“Water!” shouted Bill.
Beth looked at her father in surprise.
“Get water and sand. Quick!”
His instruction had bought a minute or two. By the time the rescue worker had gone to get sand and returned over the mound, the flames had already died down. Through those that remained, Beth could just make out the charred skeleton. But the rescue worker was so quick to throw the sand it killed the flames and obliterated the bones.
Nothing remained. The clothing had burned up with the rest of it, and the rubble all around was charred black from the intense heat. It was the only proof that what had just happened really had happened.
Beth had destroyed evidence of her own kind, at the request of this man who called himself her father. She felt inhuman, alone. She looked beside her and though the face hadn't changed, Beth didn't feel like the man she was seeing was her father anymore.
Bill spoke to the worker, but through frantic thoughts Beth only picked up on a word here and there; “… moved that … fire erupted … oxygen”. It was a cover-up story. Was this going to be her life now? One lie after another? Bill's face was hard and cold. He spoke with deliberation, purpose, and made every word seem real. The worker nodded along, swept along by the confident deception.
It was clear to Beth that none of this was new to him. And knowing that, she couldn't stand to be around him for one second more.
TWENTY-FIVE
FROM GLOBE BUTCHERS, Bill couldn't see the devastation that he'd been surrounded by the day before. Not until he turned onto Gawber Street did he see the destruction. Even in the early morning sun, it was still an eerie place, more so now that the streets were empty. The trucks would be back soon, to carry on clearing the rubble off the roads.
Under his arm he held what he and Jeff referred to as the blood-box. Beth had been consuming over a pint of blood every Tuesday. Today was Wednesday—only a day late in normal circumstances, but what he carried Beth had needed a few days before. She'd disappeared after the incident at the vampire's house and he hadn't seen her again until the evening meal. Then it was too late. With his wife gone to work, Oliver out playing and Mary gone to volunteer at the county hall, now was the perfect time.
Wincing, limping badly—even with his crutches—while concentrating on not dropping the box, Bill got back to the shell of his house. Mary and Oliver had done an amazing job cleaning it all up, but it was now empty, with a simple chain holding the front door closed and blankets covering the windows. New glass was coming that day, but there was still a lot to be done. After threading the chain through a makeshift loop to close the door, Bill walked into the living room to find Beth sitting at the kitchen table. He limped through and placed the box before her. She looked at it, taking in a deep breath, taking in the aroma that he couldn't smell. She took it with both hands and was about to step through the frame where the back door should've been.
“No one's here,” said Bill. “You don't have to go out there.”
“I'm not doing it here,” said his daughter, before she disappeared to the shelter. Bill took a deep breath, got himself a glass of water, drank it in one go and took another deep breath. He went out to join his daughter.
By the time he got down the steps, Beth had finished the jar of blood. It was empty in one hand and she was leaning against the wall. Her eyes were closed. She looked peaceful. He realized then how tense she'd looked before and he wondered how bad the thirst had got. He sat down on the bunk opposite. His daughter didn't move, but he knew that she knew he was there. “Where did you go yesterday?”
Beth didn't say anything.
“I'm sorry you had to go through what you did.”
“I'm not the only vampire you've met, am I?” said Beth without opening her eyes.
“No. You're not.”
“And that wasn't the first vampire you've burned.”
“No. It wasn't.”
Beth's eyes opened and her dark irises held an angry glare. Now she looked like a revenant. “You've been lying to me.”
“No. I've been protecting you.”
“From what?”
Bill hesitated. “From learning too much too soon.”
Beth scoffed and shook her head. “You mean from learning you're not who you say you are.”
“I'm your father.” Saying it out loud always felt odd, but this time even he had to admit it sounded like he meant it.
“No, you're not.”
Bill didn't react, at least not outwardly. Inside he felt something, like hurt. “Elizabeth—”
“Who are you, Bill? Really?”
Her bark threw him for a second or two. Then he weighed up his options. He wanted to say that the more she knew, the worse she'd feel. But he knew she wouldn't give up that easily, and Jeff's words were still ringing. What the hell, he thought. He shouldn't have been concerned with her feelings anyway.
Bill leant back onto a small, folded pile of blankets. Noise and clatter started to come from the bombsite as work to clear the roads restarted. But it was distant and the sounds drifted into melody as Bill momentarily tensed his jaw before blowing air.
“It was 1926. I'd not long turned twenty-one …”
* * *
My old man fought in the Great War when I was becoming a young man, and like so many he gave his life for his country and those he loved. Mother couldn't cope with it, though. She tried to hold it together, but I'd hear her cry whenever she thought she was alone. When she became ill, it was like she'd wanted it, and within a couple of years she was reunited with my father. I was fifteen when I found myself without a family, so I joined a new one and followed in my father's footsteps.
And I was lucky.
The country was in economic chaos and even the army was cutting back, but I was recruited into the Engineer Corps, which turned into the Signal Corps from all the downsizing. I wanted to fight, but communications was the only thing available. Time went by, and after a few years I managed to make it over to Russia to help the White Army. I was stationed there a while and made a bit of a name for myself when I got trapped in a firefight. I stayed my ground, fought despite my limited combat training, and got noticed.
