. He tried desperately to stem the bleeding but Howes was already slipping away. His eyes rolled upwards, his body started to convulse violently and he keeled over to the side, sliding from Wood’s grasp.
“No, stay with me,” but it was too late. Wood had seen enough death in the field before, but it never got easier to bear. For all of his cold exterior and front line experience, he never really adjusted to watching someone’s life snuffed out, to witness the departure of someone’s soul, the end of somebody’s story.
Gently Lewis placed a hand on Wood’s shoulder. “He’s gone. I’m sorry but we’ve got to leave him. We’ve got to check the others. Keep on your guard in case the vampires are still nearby.”
Wood took a moment and then rose to his feet. Blood covered his hands and arms and was splattered over his face and much of his clothing. Behind his normal, hardened look there was a new sadness, possibly even a vulnerability.
“Yes sir,” he said quietly.
Lewis looked in on Darby expecting the worst but he was still on the bed, still unconscious and undisturbed by the vampires. He checked Bennett next and found the same; he had not been touched. He had not even woken up. Perhaps he was so very deeply asleep that he had not heard the commotion, or possibly the attack had been so sudden and fast that the two men had not had time to even cry for help. Lewis and Wood were still examining the carnage when they heard another scream. They whirled around to face the door to the medical centre and Wood defensively dropped to one knee, both of them training their guns out into the night. There was a strangled cry and the sound of footfalls. Then a figure burst through the door. It was Senior Aircraftman Ric Masters. He stopped abruptly when he saw the two guns trained on him but there was a wild look in his eyes and he was hysterical. He kept on screeching something but Lewis could not understand what he was saying. He placed a firm hand on his arm, trying to instill a measure of calm.
“What is it? What’s happened? Take a deep breath and talk to me.”
Finally he was able to get some sense out of Masters.
“They’ve taken her. They’ve taken my Vida!”
CHAPTER 20
Within ten minutes everybody had been woken and assembled in the dining area with the exception of Darby who remained in the medical centre. Bennett had been wheeled out on his trolley bed. Scovell had been brought in from the guardroom leaving nobody at the gates, and although that was not ideal it was considered the safer course of action at the moment. The armoury had been cleared and all weapons had been issued. In the dim candlelight there were the sounds of sobbing and a gentle hubbub of anxious, expectant whispers, but they were all listening out for an announcement. Denny had unquestioningly abdicated the role of addressing the station. Lewis now stood at the front of them and cleared his throat. Immediately there was silence. All eyes were fixed on him, with the exception of Corporal Berthon and Sergeants Wood, Straddling and Hutchison, who stalked around the outside of the huddled group with weapons ready, warily looking out for any further intruders.
The atmosphere was hushed as Lewis observed them all. The silence was only punctuated by the sporadic sobs of Senior Aircraftman Masters who was in a state of shock and had his head buried in the shoulder of Corporal Reggie Pethard. The loss of his wife seemed to have provided Petha
rd with a deep well of emotional empathy and he had naturally gone to comfort Masters. They had never been particularly close before but tragedy was a real leveler and their shared experience of loss meant that Pethard was perfect for the role. Bannister sat on the floor at the edge of the light, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking slowly back and forth. There was a hollow look in his eyes and he would hardly speak to anybody or meet anyone’s gaze. Lewis felt as though he should say something to the man to console him but at the moment he just did not have the energy. It could wait.
With Pethard being otherwise occupied, the task of helping May Williams look after the two children now passed to her colleague Corporal Newman. He had helped to examine both of them when they had first come to Headley Court and so they were at ease with him. As Lewis was about to speak he was wary of saying anything too frightening within earshot of the children but fortunately both were half asleep, lying in the arms of their protectors. How lucky they are, Lewis thought, to have that assurance of safety and invulnerability. How much he would have given for the same assurance at that moment, whereas in reality he felt nothing but fear and doubt.
“You are all aware that there has been trouble this evening.” This much was obvious. Although Millington’s corpse had been moved, his blood still stained the floor like a deathly Rorschach test. “Tonight has been a truly terrible night and I don’t know where to begin. It is my extremely sad duty to announce the deaths of Millington, Hanson and Howes.”
There were gasps and moans and Lewis felt his voice breaking. He hoped that nobody had noticed and allowed the sounds from his shocked audience to provide him with an excuse to delay, until he had collected himself enough to continue. Finally he held up his hands for quiet and attempted to keep his voice level as he continued. Now, more than ever, they needed a strong leader who would steer them on the right course. He just hoped he still had it in him. And if not, then who?
The Blood of the Infected (Book 2): Once Bitten, Twice Live Page 24