Blood Prize
Authors: Ken Grace
First published in 2014
Copyright © Ken Grace 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Maktub It Is Written
Freeburgh VIC
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.maktubitiswritten.com.au
Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the
National Library of Australia
http://catalogue.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 0 9924265 0 7
Cover design by Ilian -
http://ilgeorgiev.elance.com
Acknowledgements
Thanks must go to Katie Grace, for her editing and publishing talents and her marketing expertise.
To my wonderful mother and father, Wanda and Arn Grace, who never gave up hope in their son.
To Jenny Bouda, another wonderful woman who never stopped offering her belief, support and knowledge.
To Jane, Michael, Cassie, Adam and Nic Fenton, for endlessly suffering my ideas and for their support.
I extend an extra thanks to Nic Fenton for his expertise in producing the trailer film for
Blood Prize
.
I dedicate this book to a woman of raw courage and loyalty, who never stopped believing. My beautiful wife, Katie.
P
rofessor Alexander Fox turned and glared at the men behind him, silencing their chatter.
“That’s not a pretty sight, is it, gentlemen?”
He turned and sighed as he looked out over the plain.
Incompetent bastards. They don’t give a damn.
His ground-penetrating radar equipment rippled in a vast lake of heat-haze distortion, one hundred metres to the west, with no operator in attendance. He spat a globule of saliva into the sand and faced the two men following him.
“What on earth is wrong with you? We find the remains of a large carnivorous dinosaur and you both go back to the shed for beer.”
The professor tilted his head and stared at them over the rim of his glasses. He expanded his lungs and let out a long resonating groan.
“Get going the pair of you. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
He watched the two men retreat. They shuffled along with bent backs and drooped shoulders, making small clouds of dust as they dragged their boots through the dirt.
“Idiots.”
Finding an unidentified Tyrannosauropus species from the late Cretaceous period justified all of the toil and the dollars, yet for some unknown reason, his well-paid moronic staff didn’t bother to inform him. He felt like wringing their necks. A unique find in the Winton region of Queensland rated as a significant story; a tale worthy of a press conference, not a drunken boast from some seedy bar.
As he watched the two men shrink and then disappear from sight, his dark thoughts became a rant; his voice sounding angry and bitter.
“I’m surrounded by a sea of morons. I’ll just have to take over the dig and get this baby out of the ground myself.”
He studied the information sheet that he wrenched from his staff. A layman could have compiled a better report, yet it contained enough information to suggest that the skeletal remains could be dated to at least sixty-five to seventy million years ago and that the creature measured nine metres in length and weighed in at over a tonne. He also determined from the report that the horned skull contained more than eighty curved and serrated teeth, in jawbones that appeared to be longer than any previously recorded specimen.
The professor tensed as he lowered himself into the old steel-framed chair. He proceeded with caution. He knew from experience that the lack of padding exposed several bolt heads that protruded towards his advancing buttocks. After managing some degree of comfort, he fixed all of his attention onto the high-definition monitor of his Farrow and Fraser imaging equipment.
He began by studying the nature of the subterranean environment.
There doesn’t seem to be anything unusual here.
He widened the coverage area and recalibrated his equipment. This time he did see something, so he reduced the field of vision, captured the identified target area and magnified it, tightening the images for the best possible focus.
You’re kidding me.
The professor pulled away from the monitor in confusion. He felt stunned. He tried to stand, but needed the support of the machine to steady himself.
“Bastards.”
He turned away from the screen and glared into the empty horizon, as if daring some offender to come forward.
“What the hell’s going on here?”
His staff lived for pain-in-the-arse party tricks.
Could such an elaborate ruse be possible?
No. No, it couldn’t.
He slowed his breathing in an attempt to calm himself. He needed to think, to understand. He wanted to believe what he just witnessed, but how could he? Below where he stood, the ancient rock sheltered a sealed environment that just happened to contain the absolute over-the-top impossible.
You’re a scientist … Come on man. Act like one.
The professor forced himself to take another look at the screen and his breathing became ragged. He could see seven intact skeletons in one section of the cavern and something else that he found truly disturbing. To his knowledge, nature didn’t produce square containers with precise measurements and especially ones that included handles.
He blinked, shook his head and spoke to the machine as if he expected an answer.
“These are manufactured items.”
