Bad Blood (Battle of the Undead Book 1) (7 page)

“It’s okay. You can come out.” I reached out to grab her. She snapped at me like a terrier after a biscuit. I moved my wrist back just in time to see her teeth clatter together at the force of her bite.

Nicholas kicked over the table, and the girl stared up at us. She was dressed in a fluffy pink onesie. No more than two years old. Blonde curls matted with blood from her half-eaten ear. Her eyes were milky and wide.

I swiped my blade across her tiny throat, and her head rolled off.

“It’s the police!” A voice from behind a nearby desk drew us.

I jumped into the air and landed on the desk to see who’d shouted. There were people
—a man, a woman, and a teenage boy with no hair. They cowered below me. The hairless boy was clinging to a wheel chair, the man had his hand hovering over the chair’s handles, and the woman had crammed herself so far beneath a desk I could only really see the end of her lack-luster ponytail dangling down her white coat.

“We’re not the police,” I stated.

“But we are here to help,” Nicholas added. He put his hand out to the lady. When she got up, I noted that her name tag said “Dr. Watts,” and her white coat was splattered with gore. The man was in a white shirt and trousers that had fared better. His name tag said “Henri,” and his almost jet black skin set off his clean white uniform perfectly.

As Nicholas helped the adults up, I put my hand out to the boy. He narrowed his eyes then took it. When he stood, I saw that tubes still dangled from his nose and his skin bore patches where monitors had been attached.

“I’m Danny,” he said. “I’ve got cancer.”

It was probably the standard introduction he made whenever he had met a new person. He looked about fourteen, but I figured his illness had thinned and weakened him. I guessed he was closer to sixteen or even older.

“Britannia,” I replied, and nodded.

He held my hand to his forehead.
“You’re cool,” Danny whispered.

He wasn’t. He was burning up.

“Who are you?” Dr. Watts had regained her composure and had let go of Nicholas’ hand.

“We’re
…” I scrambled for an answer that would put them at ease.

“
All you have right now. We can take you some place safe,” Nicholas said.

God damn Nicholas and his quick thinking.

“Where?” Henri had a strong French accent, and I guessed he was an orderly.

“You’ll find out soon,” I said, trying to sound confident but vague. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw zombies, a rumbling mass of dead flesh rolling down the corridor, spilling toward us.

“Oh no!” Dr. Watts stepped back.

Nicholas swept her into his arms. He’d picked his survivor to protect.

I scooped up Danny so he
gripped monkey-style to my front, then reached out to drag Henri with us. We ran.

Knowing how many zombies were on the ground floor car park and the heavy sea of teeth and rot rolling behind us, we had to make an impromptu aerial stunt to get out and past them all and into the semi-safe streets of London.

Nicholas pulled the doctor to his chest and ran straight out of the first floor window. The shattering of the glass was ear popping, and the zombies below all looked up. His momentum took him straight on top of a parked ambulance. He slid the doctor through the back doors, broke the necks of a few curious zombies, then slipped into the driver seat—was he leaving us? That bastard! I’d stopped at the broken window to watch his escape. Danny’s shallow breaths puffed against my neck, and Henri’s sweaty hand clutched mine. I felt my anger climb me like a shook-up can of soda, its bubbles threatening to explode.

“What do we do?” Henri put his hand on my shoulder.

The touch jolted me, and I almost bared my teeth at him, but caught myself and quickly looked away. I let Danny slip out of my arms. The zombies behind us had nearly caught up, and the time for making plans was almost over. If I went after Nicholas, I’d be leaving Henri and Danny to die. I turned to Henri. “Piggy back.” I bent so he could climb onto my back. He was a big guy, probably six foot plus. He hesitated and raised an eyebrow. “Don’t make me say it twice!” I yelled at him.

He climbed on, and I straightened with his weight on my back. I motioned for Danny to do the same on my front. He did
—it was like wearing warm flesh armor. I’d carried much more weight in the past, so jumping through the window was not difficult. Henri screaming in my ear, however, was distracting, so I overshot the jump and landed in front of, rather than on, the ambulance.

