Blood Type: An Anthology of Vampire SF on the Cutting Edge

by Watts, Peter

  A noise behind made her turn. Shadows emerged from the mouth of the alley, not too far behind them. Increasing her speed, she passed Kevin. He must have been aware something bad was coming and ran faster as well.

  Twenty metres... fifteen... nearly there... ten...

  Kevin surged ahead of her and slammed into the double doors of the small police station, which was rarely attended; the local copper, Dave Wilson, had re-routed the station’s phone line to his house to better spend his days pursuing his true love—model railways. Gracie slammed into the door seconds later. Kevin was already there to lock it behind her.

  Carefully scanning the dim and unattended station, Grace moved around the front desk and over to the two-way radio that was humming on Dave’s cluttered desk. “Check all the windows while I try to get us some help.”

  Kevin ignored her, collapsing on the floor and shaking like a leaf.

  “For fuck’s sake, Kev, pull yourself together.” Grace grabbed the hand-piece off the arm that held it, pressing the ‘transmit’ button. “Hello. Anyone out there? Help!”

  Nothing. Just the background hum of a live frequency. Grace studied the dials on the front of the radio, looking for a switch or a button marked ‘Press for Help’. Nada.

  Kevin was still curled up on the floor. No help there. She studied the face of the radio for another second before she saw it.

  A switch marked Transceive was set to Off. Flipping the switch, Grace thumbed the call button again. “Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

  It seemed like an hour but was likely only a second before there was a response.

  “This is the Gunnedah Police. This is a restricted frequency. Please do not broadcast on this frequency. Over and out.”

  “Wait, I need help. I’m in Warcoola Police Station and we’re under attack.”

  “Ma’am, please clear this frequency or you’ll be in serious trouble.” The voice on the other end managed to sound bored even over the radio.

  Grace had had enough. “Listen, you stupid cockhead. We. Are. Being. Killed. Here. I saw these things kill my customers. We need help here. Now!”

  “What things? Where’s Dave? Tell him this is not funny.”

  “I don’t fuckin’ know where Dave is, and to be honest, I don’t fuckin’ care. Most likely he’s dead. Get your arses over here and help us! Please.”

  “Lady, for the last time... please clear the channel. Over and out.”

  “Hello? Hello?” Nothing.

  A sound made Gracie turn towards the front door of the police station. A shadow cast by the streetlight moved across the pane of wired-glass, hunched and angled.

  Grace looked over behind the desk where the station’s weapons were kept in a locked cabinet. Moving around the desk, she grabbed a baton that was leaning against the wall and started hammering at the padlock, unmindful of the noise. They know where we are, she thought. Grace could almost feel them gathering outside the station, waiting for God-knows-what.

  With a thump from the baton, the lock on the gun cabinet sprang open, hanging useless and broken. Grabbing it, Grace withdrew it and opened the latch. Pulling the cabinet open, she saw an automatic pistol in a holster hanging from a hook on the door. Inside the cabinet, leaning against the back, was a pump-action shotgun.

  Yes! Just like the one Dad taught her to shoot with.

  Grabbing the pistol, she stuffed it into the waistband of her jeans.

  Something banged against the door, shaking it in the frame. Grace grabbed the shotgun and two pistol magazines, stuffing the mags in her pocket. Finally, she grabbed some loose shotgun shells from a glass bowl and got to her feet, turning towards the rear of the station where the cells were.

  The first thing she noticed was that Kevin was nowhere to be seen. The second was that the door to the lock-up was closed. She was sure it had been open when they came in.

  “Kevin?” Keeping her voice low, useless as that may be, Grace looked frantically around. No sign of him.

  Another crash behind her caused her to spin, bring the shotgun up and disengage the safety. The door was half open, hanging from one hinge and the lock, and as she watched it was hit again, crashing in at the top and coming to a rest jutted into the room like some insane skate-ramp.