He knew his hypothesis created more dilemmas than answers. For one, solid rock surrounded the objects in question.
How could any kind of manufactured item turn up in a naturally enclosed space?
This problem required clarity, which meant focusing his brain cells towards some degree of professional comprehension.
He held his breath and rechecked the screen. The images remained precise and clear. Not something he imagined.
“This defies logic …”
The professor knew that differing perspectives could be deceiving. Two years ago, in 2015, he heard a story about a group of Aboriginals who lived not far from the dig site. In all of their years, this group of people never got the opportunity to experience rain and when it eventually fell on them, after a lifetime of dry, they ran in all directions shrieking, as if the melted sky fell in droplets around them. He knew how they felt.
“Like I do now … Shit-bloody-scared.”
He closed his eyes and tried to relax.
Could this be the hand of man or a natural occurrence?
He knew that God fashioned most of our reality, leaving the rest of creation for humanity. Technical equipment existing in a time-sealed space as old as the dinosaurs didn’t fit into either scenario, it just didn’t make sense.
The professor rubbed the sting of perspiration from his eyes. His shirt sleeve acting as a facial mop.
Come on man … Focus. Start with the skeletons.
The depth and age of the surrounding sedimentary rock meant that the bodies must be at least many millions of years old; information that went against all teaching from big bang to now.
He considered the skeletal remains to be humanoid in structure with little to no deterioration of the bones; noticing that they lay along the cavern’s floor in a perfect row.
It’s a burial site … Behaviour determined by culture.
He compared their size against his own.
“Bloody hell … They’re giants.”
At close to four and a half metres in length, they measured more than twice his own height.
This is remarkable. It changes everything.
The professor closed his eyes and took in a long slow breath.
He knew what it meant to have giant, technologically advanced humanoid beings existing here millions of years before us.
Every-damn-thing I’ve ever believed about where we came from is wrong.
T
om glanced into the murky surroundings of the Old Royal. Ten steps in any direction and a person’s features began to disappear and he suspected that this remained the reason for the pub’s popularity at five in the morning.
He slowed his breathing and listened.
He could hear fragments of conversation from the shadowy booths along the far wall. He squinted into the gloom and noticed the cautious glances of the occupants.
Bloody scoundrels …
He grinned at his thought; this group of crooks invested in the commodities that didn’t find their way onto the London Stock Exchange.
Tom sat close to the rear exit, facing the entrance. He knew the local police often raided late-closing establishments in the hope of raising their wages, so he needed to determine an escape route; a good strategy, except that an attractive female shared his booth and blocked any chance of a speedy getaway.
He didn’t know her real name so he called her Jacqueline. Her need for secrecy made him feel a little uneasy, but he liked her anyway, even though the giggling and the constant need for eye contact distracted him.
No … Don’t make stupid comparisons. Don’t even think about it.
He wanted to enjoy the moment and not have to consider her as a possible partner, which meant judging her; weighing up all of her positive features against the inevitable negatives.
It’s ridiculous. No-one ever weighs up … I’m not sure I’ll ever find her.
Where other males got off on alcohol or drugs, his one obsession wore a dress. All the men he knew seemed to love football and violence, but he loved women; all women, and especially one very specific kind of woman. He often wondered if he conjured her in his mind, or if God placed pictures of her there; giving him glimpses and clues so he could find her in the immensity of it all.
Why this constant need? It drives me crazy.
He didn’t understand; only that coming close to any dark haired super-slim women with a certain face and body shape made his physiology change, causing perspiration, trembling muscles and involuntary heavy breathing.
What kind of dark magic could bring someone to their knees with a glance?
Unfortunately, his obsession devalued everyone else, which seemed unacceptable when he viewed it logically.
He felt her staring at him so he cleared his thoughts and decided he needed to focus on her; a real being of flesh and blood who deserved his attention, rather than a phantom who drove him insane.
“Tom, can I ask you a personal question?”
He winced, but nodded.
“What do you want? Outta life, I mean.”
Tom looked away from her towards the ceiling to hide his discomfort.
“To be happy, I suppose. What do you want?”
“Money. I’m sick of being dirt poor.”
“The whole world’s poor. Only the Church and the ultra-rich have money.”
“They’re revolting. I hate them. Why do they have everything and I have nothing?”
