The Pack

by I. J. Smith

  THE PACK

  BY

  I.J. SMITH

  COPYRIGHT

  All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.

  All work is Copyright © I.J. Smith April 2017

  I.J. Smith has asserted his moral rights

  Cover illustrations by I.J. Smith, Copyright © April 2017

  The Pack, names, characters and all related work is Copyright of I.J. Smith

  DEDICATION

  This one was hard for me. I needed to take timeout after an emotional beginning to 2017.

  Six months I did not write a thing, it was a break that I needed to clear my head.

  So, for this book I want to dedicate it to the readers. All those who have been with me since day one.

  Now I am back and working hard.

  Thank you everyone and let’s have a great ending to 2017 and a brilliant 2018.

  TABLE OF CONTENT

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  TABLE OF CONTENT

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  NOT-GUILTY

  It was a warm, beautiful evening; the full moon was huge in the night sky. A young, heavy-built man with short, dark hair was stumbling along the street. He kept swaying from side to side and, at one point, slipped off the curb and fell to the ground. He was so drunk, that he laid on the ground laughing. A young couple walked past him, ignoring him as he laid there.

  “Thanks for the help!” He called after them.

  “Piss off!” The woman replied.

  The man on the ground laughed even louder and rolled onto his back like a turtle floundering. Eventually, he managed to scramble back to his feet. All of a sudden, he began talking to himself.

  “Dad, I know you’re going to groan, but try to remember that you are the one who sent me out.” He started his walk home again. “Also, you gave me the money to go and have fun; I was happy with watching The Walking Dead marathon.” He came to a sudden stop to throw up.

  “Oops. Well, that was a waste of good tequila,” He laughed.

  Back upright, he stumbled and dragged his feet along the quiet street. It was so late that nobody was around. He kept stopping every time he reached a lamppost to steady himself.

  He began talking to himself again. “Come on Tate, get moving. There is a nice soft bed waiting for you.”

  He continued his journey, turning onto a posh street. The homes were all three stories high, perfect sash windows, and black iron gates. The street was clean too; no rubbish, the cars parked along the street must have been worth almost a half of a million.

  He stumbled past the cars, towards a large white metal gate. On the wall was the address, 25 Hardy Street. Every time Tate thought about it he laughed. It always made him think of Laurel and Hardy. Giggling to himself, he struggled to find his keys in his black leather jacket.

  There were steps leading up to the main door. As he stepped up, he stumbled and fell forward exclaiming as he went. Shushing himself, he looked over the top step to see the black front door was open.

  Forcing himself back to his feet looking at the door, he grumbled, “And they always complain about me leaving it open, Bloody Cheek!”

  His vision was blurry as he pushed the door open and announced his arrival with a might roar. “I’M HOME!” Expecting to shouted at by his mother or father, he was shocked when no one came to moan at him for making so much noise.

  He giggled to himself as he walked through the door and into the hallway. He walked slowly, still staggering on a black and white marble floor. “Anybody home?” He asked in a musical fashion.

  Suddenly he slipped, falling backwards, and hit his head on the hard floor. “Fuck! I think I pissed myself,” he muttered. He could feel something cold and wet under his back. He tried to stand but slipped again, this time face down.

  Tate froze; his face was white with fear. He checked his hands to confirm it. They were covered in thick blood. He scrambled back, sliding along the floor; leaving a trail of blood behind him. He backed himself into the edge of a sideboard. Tate began to shake; he looked at the amount of blood on the floor. It was a large, deep puddle; a pure, darkish red. He searched the pockets of his jacket in a panic to find his phone.

  Without a second thought, he dialed 999. “Emergency services, what service do you require?” A female voice said over the phone.

  “Please help me, there is so much blood!” He blurted out, in a panic.

  “Sir, I need you to calm down and let me know exactly what happened?” The woman asked.

  “Blood, blood, a pool a blood,” He was not speaking any sense.

  He dropped his phone on the floor. The female operator’s voice echoed out as he struggled to his feet and walked towards the glass door at the end of the hallway. Already Tate could see the there was blood on the glass.

  He began to panic as he reached out to push the handle down. He struggled to hold back his tears. As he opened the door, he started to gag.

  His twin sisters Emilia and Camille, ten years of age, were lying on the floor in their pink onesie pajamas, all covered in blood. He fell to his knees in front of their bodies; it looked like they had been hacked to death. Their faces and bodies had the same four long cuts on them, like a wild animal had attacked them.

  Tate looked farther into the kitchen. He could see his mother, lying dead with her eyes open. Her blonde hair now a deep red; the same cuts were running down her entire body. Her stomach had been ripped open. He jumped when he heard a grunt; he looked towards the island worktop. His father was sitting against it, Tate was almost sick. He looked to see his father’s chest had been ripped open; his ribs broken and expanded out, revealing his heart.

  Tate noticed his heart was still slightly beating. He rushed over to help, but his father had only a few breaths left.