Before long I was on operations with the infantry in Ireland. Looking back it was a harrowing time, but I didn't complain and just got on with my job, and I did it well. It was when I was on leave, back here in London, when I got called up to see the Captain.
By then I was a Second Lieutenant. In those depressed times, that was an achievement of which to be proud and so I wasn't pleased when I was given charge of a delivery. Those kinds of things were what my old friends in the Signals were for. But when you're in the army, if they say jump, you ask how high.
The package was reportedly very important, entrusted to the British Army by an outside organization. As was usual when it came to secretive matters like that, details were sparse. Two men were required and I was partnered with a guy called Bettman. He was a stout fellow, shorter than me but just as rugged, and almost as well known for his heroics as I was for mine.
Back then we relied mostly on trains to get around, especially for the longer trips like this one. Our given orders were to escort our package—a metal box wrapped in thick black tape—not to an address or even a name, but to a set of map coordinates. The whole thing was stinking of some kind of routine military exercise … or a practical joke.
Our train was booked for us, and we found ourselves on our way to the middle of nowhere, with nothing but our usual gear and supplies—and strict instructions: “Recipient to verify contents of package upon receipt. Under no circumstances is package to be opened before such time.”
It took most of the day to arrive at our scheduled station, but with the year being so young the journey was beautiful. The further north we traveled, the whiter the landscape became. Skipton's a small town at the southern corner of the Yorkshire Dales, and as soon as we stepped from the train we commenced on the remainder of our journey on foot. Walking north into t
he Dales under the low sun, we couldn't have been more than a couple of miles from our coordinates when the light bowed farewell for the day, and the snow-covered forest became a cold and harsh landscape. Under a darkening sky we continued deeper into the woodland, and using our leather flashlights made our way to the co-ordinates. We were expecting a temporary army barracks, or campsite, but in the blackness of night all we found was a small clearing in the trees, large enough for the small stone-built hut in its centre.
It was more round than it was square, and into the walls hadn't been built windows, but small angular holes where a few stones had been missed intentionally during construction. Through them we could see the violent orange flickering of a fire, and the air was filled with its smell.
The occupant must've known we were there, for it was as if he were standing behind the door ready to open it when I knocked. He was a tallish man, unkempt with long black hair and scruffy clothes, and I noticed he wore nothing on his feet. Despite his appearance he had a young charm about him, but I was in no doubt that he'd lived alone in and off the land for quite some time. I half expected him to talk in grunts.
“Who are you? Why are you here?”
Normally we would verify the recipient, but with no name or description it stood to reason he was the recipient, and Bettman presented him with the package.
“What is it?” he asked.
Bettman and I looked at each other, confused that the man hadn't been expecting the package. I think we both thought the same thing at the same time; that this was nothing more than an elaborate practical joke. Nevertheless, in the army you always do everything by the book. We were more at ease, but we followed our instructions.
“Lieutenant Bettman,” I said, presenting my stout friend who held the box. “Second Lieutenant Wade, Sir. This package is intended for the recipient at these co-ordinates. We request that you receive and verify the contents, Sir.”
“You want me to open the box?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Why?”
“They're our orders, Sir.”
“Who sent you?”
“Our Captain, Sir. The package originated from an organization outside of the army, Sir.”
The recipient raised one eyebrow. He struck me as being more educated than he looked. Bettman stretched his arms a little more, gesturing for the box to be taken, and finally the recipient took it.
He ran a thumbnail across the tape, in the groove under the lid of the box. As he opened it, his face contorted into an expression of pure fury, but I was too busy putting a hand up to my nose at the smell that was escaping. The recipient roared, dropped the box and attacked.
He lunged past me and took Bettman. In the time it took me as a well-trained soldier to turn and grip my sidearm, Bettman had been taken down to the ground and was kicking and screaming, trying to struggle free of the man on top of him. I would've put money on Bettman in any fight, but he seemed totally overpowered.
I took my gun from its holster, but by the time I had it aimed it was too late. In the flickering light of the fire that escaped through the door, I saw the man bite into Bettman's cheek and tear the flesh away from the bone.
I fired twice, but only the first bullet struck the back of the man. The second hit Bettman in the torso, missing his attacker by a hair's breadth as he leapt to the side and tumbled over onto his feet. He stood, the bullet wound having done nothing, and glanced back at me. For the first time in my life I was stunned. His eyes seemed to flash green in the escaping light of the fire, and his snarling mouth was red with blood that dripped from fangs. I got hold of myself and aimed my revolver but I was too slow as the monster spun and leapt around the corner of the hut into rustling bushes and trees.
Panting, I looked down at Bettman and only then realized he'd stopped screaming. The light caught the edges of torn flesh and made the seeping blood glisten. The left side of his face had been severely disfigured, with rips in his cheek extending from his eye down to his chin. Chunks of flesh were missing outright, bitten clean off. Without the small fleshy lid, he was unable to blink his left eye and that eyeball alone was fixed looking skyward. The grisly cheekbone stuck out and the left side of his mouth was a perpetual sickening smile of bloodied teeth; the lips torn and missing. With his tearful and bloodshot right eye, he looked at me pleadingly. His jaw twitched, but only blood spluttered from between his teeth and I saw then that his throat had been torn clean through; his vocal chords severed.
