Blue Skin (Book 1): A Vampire Dystopian Thriller Read online

  Blue Skin

  Book One

  Steven Jenkins

  Contents

  Free Books

  I. MICHAEL MATTHIAS

  Chapter 1

  II. FREYA LAWSON

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  III. SEAN RICHARDS

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  IV. FREYA LAWSON

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  V. SEAN RICHARDS

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  VI. FREYA LAWSON

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  VII. SEAN RICHARDS

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  VIII. FREYA LAWSON

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  IX. SEAN RICHARDS

  Chapter 38

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  For my wonderful daughters. Freya & Erin.

  Part I

  MICHAEL MATTHIAS

  1

  I open the car window, light up another cigarette, and stare at Jacob as he plays on his front lawn. The neighbourhood is quiet, peaceful, like the setting of The Stepford Wives movie. I like it. It reminds me of Grandpa’s old house. Tall trees growing out from the wide pavements. Front drives, big enough for two cars, maybe even a caravan. Perfectly maintained front lawns and flowerbeds. You don’t get this in London, that’s for sure. It’s just smog, traffic jams and bad attitudes.

  Then why the hell do I miss it so much?

  I bet Jacob’s mother hasn’t put any sun-cream on him. He’s going to get burnt out in this heat.

  Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I take a deep breath, tuck in my white t-shirt, and then climb out of the car. For some reason, I feel my heart speed up a little, and a tiny flutter of nerves in my stomach. Why? It’s not like I haven’t done this before.

  “Hi, Jacob,” I say, casually, and then flick my cigarette on the pavement.

  The little boy looks up at me, and smiles, his blond hair glowing in the sunlight. “Hello.”

  “Are your parents home?” I ask, sitting on the low wall.

  Jacob nods and points his Thor action figure over at the cream-coloured house.

  “What’s that you’re playing with?”

  “Thor,” he replies, bouncing the toy along the lawn. “He’s a superhero.”

  “Oh, of course. I used to love Thor when I was your age. He was always my favourite Avenger.”

  “Mine too.”

  “I used to have all sorts of superhero toys,” I say, swinging my feet over the wall onto the grass. “Spider-man. Batman. I even had a Wonder Woman toy.”

  “Wonder Woman?” Jacob asks, like I’ve just said a curse word.

  “Well, it wasn’t mine. It was my sister’s. I used to borrow it sometimes.” I climb off the wall and kneel beside him. “You’ve got a sister, haven’t you, Jacob? Is she home right now?”

  He doesn’t answer, just looks down at the grass, his body stiffening, barely moving his toy.

  “What’s wrong, buddy?”

  “I don’t have a sister,” he replies, still with his eyes down.

  I shuffle a little closer. “You don’t have to worry, Jacob. I’m a close friend of your mum and dad.” I elbow him softly in his side. “Hey, you might remember me.”

  He looks up at me with a confused frown.

  “Oh, wait, I forgot. Babies don’t remember the day they were born.”

  His frown doesn’t disappear, only hardens.

  A small grin forms on my face. “I was your mother’s doctor when you were born.”

  Jacob’s freckled face lights up. “You’re a doctor?”

  “That’s right. And that’s why I’m here. Your mum asked me to come check on your little sister.”

  “Oh, right. I suppose that’s okay then.” He turns and points at his house again. “My sister’s in her bedroom.”

  “Good boy, Jacob,” I say, ruffling up his soft hair.

  “But she’s sleeping.” He starts to bounce his toy along the grass again, this time with added swishing sounds. “She’s always sleeping.”

  I reach into my jeans pocket, pull out my walkie-talkie, and speak into the mouthpiece. “She’s in the house! Move! Move!”

  A loud screeching noise engulfs the neighbourhood as backup soars towards us. The kid leaps to his feet, startled as the white HCA van pulls up in front of the house. The doors fly open and Scott and Chloe scramble out, followed by Nick, who is armed with a steel door-ram. Chloe takes Jacob’s hand and ushers him away from the house, leaving the rest of us to race across the lawn, up to the front door. Scott unclips his stun-gun baton from his belt and then rings the doorbell. There’s no answer. He knocks hard this time. Still nothing. Scott passes me a handgun and I give Nick the nod to break down the door. He draws back the ram and slams it into the centre of the door, splitting the plastic. On the second attempt, the door buckles, the glass panel cracks, and we barge inside the dimly-lit house.

