Blue Skin

by Steven Jenkins

  And we kiss.

  Pulse racing, frozen limbs thawing, I close my eyes and run my fingers through her smooth hair, unable to stop a picture of Freya forming in my mind. Forget about her! It’s too hard because this reminds me our first kiss on the couch. I remember the smell of her hair. Coconut. That feeling of relief that something had finally happened. That nervous energy twisting, turning, shifting into passion. A moment that I—

  For fuck’s sake, Sean! Stop it! You’re kissing yet another stunning girl, on yet another perfect night. That’s two more girls you ever thought you’d end up kissing. Just enjoy the moment and stop thinking about Freya.

  Erin breaks away from my lips, beaming. She gets off the couch, pulling me with her hand. She steers me like a puppy out of the living room, those butterflies multiplying with each step towards her bedroom. “What about your flatmate?” I ask when we reach her white door. “What if she comes home?”

  “She won’t be home for hours,” she replies, guiding me inside.

  Erin closes the door behind us, and a mix of excitement and dread suffocates me.

  Part VIII

  FREYA LAWSON

  22

  The second I open my eyes, I’m met with a dull ache coming from the back of my head. Gently touching it, I wince in pain when I find a huge lump beneath my hair.

  What the hell happened?

  I rub my eyes hard, the disorientation slowly lifting, and start to take in my surroundings. I’m back at Katrina and Wesley’s caravan, lying on the bottom bunk, with the curtain pulled around the bed. I climb off and check the top bunk.

  Where’s Ben?

  A jolt of horror slices through me as I recall last night’s events.

  Ben!

  Body tight with fear, I gingerly pull the curtain over to peek into the caravan.

  “She’s awake,” Wesley says from the table; the sound of his chirpy voice startling me.

  Like a junkyard compactor, the caravan starts to shrink around me, restricting my breathing. Smothering me. I hold a hand over my thrashing heart as I walk backwards, past the bunk and kitchen unit, until I hit the bathroom door.

  “How’s the head, Freya?” Katrina asks, sitting opposite Wesley, shuffling a deck of cards. “Took a good crack last night.”

  I don’t answer her because I can’t. My voice has seized up, my mouth dry, my words buried in terror.

  I need to get out of here. Right now.

  “Hungry?” she asks. Neither of them is looking at me, too engrossed in their card game. What the hell is wrong with these inbred freaks? “Want some bacon and eggs?”

  Attempting to repress the panic in my gut, I try to speak again, but all that passes my lips is an inaudible whimper.

  Katrina finally turns to me. “Cat got your tongue?”

  I lock my sights on the caravan door. The handle is only a metre or so away. Could I get it open before they got to me?

  No, they’ll catch me. Have to be smarter. Take my time.

  The bathroom window!

  “Can I…use the toilet?” I stutter.

  “Of course, you can,” she replies. “You don’t have to ask. Mi casa es su casa.”

  Just before I lock the bathroom door behind me, I glance at the couple. They’re ignoring me again, still focused on their cards.

  The room is minuscule, no bigger than a shower cubicle. There’s a window, but it’s small, as well. I think I could squeeze out. Just. The glass is frosted, so I have no idea if anyone is outside keeping guard on the caravan. I unlock the window and push it open, but it stops, leaving a gap of only an inch or two.

  “Shit!” I say under my breath. In a panic, I push it again, this time harder, but it won’t budge. Examining the window further, I notice a metal latch on each side. I pull them up, and relief temporarily replaces panic when the window fully opens.

  Cautiously poking my head outside, the cold morning air washes over my face. Scanning the area, I see a child’s pink bike lying on its side, a deflated football, but no guards near the back of the caravan. In the distance, there’s a young girl walking her dog, some kids playing, and I smell a mixture of bacon and petrol fumes in the air.