  Standing in the gap was something she had never seen before, and after those other creatures she’d thought she’d seen it all.

  It seemed massive and dysmorphic, heavily-muscled and totally out of proportion. Skin as red as Uluru covered corded muscle and sinew, decorated with bone protuberances and scars of old wounds. A rounded face, almost Down’s Syndrome-like in its structure, held a large mouth overshadowed by massive fangs at least two inches long, a vicious parody of a vampire. Its eyes were a solid, icy-white, like a blind man.

  It scared the shit out of Grace, and that aura, the presence she had felt before, poured off the thing in bursts so strong they were almost palpable.

  Unaware of pulling the trigger, Grace was startled by the roar of the shotgun. The creature staggered back as flesh and blood erupted from its shoulder. It roared; a cry redolent with rage and a desire to tear the living-shit out of her.

  Without waiting to see if it fell or not, Grace turned again and raced towards the door that led to the containment area. The crash from behind her announced the thing’s passage into the station. It seemed her only chance lay in the cells and the safety of inch-thick bars.

  Unable to check her speed on the slippery linoleum floor, Grace slammed into the metal door that led to the lock-up at the rear of the cop-shop. Grasping at the handle, Grace opened the door and entered the next room, spinning as the monstrous creature strutted across the reception area, wintery eyes locked on her.

  Fuck! Close and lock, close and lock, close and lock!

  Grace slammed the connecting door without concentrating on the creature’s progress across the room. Knowing wouldn’t help but the fraction of a second to look may cost her life. She fumbled at the lock, trying to engage it as quickly as possible.

  The snick of the mechanism sounded a second before something heavy slammed into the door from the other side.

  Grace backed slowly away, praying the door would hold. It seemed to buckle slightly under the hammering from the creature, but it still stood solid.

  The first thing Grace noticed when she turned towards the two cells was the feeling of safety the reinforced rooms gave her.

  The second was that one of the cells was already closed.

  Through the observation port of the closed door she could see Kevin inside, back to her as he curled on the floor in the far corner, foetal position. Fuckin’ coward.

  Racing into the open cell, Grace grabbed the door and slammed it shut behind her. Ensuring it was locked, she moved over to the narrow bunk and sat down, staring at the port in the door, waiting for the thing to come into view.

  The hammering had ceased, but the angle wouldn’t allow her to see if it had breached the door or not.

  Wait and see, I guess.

  Grace finally broke down. It was all too much to cope with, now that she’d had a chance to process things.

  What the fuck? Am I fucking crazy?

  Curled up on the bunk, she shuddered, silent tears, jerking her chest like a jackhammer.

  So many dead. Is there anyone but us left alive in the whole town?

  She moved off the bed and closer to the door to see out of the observation port. Still nothing.

  She realised that she’d dropped the shotgun in her panic, leaving her with just the pistol.

  The view through the port was depressing. The cheap tinsel hanging from the wall opposite the small opening in the door must be meant to bring some Christmas cheer into the cells, but it failed dismally. It just reminded Grace of how many children would never see Christmas in Warcoola.

  Shots rang out somewhere off in the distance. More followed from a different direction. Grace heard them but couldn’t believe it. She’d almost lost hope.

  A scrabbling a
t the connecting door brought her back to here-and-now. The wooden surround quivered as something immensely strong pushed against the door. With a creak of metal, a bolt popped, followed by another a fraction of a second later.

  With a final screech the whole doorway popped out of the wall, crashing to the floor in front of the two cells.

  Even with the heavy barred door between her and the creature, Gracie took a step back, warm fluid spreading from her crotch and soaking her jeans. Stepping up to the cell, the thing lowered its head and leered at her through the aperture.

  Gracie almost screamed when it grinned and winked at her. Reaching up, it slipped both hands through the small opening into the cell and gripped the door. A grunt escaped as it strained to tear it from the wall, massive forearms bulging with the effort. Veins stood out on its skin as beads of red-tinged sweat appeared.