  “I’m sorry!” His father muttered with his last breath.

  The blood was sticking to Tate; he looked around as his entire family laid dead. What could he do? He just stood there crying and begging for help.

  A sudden noise made him turn. A tall woman with long white hair and moving like the wind pounced on top of Tate. She pressed her nose against his.

  “I can smell your fear.” She told him.

  Tate looked into her eyes; they were white, with just a small hint of black in the middle. He could feel her cold hand running over his body. He could feel the sharpness of her nails against his skin, at one point almost tearing it from him. As she opened her mouth to smile, Tate looked in horror at the two blood stained fangs in front of his face. Tate reached out to a kitchen knife that lay on the floor next to him. He pulled it towards her face, but she grabbed his wrist, the strength of her grip almost breaking it. She took the blade from him, sharp end up, and licked it. The look of delight on her face scared him.

  A male voice spoke out.

  “No, he was not part of the mission,” he told her.

  “Shame, might be a little tubby. But I could play with this one.”

  “Karina! Now!” He told her bluntly.

  She jumped off Tate like a wild animal and rushed to join her male friend at the back door. Tate looked up in time to see both of them had the same type of eyes.

 
; “Police, we’re coming in!” A voice shouted from the front of the house.

  Karina blew Tate a kiss and like the wind they were gone.

  “OH, MY GOD! Johnson, call for back up!” One of the police officers shouted.

  An officer walked into the kitchen. “Don’t move!” He ordered.

  Tate stood up. “Please, they just ran out back!” The officer had no intention of listening and quickly threw Tate against the kitchen island and handcuffed him. “Please! They’re getting away!” Tate begged.

  Almost an hour passed and several officers and investigators were now in the house. Tate had been taken to the local police station. He was put into a locked room alone. He was wearing a white paper onesie. He just sat there staring at the table in front of him; he had even counted the scratch marks on the table. Twenty-four he thought to himself.

  The door opened and in walked bald head older man, carrying two cups of coffee. He was followed by a younger woman in a dark suit. Before anyone spoke the bald man loaded a tape into a machine that sat on a table against the wall.

  “Present is myself DI Hendry and with me is…” he paused to let her speak. “DS Carver.” They looked at Tate. “Can you state your name for the tape please? “But, I-” Hendry put his hand up to stop him. “Just your name, please.”

  Tate nodded, “My name is Tate Litchfield.”

  Hendry sat opposite him. “This is a pretty big mess we have here. Your family has been carved to pieces.” Tate interrupted him. “They were Vampires, white eyes. They would have killed me too.”

  Carver glanced at Hendry. “Vampires?” she asked.

  “Yes, they had fangs. She was strong, almost broke my wrist,” Tate told them.

  “Your clothes are covered in blood; we have a knife which an officer on scene found next to you. Will we find your prints on that knife?” Hendry asked.

  “I was protecting myself.”

  “From your family?” Carver asked.

  Tate grew impatient. “NO! THE VAMPIRES!” Tate jumped from his chair. “Please listen to me! The Vampires killed my family! Please listen!” Hendry grabbed Tate’s arm, but was met with resistance. He was punched in the face.

  As Carver set off the panic alarm, suddenly the room became filled with officers all trying to handle Tate.

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  Hendry and Carver were sat in a large room. They were joined by the Commissioner of Police and a doctor. They were playing a DVD of the interview, showing Tate’s reaction. The Commissioner turned the screen off. “Two weeks and he is still saying Vampires killed his family?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Hendry replied.

  “We found his prints all over the knife. I think this is a pretty open and shut case.” The Commissioner told them.

  “We have no motive. Everyone we talked to have all said what a nice guy Tate is. Would help anyone, and that he had a great relationship with his family. Apparently, he doted on his sisters.” Carver added.

  The Commissioner nodded. “This is Doctor Taylor. He is head of psychiatrics at the Heights Mental Hospital.”

  “So, we think he is crazy?” Carver asked.

  Doctor Taylor spoke out. “He has delusions of Vampires. His story is perfect in every detail whenever he is asked. He needs help. It looks like he has suffered a mental break with reality. He is not fit to stand trial.”

  “So, we lock him up and throw away the key?” Hendry asked.

  “No, he needs help and we will give him that.” The Doctor said.

  “Besides, a judge signed off on a transfer this morning. He will remain in medical care, until fit to face trial.” The Commissioner told them.

  At that point the meeting was over. As everyone left the room, Carver watched as Tate was already being walked through for transfer. This time, he was in a straitjacket and chains around his legs. Carver thought to herself how broken he looked.

  “Take a good look; we’re never going to see him again. They will lose him in the paperwork and forget all about him.” Hendry told her.

  She watched as Tate glanced at her. He looks so innocent, she thought to herself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HEIGHTS MENTAL

  Doctor Taylor sat in a single chair, as Tate was left standing; in his straitjacket in front of him. Two heavy-built guards dressed all in white, and equipped with batons.