  Stepping up onto the toilet seat, I put one leg through the open window, my fingers gripping a thin shelf above the sink, and then transfer my hands onto the window frame. Heart racing, I slowly lower my body onto the damp grass, one leg at a time. By some miracle, I don’t lose my balance or make any sound at all. I quietly push the window shut, and drop low to the ground, rechecking my surroundings for anyone. Around the side of the caravan, I can’t see Maggie, or any of her goons, just a plastic table and three chairs, a few bin bags, and a child’s red scooter resting upright against a gas canister. The campsite seems quiet. It must be early, but it’s hard to know for sure without a watch. Up ahead, about four or five caravans away, I see a few deck chairs surrounding a huge mound of grey ashes. The remains of another bonfire. Past the campsite, up the hill, stands the large, hangar-like building. The one with the steel shutter and zero windows. Is that where I was last night?

  Is that where they’re keeping Ben?

  No, they dragged Jade from outside.

  About a hundred metres up from the hangar, I see the smaller building. It’s stone, no windows, and another steel shutter at the front.

  That’s where he is. Has to be!

  Practically crawling across the grass like spider, avoiding the windows, I make my way to the other side of the caravan. There’s a silver 4x4 parked up, so I creep towards it, praying that no one from the opposite row of caravans sees me. I straighten, glancing through the passage door to check the ignition for keys. There aren’t any, and even if there were, I can’t exactly drive up to Ben without being seen. No, I’ll have to move quietly, on foot. I’ll sneak him out somehow—and then get as far from here as possible.

  I work my way past several caravans, unseen. There’s a distinct murmur of voices in each home, but nothing more. But for how long? How much time do I have before Wesley and Katrina figure out that I’ve escaped? Any minute, I’m guessing.

  I’ve got to move faster.

  I reach a large gap between two caravans. Body still low to the ground, I grasp the end corner of the caravan and check for people.

  I recoil in fright because there’s a man sitting in the middle of the next row, smoking a cigarette. He looks old, maybe sixty, dressed in blue pyjamas and a red dressing gown.

  Come on, you bastard. Finish your cigarette.

  After what feels like forever, the man stubs the cigarette out with his foot, and then enters his caravan. I let out a sigh of relief, and then carry on forward.

  At the last caravan of the row, I can see that I’m about a hundred metres from the building.

  Do I run over to it? Get there before anyone sees me? Or will that draw even more attention to me?

  I imagine Wesley and Katrina kicking the toilet door open, discovering that I’ve gone. Alerting the entire camp.

  So running is the only option.

  I take a deep breath, scan the area one last time, and then bolt across the field. Within seconds, I reach the smaller building, out of breath, heart pounding hard. I glance back, but no one is following. At the bottom of the steel shutter, there’s a pad lock. I pull on it, but it’s too thick and heavy to break. Skulking across the side of the building, I find a barred-window. I try to look through, but the glass is blacked-out. He’s in there. He has to be. Using the bars, I pull myself up, and then tap on the window. “Ben!” I whisper loudly. “It’s Freya!” I listen out for movement. There’s none. “Ben!” I repeat, tapping on the window even harder. Still nothing.

  Flashes of last night clog up my head. The helpless look on Ben’s face when he saw me. Probably wondering why the hell I wasn’t helping him. In my head, I hear Jade’s neck snapping. That awful cracking sound, like a branch breaking in two.

  I feel sick.

  “Bastards!” I pick up a rock from the ground, and launch it at
the glass. It bounces off one of the bars and flies through the air, landing on the ground behind me. I chase after it, but then freeze in horror when I see Maggie pointing a shotgun at me.

  “If you wanted to see your brother,” Maggie says, calmly, “all you had to do was ask.”

  I try to speak, but there’s a lump in my throat.

  “Wesley!” she calls out.

  Her son appears by her side. “Yeah, Mum?”

  “Open The Hold, boy.”

  Maggie lowers the gun and hooks it around her shoulder with the strap. “Come on, sweetie. Your brother’s inside. Safe and sound.” She walks to the front of the building. There’s a loud clanging sound as Wesley pulls up the shutter.

  Suddenly, the air fills with a deafening shriek as sunlight engulfs The Hold. Inside, I see thirty or forty vampires, shackled to the stone walls. Their bodies smoking as the light sets fire to their skin.

  “Close the door!” I scream. “Close the door! Now!”

  “I thought you wanted to see your brother,” Maggie says. “He’s in there. Didn’t you see him?”

  “Close it! Please!”