“So nice of you to finally join us, Britannia. I thought you weren’t coming at all,” Nicholas shouted.

I jiggled Henri off my back and herded him into the ambulance, then carefully pulled Danny off my chest.

“That was awesome,” he whispered to me.

Nicholas started the ambulance, and about two hundred dead eyes swung our way. The zombies in the hospital, who had been chasing us, were now dripping out of the window in a slow, gravity-fuelled pursuit. Ragged limbs crushed together as they struggled to right themselves quickly enough to join their undead brethren on the ground. I watched as some of the smaller zombies disappeared beneath the waves of the struggling mass.

“Waiting for a written invitation, Britannia?” Nicholas pulled his head back into the ambulance just before a fast zombie grabbed for him.

I swung up onto the top of the ambulance and Nicholas pulled away. I knew that the undead weight massing in front of us would be enough to topple the ambulance, so I stood astride it until the tarmac ahead was fully crammed with zombies. I then pulled out my scythes and leapt off into the clawing horde.

I kicked, twirled, and sliced. Limbs dropped around me like it was raining wormy flesh—obviously one of the plagues they’d forgotten to include in the Bible. As I worked, Nicholas kept on the move by easing the ambulance a foot behind me. Hands grabbed at me, but I was too quick. It was like a dance, only I had hundreds of partners who all wanted a piece of me. Teeth grazed my skin, and torn fingernails slapped against my clothes. All I could think was, if we were playing
“who killed the most zombies today,” I was going to win bloody hands down.

The ambulance
labored as it climbed the fleshy mountains of decapitated zombies. I started to clear the way by throwing the sliced appendages at the remaining zombies. My speed was superhuman, and the force I threw behind each severed-limb projectile had them lodging in dead eye sockets and skulls. The ambulance had a clearer path and started to gain speed behind me. A sharp toot on the horn by Nicholas and I knew it was bearing down on me. I jumped upwards into the sky and landed square on its roof. It picked up speed so my hair was now like a tangled rope trailing behind me. I finally undid my messy braid and freed it. I crouched down and took an unnecessary breath, then threw a look of regret in the direction of Philippe’s house. He hadn’t been at the hospital and we couldn’t stop to look for him.

On the journey back to The Dead Hare, I heard Danny below whisper, “That was even more awesome.”

And, although I might have heard this wrong, I think Nicholas replied to him, “Britannia truly is awesome incarnate. She continues to amaze me.”

Chapter Six

We arrived back at the Dead Hare and shuffled our new wards inside. The sun was beginning to rise and, now that I was still, I could feel the ever thudding thrum of red hunger starting to sing inside me. I poked my head into the lounge area to check on everyone. All were asleep, with Satan standing guard. I patted his head and turned to go back outside.

“Don’t let dead flesh dull your blades,” Nicholas called to me.

Cryptic weirdo!

I pulled myself up the building until I was sitting on the pub’s roof, and I watched the sun rise, gentle oranges giving way to violent reds. The sun didn’t care that the world had gone to shit. It still got up every morning and went to bed every night. It didn’t bother about who it shone on, what it illuminated. It did its thing regardless—I kind of admired it for that, even though I knew it was a massive lump of solar gases spinning and shifting millions of miles from me. I wished I had someone to share this moment with, even though I knew it was a selfish, fleeting wish.

On top of that roof, I realized I had been living two lives simultaneously ever since I became a vampire. On the outside, I existed in a blood-drenched, murderous rage fuelled by revenge, but in my quiet, more human moments, I imagined life as Langdon’s wife and mother to his children. I’d be waiting atop a block of flats for a newbie vampire to come lolloping out of the shadows and, at the same time, imagine I was down below in one of the flats, cooking dinner, reading stories to my children, laughing with Langdon. I would be stalking a foreign vampire hunting my streets, but in my mind, be taking a moonlit stroll with my love as we talked about our next holiday destination. So far, my inner life had kept me sane. I could count on it to pull me through the darker nights. Now, though, as I sat watching the sunrise over a London sizzling with apocalyptic decay, I was glad I had no love, no children, and that I was alone to deal with it. No one should have to witness her city burn or hear the undead groans of an army of flesh eaters getting ever closer.