  For a second, the door itself quivered as though it would give, but the creature sagged, stymied by the strength of the construction. She grabbed the pistol from the shoulder-rig and aimed at one of its hands. She squeezed the trigger like her Dad had taught her so many years ago. She missed, but the ricochet was enough to startle the creature and make it pull back.

  It lowered its head to look at her again. Grace managed to meet its gaze, heartened by the frustration evident on its strangely-human face. Growling in frustration, the thing disappeared from the opening before she could squeeze off another round.

  More gunfire rang out, closer this time. It sounded almost out the front of the building. Flesh slammed against metal as the creature tried brute-force to get to her. The door held, but the second attack sounded different, not as solid. Either the thing was tiring or the door was weakening.

  The third hit showed her which it was. The door seemed to bulge inward a little, the metal crumpling under the force of the barrage. The thing reached through the hole again, gripping the door and trying to force it open with all of its strength.

  With a groan of tortured metal the barrier gave way, the top half bending inwards slightly. The only thing holding it closed was the tongue of metal from the lock itself. Gracie knew she had less than a minute to live.

  The hands gripped the door even harder, one massive burst of strength finally ripping the lock open and sending the door crashing back against the wall, buckled and useless.

  Framed by the doorway, the thing straightened from the effort and locked its gaze on her.

  Flanking it on the left was one of the ghouls, the newly-risen. Drool fell from its mouth, slimy ropes suspended from nightmare jaws.

  The smaller creature took a step forward.

  Shots sounded at the same time an amplified voice rang out.

  “Hold!”

  The ghoul fell to a hail of bullets, its head a ruin, as the massive red creature froze in place. Gracie felt her heart start again as she realised she was saved. Behind the thing, soldiers moved carefully with rifles aimed at its back.

  One of them held a small transceiver. An amplified voice issued from the device. “Do not move.”

  Confused, Gracie took another step away from the motionless creature, her back now against the wall. The pistol hung forgotten in her hands.

  A uniformed officer appeared through the doorway from the front office, looked around the cell area, at the creature still in the same frozen position, and finally past it and right at her.

  “Unlock the other cell. The infra-red showed another survivor in there.” The officer’s voice was crisp and full of authority. A soldier moved to follow his directive. He turned his attention fully to Gracie. “Miss, can you lower your weapon, please?”

  “Not till that thing is dead.” Gracie had no intention of lowering her gun while the creature was so close. She couldn’t understand why it had frozen, either. “Why don’t you kill it?”

  The dull clang of Kevin’s door opening reverberated through the building.

  “Miss, please lower your weapon before we are forced to use live fire. Now.” The officer maintained a calm façade, but there was a definite edge to his voice now.

  Gracie slowly lowered the pistol, not taking her eyes off the thing in front of her. The ghoul had stopped twitching by this stage, silently oozing miasmic fluids in a pool around its mangled head.

  “Good girl. Now put it on the floor.” The satisfaction in the officer’s voice unnerved her.

  Why weren’t they killing it?

  As she followed his instructions, every instinct screamed at her to raise the pistol and start shooting the red fucker, but the rifles in the hands of the soldiers seemed to be pointing at her as much as at the creature itself.

  Another soldier stepped into sight through the door, addressing the officer. “Colonel. All infected have been sanitised.”

  The officer turned to look at him. “Has fly-over confirmed this?”

  “Yes sir.” The soldier saluted and turned to go. The Colonel turned back to Gracie, who by now had carefully placed the gun on the floor by her feet.

  A voice came from the front office. “How did he perform? Satisfactorily, I hope? I believe the infection rate was one hundred per cent. I’d call that a success, hey, Colonel?”

  Gracie tried to absorb what was being said. A success?

  The Colonel turned back towards the doorway behind. “Dr Iser. I believe our superiors will be very happy with the outcome of this test.”