  “I am placing you in a secure room for the time being, while you are assessed!” Taylor told him.

  “I’m not dangerous, I never hurt my family!” Tate replied, when suddenly he was hit in the back by one of the batons; by a guard.

  “You will learn the rules very quickly here. Or not, that is your choice.” Taylor told Tate as he waved his hand to inform the guards to take Tate away. The guards picked him up from the ground, and dragged him away. They dragged him to a large solid door, once unlocked they threw him inside. Tate just laid there, looking up at the moon through the only window in the room, which was barred.

  YEAR ONE

  Tate was curled up in the fetal position on the floor, still restrained in a straightjacket. There was a plastic tray next to the door with the food on it untouched. He just stared through the bars to the sun outside. “Vampires! Vampires!” He kept saying it over and over again. The black camera in the corner of the cell zoomed in on Tate.

  Watching Tate on the monitors was Doctor Taylor. Chief Orderly Peck and two more guards stood behind him.

  “I think we will try sedation for a few days. Move him to unit four; it will let us monitor him without restraints.” Taylor told Peck and the guards.

  Chief Orderly Peck led the two guards towards the isolation room where Tate was held. As Peck walked along the corridor, it was like he was head of an army. He had short blond hair, wide shoulders and stood over six feet tall. He stopped in front of isolation room two.

  Tate heard the clanking of keys unlocking the door. As the door opened Peck sounded out like an officer in the Army.

  “Time to move!”

  Tate tried to move, but suddenly he felt himself being lifted up by two men in white. “Please, I need someone to listen! I need help!” He begged.

  Peck moved to face Tate as he was being held up by the guards. Pulling his baton free, he smashed it into Tate’s stomach. As he gasped for breath, Tate felt himself being dragged away. With his feet dragging along the corridor, they dragged him into the room marked unit four. Inside, there was a bed with hand and leg restraints on each side of the bed. The walls painted a pale blue and the barred window was so dirty no sunlight could shine through.

  Doctor Taylor entered the room. “Get him on the bed!”

  Tate did not struggle as they threw him around like a rag doll. He could feel the leather straps cutting into his skin. He laid there crying. “It was the Vampires!” He muttered.

  “Well, this will make them go away.” Taylor says as he pulled a syringe from his white jacket pocket. He smacked Tate on the arm to reveal a vein, slowly he pricked him with the needle, blood sprayed back as Tate was injected. Tate’s eyes began to roll back and in second he was out of it.

  Taylor grabbed the chart at the end of the bed. “Make sure his dosage is increased every twelve hours by five milligrams.”

  As they all left, Peck looked back at Tate and muttered, “You’re fucked!”

  Over the days, weeks, and months, the dosage for Tate was increased. But, every time he was questioned about what happened. He kept saying his word, ‘Vampires’.

  It was late in the night when Peck was doing his rounds, as he stopped at unit four. He looked through the reinforced glass of the door at Tate, who was still struggling to try and get free from his restraints. Unlocking the door Tate walked into the room, pulling his baton free.

  “I gotta get out of here, please!” Tate begged.

  Peck smiled. “You are gonna be a tough nut to crack!”

  Peck smashed Tate in the legs with his baton repeatedly. Tate cried for help that never came. Peck smiled as he watched Tate piss h
imself.

  Moving closer to Tate’s face, Peck whispered. “Now be a good boy and go to sleep,” slapping a sobbing Tate on the face a few times before he left.

  This was a bad year.

  Year Two

  “So, Mr. Litchfield, or should we just stick with Tate,” asked middle-aged woman, speaking in a German accent. “I see from your chart that regular medication and counseling have not worked. Well don’t worry, we will make those nasty vampires go away.”

  Tate was strapped down to a hospital bed; he was surrounded by large machines. Wires were attached to his head. The door opened and Taylor walked in. Tate took notice of how the light glared off of Taylor’s bald head, and in the last year he had grown a grey beard.

  “Dr. Zenkha. I want to thank you for taking time from your busy schedule, to help our friend here.” Taylor told her.

  Tate tilted his head; his hatred for this grew each day.

  “This is such an amazing case. However, I feel we must help this poor man.” Zenkha replied.

  Holding two small metal rods with rubber patches on the end of each, “I warn you this can be a long process; but we have time.” She said and smiled as she turned the handle on a machine. She touched the rods to Tate’s head. His body went into spasm as the electric volts ran through his body.

  Tate opened his eyes just long enough to see Peck smiling through the glass in the door.

  Year Three

  Curled up in the corner of his room, his white clothes dirty, and his feet were filthy. His dark hair had now grown down over his ears. A scraggy, dark beard covered his face. Each day, he barely moved. The Doctors had given up on the shock treatment. Doctor Taylor believed Tate’s brain was fried.

  Tate’s third year in Heights Mental Hospital had been one of routine. Medication forced down his throat and regular beating from Peck, and his guard. During the day, he was now allowed to roam the recreation room, but never left his room.

  In this year, he never spoke.