I’d have to feed soon. So would Nicholas. Our wards deep down had to know what we were—monsters. Only we weren’t being as up front about it as the zombies. I dreaded what was going to happen next
. It was one thing to suspect someone stepped out of a Gothic Blue Book. It was quite another when they actually clamped onto your jugular and started sucking out your life juices.

You always remember your first. That’s what
they
say, and whoever
they
are,
they
are right. My first real lone kill was a highwayman. Not as romantic as you might think. Historical romance novels deliberately neglect to tell you the whole story behind such liaisons. I was free of Nicholas and had traveled back to my family, only to find them all dead of malaria. I assumed responsibility for the family fortune, which back then was massive. To avoid suspicion over my youthful appearance, I declared myself my own daughter from an illicit tryst and simply slipped on the family’s estate as if it were a wayward shoe. It fit perfectly, so no one said anything. Also, I was very angry back then, so random cousins fifty times removed didn’t even try to take a run at the family money, regardless of their need or nature. At that time, I was determined to stave off the temptation to drink blood, yet another petty rebellion against Nicholas, so I took to riding my horse at night in an attempt to busy my mind.

I met him on an open road heading to Canterbury. I smelled him before I saw him. It was like a mixture of rotting vegetables and piss—romantic, eh? His white shirt was open, more due to its lack of buttons than out of his pride in his muscle-bound chest
. Also, his belly protruded over his belt to such a degree that he would have needed a shirt twice the size to close it properly. He pulled a pistol on me and demanded I dismount, give him all my jewels and money, then undress. Certainly not the best offer I’d ever had, but I gave in to the first request and dismounted. He was shorter than I was—at five-foot-nine, I was nearly a giant back then, and most men took an instant dislike to a woman who emasculated them just by her sheer presence.

He spat on the ground by my boot then wiped the lingering spittle from his mouth. I felt a rush of desire swarm my skin like an army of sticky red ants. I then leapt forward, sank my teeth into his neck, and ripped open his jugular. I decided then and there, as I licked the remnants of Shorty the Highwayman off my fingers, that I would never again deny myself blood. It was the one thing my new body demanded, and who was I to deny it this most basic need? I may not have liked what I was, but I sure as hell was going to make it work for me.

Alas, no stinky highwaymen were tucked away in the Dead Hare. All below were frightened and dependent on me. I had to find another source of sustenance. I stood, stretched, and jumped from the building. I sprinted up the empty streets and back into the heart of London, this time in a more familiar role, that of the lone hunter.

Less than twenty-four hours
, and London lay as if ravaged by Godzilla on steroids. Buildings raged with fires that no one was left to fight, so their flames had easily infected their neighbors. Shops had been broken into and looted—whether for profit or survival I couldn’t say. Although, I feared the lack of flat screen TVs on the shelves indicated a misguided desire for profit. Never underestimate people’s stupidity—zombies couldn’t be bought, and I doubted they wanted to watch too much TV. They had one-track minds that understood nothing but the supply and demand of the living flesh they consumed.

Clusters of undead still milled about on the streets. Unlike vampires who spent most of their time alone, these guys seemed intent on congregating. Zombies were social creatures. I moved fast through the streets, so fast that they barely caught a wisp of my scent. I really didn’t feel like killing
…them. I reached Trafalgar Square and climbed the statue of King George
IV. Cast in cold bronze and rough granite, he was astride his steed atop a plinth. I pulled myself onto the back of the king’s horse and flung an arm about his waist, his draping metal cloak digging into my thighs. I breathed in to try to catch the delicate scent of someone living. Pre-zombies, such an exercise would have been pointless. The familiar tug in my nostrils of a smorgasbord of prey had always been a constant. Now, though, sniffing out a potential meal was like trying to find a certain delicate flower in a massive, mold-ridden garden. It took about twenty minutes and several poses on the statue, but I eventually picked up a scent.