“The Church controls everything; even our bastard politicians. It’s supposed to be evil to want money.”
“Then why do they have so much?”
“You’re asking the wrong person. I’m as poor as you.”
She pursed her lips and looked away and Tom felt a moment of relief; thankfully, the ‘do you ever think about having a family?’ question, didn’t eventuate.
When she turned back, her smile made him shiver.
“Tom … Hold me.”
He obliged, wrapping an arm around her soft shoulders and feeling the warmth of her back ease against his chest. He sighed as she turned and raised her face towards his, closing her eyes and slowly parting her lips. Tom accepted the invitation and her kiss felt soft and wet, and full of promise, so he ignored the stale breath and the unruly blond hair that tickled his face.
Her boldness surprised him as she took hold of his hand and began to guide it. He closed his eyes and let her take control, allowing his fingertips to become the sole agent of his understanding of her. He sighed again, this time more loudly, as his fingers fired the language of her body up an ascending pathway to his brain, sending shivers through his body; even his blood felt hot, as it rushed towards his extremities.
Tom held his breath. His hand slid up under the cup of her loosened bra and grasped the weightiness of her breast; the touch of its erect nipple sending shockwaves through the palm of his moving hand.
“Tom …”
She moaned and placed his right hand under her skirt. He needed no further encouragement. He stroked the inside of her thigh, easing his hand slowly upwards. Her legs parted as he felt the tops of his fingers brush against her panties and the mound of her Venus. He felt the hair bristle against her underwear and the muscles of her right leg clench and unclench, then she stiffened and pulled from his embrace.
Tom followed her movements; she stood with her back to him; patting down her attire.
“Is something wrong?”
She giggled.
“I’ve got to go to the toot. I’m about to burst.”
Tom fidgeted with impatience as he watched her disappear towards the toilet. Every moment waiting for her return, felt like an hour of tension.
He slid across the bench, until his back rested against the wall. This way he could see her coming back, but nothing happened. Ten minutes dragged by and his apprehension increased.
Where the hell is she? She couldn’t have left, not without a word of goodbye.
Another ten minutes dragged by and Tom continued to fidget. The idea of going into the female loo didn’t thrill him, but it seemed like the only way to discover her whereabouts.
Tom made a quick decision. He slid across the bench, stood and tried to flatten his own clothing. He remained crumpled and unruly and snorted his disapproval as he turned and walked towards the restroom doorway.
I felt a connection … She couldn’t have gone.
After several steps, he noticed someone watching him from a booth beside the exit. He stared back at her wild auburn hair and beautiful face; his stomach contracting as he attempted to hold her gaze. Their contact felt intense and sexual, yet without any sense of flirtation, or attraction. He thought about saying something, but her cruel smile kept him silent. As he turned and walked away, he recognised the sick feeling in his stomach as alarm.
He refocused and entered a hallway with several doors. A sign above the left one read: Hen’s WC. Tom felt apprehensive as he reached the entrance. He knocked and called out, but no-one answered. He waited for several seconds before slowly pushing on the door with his index finger. It creaked open.
Alright. I have to do this.
Without waiting any longer, he slipped through into a brightly lit room, the harsh light forcing his eyelids to compress; his pupils contracting as he adjusted to the glare.
As he slowly became aware of his surroundings, he began to notice the whiteness of the tiles, and the walls and the ceiling. He also noticed three cubicles against the far wall, a sink with a hand towel dispenser and a waste paper basket to his left.
He walked towards the centre of the room and felt something soft move under his boot. Without meaning to, he kicked the white leather shoe further into the room. Only when he bent to pick it up, did he notice the discolouration. From a crouched position, he could see under the middle cubicle door, to where red liquid pooled out towards him. He could also see two feet; one without a shoe.
Tom ran to the partly opened door. He held his breath and forced his head into the gap.
“Jacqueline?”
He stared at her in disbelief. His date lay back against the cistern with her partially severed head resting against the wall; her throat slit wide and gaping; her eyes open, as if she still focused on her killer.
Tom cried out and backed away from her.
“No.”
He fell against the door, his back sliding down its surface until he crouched just above the bloodied floor tiles.
A rush of nausea overwhelmed him and he vomited.
Tom’s head pounded and his eyes blurred with moisture as he forced himself to rise.
My God … What the hell am I going to do?