  A test? Gracie couldn’t believe her ears. All this was a test?

  The Colonel turned back towards the cell door. “Call your subject back home while we tidy up.”

  The Doctor’s voice rang out, commanding the creature to follow him. It turned and obeyed, moving past the soldiers who edged away and gave it as much room to pass as they could.

  The Colonel spoke again. “Sergeant?”

  A man clad in black fire-suppressant overalls stepped into Gracie’s line of sight. “Sir?”

  The Colonel gestured towards the two cells. “Sanitize the building, and then fall back. The town will be razed in exactly,” he looked at his watch, “... forty-five minutes. Understood?”

  The soldier looked chagrined. “Sir, yes, sir. May I voice my protest at this order, sir?”

  “Protest noted. Now do your duty, Sergeant.”

  The Colonel spun around to leave as the SAS soldier turned to look at her, sorrow and shame evident in his eyes.

  “Sorry, miss... orders is orders, y’understand.”

  Gracie noted a second black-clad man moving with silent purpose towards the door to Kevin’s cell as the one in her own doorway raised his rifle. She tried to reach down for the pistol. It was too late.

  WARCOOLA STATION: Population Zero

  G.N. Braun is an Australian writer raised in Melbourne’s gritty Western Suburbs.

  He is a trained nurse, and holds a Cert. IV in Professional Writing and Editing and a Dip. Arts (Professional Writing and Editing). He is currently studying for a BA in Professional Writing and Publishing.

  At graduation, Braun was awarded ‘Vocational Student of the Year’ and ’2012 Student of the Year’ by his college.

  He writes fiction across various genres, and is the author of many short, published in Australia and internationally. He has a short story–’Autumn as Metaphor’–in the charity anthology Horror For Good (‘Autumn’ has now been reprinted four other times) and a short story–’Brand New Day’–in Midnight Echo #7, and has had numerous articles published in newspapers. He is the past president of the Australian Horror Writers Association (2011-2013), as well as the past director of the Australian Shadows Awards. He is an editor and columnist for UK site This is Horror, and was the guest editor for Midnight Echo #9.

  His memoir, Hammered, was released in early 2012 by Legumeman Books and has been extensively reviewed.

  He is the owner of Cohesion Editing and Proofreading, and has now opened a publishing house, Cohesion Press.

  TEMPORARY MEASURES

  Jay Wilburn

  “Why three days?”

  Jul
e glanced over at Tempat in her copilot seat and then back at her own controls in the pilot position. “Why did you wait three days to ask me that question?”

  “I don’t know. It just occurred to me.”

  “The ship has been traveling through the void of space for thousands of years now. What difference does a few more days make?”

  “None,” Tempat adjusted the thrusters with her right hand without being asked. “I just find the distance curious.”

  “The standard protocol has always been high orbit. Interstellar autopilot can be tricky after so long a journey. A small malfunction could result in a crash and then a disaster. It is better to have leeway than to have a problem. High orbit is three days. You over adjusted thrusters, officer, bring us back a couple degrees for docking approach.”

  “Acknowledged, adjustment made, Captain.”

  “What did you think it was?”

  “What do you mean, Captain?”

  The women made eye contact briefly. Both looked back on their controls as the behemoth of connected metal pods grew in the forward view.

  “I mean, what answer were you expecting?”

  Tempat licked her lips. “It sounds ignorant now, but I thought maybe it was a superstition about resurrection after three days.”

  “No, officer, it is a coincidence of protocol older than us and our current shuttle engine technology. You are drawing on some very old superstitions for that on.”

  “Yes, Captain, but the way we travel through space draws on an old superstition too.”

  Jule slowed the approach and rolled the shuttle to align it with the alien docking station. She used the sensors to set the width of the airlock to match.

  “I haven’t ever seen a colony ship configuration like this.”

  “Our star systems are far removed. We have not had contact in tens of thousands of years. Our technical evolution has diverged wildly in that time.”