  She shrugs, taunting me. “Are you sure?”

  I barge past her, grab the shutter, and pull it down until it slams into the concrete.

  “Go to hell!” I cry, slamming my fist into Wesley’s nose. He flies backwards, landing on his arse, cupping his face.

  Maggie laughs. “Jesus. I love this girl. She reminds me of my mother.”

  Wesley scrambles to his feet, his fists clenched in retaliation, and charges towards me. Maggie holds out her arm to stop him. “Calm down, ya big lump. She got ya good. Just accept it—and maybe I won’t tell your wife.”

  “How long do you think he’s gonna last here?” I ask, my teeth grinding, fingernails digging into my palms. “How many more fights before a vampire snaps his neck?”

  “Well, that depends on him. From what I witnessed last night, your brother’s a tough little bugger.” She snorts. “Can’t see many blues wanting to go up against him.”

  “Jade didn’t have a choice.”

  “True.” She takes out a pack of cigarettes from her coat. “But neither do I. This world is splitting at the seams. Survival of the fittest. I may not like the HCA, but I respect what they’re trying to do. We can’t have blues ruling our streets. But, it will happen. Eventually. As long as women keep giving birth to those freaks of nature, the HCA will lose. Humanity will lose. And this place will get swallowed up.” She slips a cigarette into her mouth and lights it. “But in the meantime, I intend to keep going, keep living.”

  “By murdering people?”

  “Murdering who? Jade?” She coughs with laughter, almost losing the cigarette. “First of all, Jade is not human. And secondly, I didn’t kill anyone last night. Your brother did. And if I remember correctly, he only stepped up to the mark when you gave him the nod.”

  “You had a fucking gun to his head!”

  “As I said—survival.”

  “Fuck you!” I snap, spitting my words out like rancid meat. I go to the shutter and hammer my fist against it. “Ben! I’m here! I’m gonna get you out! I promise!”

  “And go where, Freya?” She points towards the campsite gates. “Back to home? Back to Newton Port? Believe it or not, you’re safer here.”

  “Safe.” I fake-laugh. “So, where’s Jade’s father, then? Where’s Simon?”

  Maggie doesn’t respond.

  “You killed him, didn’t you?” I continue. “You murdered him.”

  “I offered him refuge here, for as long as he wanted—but he refused.”

  I shake my head in disgust. “And then you shot him. Am I right?”

  “He attacked Wesley. Tried to smash my boy’s head with a crowbar.” She pauses, glancing over at her son; his nose gushing with blood. “It was self defence.”

  “Survival. Yeah?”

  She turns to Wesley. “Now she finally gets it!”

  He doesn’t react, still seething from the punch, his eyes locked onto mine.

  Maggie slaps her hands together. “Right! Enough talk. We’ve got some work to do. This farm doesn’t run itself. Wesley, take over from Mark at the gate, and send Paula to the barn.”

  They both start to walk away, leaving me unguarded outside The Hold. For a moment I consider running, maybe coming back with help. But there’s no one out there for me. No family. No friends. Police. Government. I’m on my own.

  Maggie stops in her tracks, glimpsing back at me. “You coming, or what?”

  The thought of following this bitch anywhere makes me want to vomit, but I find myself following, nevertheless. When we reach the caravans, Wesley splinters off towards the entrance, and Maggie leads me down through the middle row of the campsite. It seems most of the residents are up and out of their homes. There’s a couple sitting outside, eating cereal on their plastic furniture. I see a little boy carrying a heavy container of water.

  And there’s Katrina, standing outside her caravan, like nothing at all has happened. Like I’m a lost kitten returning home.

  “Look what I found,” Maggie says, and then walks off.

  Katrina shakes her head at me, smiling. “Hungry, Freya?” She moves aside for me to enter. “I’ve got some bacon and eggs on the grill.”

  For a second, I’m frozen, lost to despair, unable to think of a solution. And then, in defeat, I take a deep breath, swallow hard, and step inside the caravan. I sit down on the bed, my back against the tiny window, and my eyes on the sink filled with dirty dishes.

  Katrina closes the door behind her, but she doesn’t lock it.

  There’s no need.