He couldn’t wait for the police; not around here. It might have been the year two thousand and sixty one, but time didn’t change the facts. His piece of London represented extreme danger. In the East End, police dished out their own idea of justice, especially the hated Special Religious Police. Over the years he witnessed so many beatings and even worse; summary executions.
Like everyone in his part of the world, he knew the penalty for disobedience. He hated that neighbours ratted on neighbours. The SRP ruled the streets with networks of informers; exploiting everyone’s fear. Billboards everywhere declared that by being above the law, the legal system remained unclogged; keeping gaols from spilling over, but he knew this rubbish meant nothing to the mothers of those that went missing.
Calm down … Breathe … Think.
He closed his eyes and tried to compose himself, drawing a fitful breath as he took a last look around. He knew he shouldn’t leave incriminating evidence at the scene, but survival took precedence. Then he noticed his reflection in the mirror and baulked at the drained face staring back at him. He looked shrivelled and bent; ancient for a twenty-year old.
I can’t believe this. It’s … so senseless.
The nausea came back; rising with his fear. It felt debilitating and instinctively, he knew he needed to push through the panic. He felt wretched. He looked back at the mirror, clenched his fists and willed his features to transform themselves. He pulled back his shoulders, puffed out his chest and straightened his body to its full height.
Instead of a stranger; a tall young man with unruly blond hair and a gammy elbow stood before him. Would this person be tough enough to survive? The expression on the face in the mirror seemed unconvincing.
As he re-entered the hall and hurried to the rear entrance, he thought about who might have seen him in the bar. He remembered the striking auburn-haired woman and his fear intensified. He couldn’t see a solution other than luck. The only plan he could think of required him reaching his parent’s house undetected, gathering some gear and laying low somewhere, until he could figure out what to do.
Tom … From here on, you need to run.
He moved away from the pub as quickly as possible, following the network of narrow alleyways that stretched to the south. Darkness and fog made visibility difficult. Despite his urgency, each step required careful attention. Worn soles skated across slippery cobblestones and stumbled over heaped garbage. He slowed. He couldn’t compromise his mobility; an injury might prove fatal.
When he reached the first intersection, he heard footsteps behind him and his fear returned. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The person following moved at a similar pace and stopped when he stopped.
Tom ran and the muffled sounds behind him paralleled his own. He felt exposed and vulnerable as he reached the first of several lit crossways. He staggered out under the cone of light, with his collar up and his chin on his chest; just another drunk on the way home to his hovel. As soon as he reached the safety of the darkness, he pushed himself against a wall and waited to see who followed him. Someone committed bloody murder and he needed to avoid it happening to him.
Footsteps
…
Keep still.
Tom held his breath and flattened his body harder against the wall. He saw a shape appear, lurking at the far edge of the circle of light and a man stepped out into the open. His collar stretched up to touch the brim of his hat, hiding any facial features from view.
Tom ran; softly at first for the benefit of stealth, then faster, as he outdistanced the possibility of his hunter hearing the sound of his footfalls. He thought he held an advantage with his knowledge of the alleys, yet that remained an assumption better served by speed. Fear affected his thinking, yet in a moment of clarity, it occurred to him that if the killer knew his identity, could he ever be truly safe? He needed a way to determine what this scoundrel looked like; a place where he could view him from close quarters, yet a place dark enough that the man didn’t need to hide his features.
Tom slowed and allowed his pursuer to catch up. An old, barely legible sign marked: ‘Lane’s End’ revealed his chosen hiding place.
His plan depended on this narrow cul-de-sac and he hoped that the man following him didn’t know the way over and through.
Hopefully he’s not from around here.
Most locals knew that this area once contained parkland and little else, but a severe shortage of housing thirty years earlier, turned the place into a shantytown with tiny streets. Over time, the tin dwellings became brick and mortar, but the maze of narrow alleyways remained.
Tom hurried towards the rear wall. He joined his hands around a water pipe and used his arms as a sling, pulling himself up until he reached the safety of the building’s roof. He hid himself behind a row of dripping pipes, with enough of a gap for him to see down into the alley and remain hidden.
Down on the street below, the only illumination came from several undraped windows, where local East Enders readied themselves for another day of labour. The uncovered bulbs providing enough light for him to discern the small area of cobblestones and grimy walls, and hopefully the face of a determined killer.