I raised my gun. He closed his right eye.
Then I only had two bullets left.
I was out in the open, lit up and in plain sight. I had no idea where this monster was, but I knew where he wasn't. I dove through the open door onto the stone floor of the hut and shuffled back up against a rudimentary table. My gun was aimed true at the door. On the step was the empty box, but whatever had been inside had rolled out of the light, leaving a dark patchy trail.
I waited with a thumping heart and beads of sweat running down my face despite the white winter outside. From the corners of my eyes I tried to get a layout of my stronghold. Around the walls to my right were simple tools for preparing and cooking wild food, to my left a wooden bed. The open fire roared behind me. But that was it. There were no other doors, no other ways in or out. The window-like holes in the walls weren't big enough for anything larger than a small animal to climb through, and each had a thick wooden flap that could swing down and act as a blind, though all seemed to be propped up.
My plan was simple: This was the monster's home and it would have to come back sooner or later. When it did, there was only one way in.
After a long while, my arm was aching so much it started to lower against my will. Behind me the fire that had once roared was quietly spitting and cracking. A lot of the light had gone, and a lot of my adrenaline had worn off—but not enough for me to lose my attention. I cursed myself for not grabbing Bettman's gun earlier before I dove in, and the knowledge of a fully loaded revolver barely ten feet away nagged at me. But there was no way I was going back out there without knowing where that thing was first.
The ache in my shoulder grew and began to burn hot. I switched hands and then shifted my weight to get some feeling to my backside. I must've glanced down for not more than a second when my head snapped up at the sound of twigs cracking.
I was being watched.
From over my left shoulder more twigs snapped. My instinct was to turn toward the small hole through which the telltale sound came and I had to use blind reason to convince myself that the hole was too small. I'd seen how swiftly this thing could move and I wasn't going to take my eyes off that door again.
Regulating my breathing, I tried to focus on the still night outside to calm my nerves. Something hit the wall, this time over my right shoulder. It may have only been a stone or a stick, but it was a sharp sound that tried to command my attention and again I fought the compulsion to turn my head. I felt frustrated eyes watching me.
All went quiet once more save for the spitting fire. Perhaps a different plan was brewing in that monstrous intellect. Something sharp scratched along the wall outside to my right, from front to back. It stopped, around where I knew there was a looking hole. And then there was a sudden, sharp exhale of breath.
My control faltered. My head spun around quick enough to see a face covered in dried blood blur out of sight. I turned back to face the front in time to see the man-like monster flash by the door and I pulled my trigger for the fifth time. My aim was off from my sudden movements and a small puff of stone exploded out of the wall an inch from the door. I was down to my last bullet.
Without moving, I strained to look for the other gun on Bettman's body, but his body was gone. Taken. I wondered if some tree-dwelling freak would know how many bullets a Webley took. I'd seen no weapons in here, and while it gave me hope that he didn't know much about firearms, it scared me more to think how he hunted. I kept the gun held out in front of me, with my one remaining bullet ready to fire. Th
e monster had already taken a bullet and I had to consider that one more may not make any difference. My hand trembled at my dire situation.
Outside to the left there was a snap. Not like a twig; this was sickening, like the pulling apart of bones. Then there was another, and another. The monster was busy doing God knows what. There was nothing I could do but wait.
Something was spat in through the lookout hole.
It landed close to my left thigh before unsteadily rolling forwards a bit. Without so much as a twitch of my head, my eyes rolled down to the corner and I saw the finger that had been bitten off just below the second knuckle.
My eyes were wide, but I didn't make any sudden movement or sound and returned my gaze frontward. There was another spitting sound, and I knew exactly what it was that hit my left shoulder. I stayed almost motionless when the third bloody stump hit the back of my neck and rested in the lip of my collar. I shuddered slightly and it rolled down my back, which only made me shudder more. Regardless, my eyes and aim stayed focused on the door.
The eerie silence returned briefly. The monster's latest tactics had failed.
The sound that came next was unimaginable: a chorus of breaking bones, muffled only by the squelching of ripping flesh. It was almost enough to make me vomit. I flinched when something sprayed across my face at the same time a soft, vaguely rubbery lump landed on my thigh and rolled down to the floor between my legs. It was Bettman's heart, having been viciously ripped out. Thick blood still oozed from a punctured ventricle.
I hadn't even realized I was staring down at it in horror until I heard a snarl in front of me. When I looked up the fiend was already in mid-air, with hands like claws stretched out and fangs bared, ready to tear me apart. I flinched to the left as my gun went off. The beast's roar turned to one of pain, but the sharp nails of its left hand dug into my right shoulder. I was thrown against the makeshift table with such force it slid and smashed against the wall. I went down to the floor and the injured monster tumbled onward, its momentum ripping its hand out of my shoulder.
No Shelter from Darkness Page 19