  23

  I look away, cover my ears, but the snapping sound leaks through my hands, anyway.

  Ben is standing over another dead vampire.

  The crowd of drunken, deadbeat arseholes are alive with cheers, with applause, thrilled to see another victim of my brother. Maggie is sitting on her stool, the gun pointed at me, that smirk still etched across her face.

  She’s big, strong, but I could take her in a fight. I know I could. I’d smash those yellow teeth of hers, crush that fat, red nose with one strike. But what would that accomplish? She has too many followers. Too many guns. Maybe if I was on my own, I could make a run for the gate, take my chances on the road. But I could never leave Ben.

  He tries to stand, but his knees collapse, his left eye bruised and swollen. One more beating like tonight and I doubt if he’ll last another fight. There’s a scar across his forehead. It’s been there since last week. He’s not healing properly. Too many hits, not enough blood.

  Ben doesn’t look at me as Wesley marches me past the pit, through the crowds of beer-swilling monsters. As I reach the steel shutters, I listen out for his words in my head, but there aren’t any.

  “Stay strong,” I weep.

  I’m not going anywhere…

  24

  I dip my fingers into the bucket of grain and pull out a handful. The chickens know it’s feeding time because they’ve started to circle my feet, fighting to get near the bucket. I throw the grain into the air, spreading it as wide as possible. There’s a cloud of feathers as they scramble to get fed, selfishly barging past each other

  Survival.

  Maggie’s right. No matter what the species, not matter how strong, how significant, we all do it. Even me. Why else would I be here?

  It’s been picking with rain for most of the week, but I’d still rather be out here, damp and cold, in the mud and shit, than inside the caravan—still living with Katrina and her oaf of a husband.

  “Spread it out more evenly,” Wesley says from the behind the chicken fence. “Make sure the little one’s get some grain, too. The big ones are greedy buggers.”

  I should tell him to piss off, tell him to shove his advice up his fat arse. But what would be the point in that? Arguing with these hicks won’t get me out of here; it won’t break Ben free. So, instead I just nod my head, take out another h
andful of grain, and do exactly what the prick says. He glares at me through judgmental eyes as I sprinkle the grain, waiting for me to screw up again, so he can bark another order. I bet it makes him feel like a big man. I bet he always has to play catch-up with his mother, always has to prove himself to her.

  I could ask all these people what their stories are, find out exactly what brought them here. And how much shit, how much brainwashing, they would’ve had to endure for them to think that imprisoning me was okay. I mean, I guess some of them just turn a blind eye to it, pretend that it’s for the greater good. Survival, and all that. Or maybe Maggie is like one of those crazy cult leaders, or extremists, with the ability to persuade others to do awful, unforgivable things.

  Or perhaps I’m being too harsh on these people. Maybe some of them are planning some sort of military coup, and I’m seconds away from someone busting Ben and me out of this farm.

  But then I peer down at the campsite, at some of the residents, and I see them doing their chores, cooking on their barbecues, watching TV from their caravans, walking their dogs, and I realise that none of these worthless dicks are capable of anything more than farming.

  From here, I can see every watchtower. They’re all manned with armed guards. I’m sure I could take out at least one of them, slip over the fence, make a run for it. But how am I supposed to get Ben out of The Hold? The lock is too thick. I could try and get the key from Maggie or Wesley, but there’s never a good opportunity. Maybe I could steal a shotgun from one of the guards, shoot the lock off. But the noise would draw too much attention, and then I’d have to shoot my way out of here. And with just a double-barrel, I doubt I’d get very far.

  Maggie has a handgun. If I could break into her caravan, steal it, sneak out, and—

  Screw sneaking out! I could just shoot that bitch in the face! While she sleeps! It’s not like she doesn’t deserve it. It’s not like she wouldn’t do it to me—in a bloody heartbeat!

  The thought of escaping, wiping out all these people, burning this entire farm to the ground fills me with excitement. But it’s just fantasy. Something to occupy my mind while I’m stuck here. There will be an opportunity to escape. I’m sure of it. One that doesn’t involve murdering everyone. I’ve just got to bide my time, seize the right moment, and pray that Ben can hang on just a little longer.