  “Get out of here!” a woman screams, coming from the kitchen doorway, brandishing a small chopping knife.

  Nick drops the door-ram, unclips his stun-gun baton, and prods her chest with it. Screaming, she drops to the floor in a heap, the knife slipping out of her hand.

  “Cuff her,” I order Nick. At the far end of the open-plan living room, there’s a large set of glass, patio doors. The blinds are closed, with the glare from the TV the only source of light. “And get those blinds open now!”

  “Roger that,” he says, clipping a set of handcuffs around the woman’s wrists.

  Scott and I rush up the stairs. At the top of the dark landing, a man swings a baseball bat at Scott’s head, but it catches the wall instead. Scott drives his fist into the man’s jaw, dropping him unconscious on the carpet.

  “Use your stun-gun next time,” I snap. “We’re not savages!”

  “Sorry, boss,” he says, handcuffing one of the man’s wrists to the radiator pipe.

  There are four doors on the landing, three of which are ajar.

  We move over to the only closed door. I twist the handle, but it’s locked.

  Heart racing, I step back and then slam my foot into it, thrusting it open with ease. I reach in and find the light switch on the wall. I hit it, but nothing happens. Scott unclips hi
s torch from his belt and shines it into the pitch-black room. Gun pointed ahead, I follow him inside. As the light bounces around the room, I catch a glimpse of a wardrobe, a desk, a chest of drawers and an empty, unmade single bed—but no sister.

  “We know you’re in here,” I say with authority. “So come out slowly and no one gets hurt.”

  I listen for movement, sound, but there’s nothing.

  I point to the bed. Scott drops to one knee and quickly checks underneath. Shaking his head, he gets back up and then moves over to the wardrobe. Scott grabs a handle and pulls the door open, my gun aimed at the opening. He does the same for the other door. Empty, apart from a few hanging clothes.

  “Where the hell is she?” he asks.

  I look up at the ceiling. “Attic.”

  Just as we turn to leave, something catches my eye. Movement from the top of the wardrobe. I snatch the torch and point it at the large, black mass.

  The light captures a set of bright, yellow eyes and the mass comes alive.

  “She’s here!” I scream as she leaps down onto the bed, silent like a cat. A blanket drops off her naked body as she propels herself through the window. The glass shatters and she disappears outside.

  “Go! Go! Go!” I order Scott, but he’s already halfway out the door.

  From the broken window, I see the vampire lying on the grass in the back garden, her light blue flesh sizzling in the sunlight. Squealing in agony, she crawls across the lawn. Within seconds, Scott opens the sliding patio door and races outside. He unravels his fire blanket and quickly covers her with it. He then rams his stun-gun baton into the side of her neck, and the squealing ends.

  Stepping over the unconscious father, I make my way downstairs.

  “You can’t do this!” the handcuffed mother yells, watching in horror as her daughter’s limp, smouldering body is dragged across the living room and out through the front door. “She’s my little girl, you bastards!”

  She struggles against Nick’s grip on her arm.

  “She’s not your daughter,” I say, slightly out of breath. “She belongs to the government.”

  I sit on the arm of the couch and turn to the woman; her eyes are streaming, snot running into her mouth. “Silly little woman,” I say with a shake of my head.

  “Go to Hell!” she barks at me.

  “We’re already in Hell, love,” I point out. “And that’s why we do this job: to put this great country back together.”

  “You’re just a bunch of monsters!”

  “No. The only monster is your daughter,” I say, motioning with my head at the open front door. “And if you can’t see—” I notice something. The woman is standing slightly to the side.

  She’s hiding something.

  I stand up and march over to her. Her loose-fitting white dress is covering a small bulge in her abdomen.

  She’s pregnant.

  Suddenly, she drives her knee into Nick’s groin and manages to free her arm from his clutch. She then bolts past me, escaping through the front door.

  Before she even gets to the lawn, I fire a bullet into her right thigh, dropping her facedown on the path.

  “Mummy!” Jacob cries from the side of the van, dropping his Thor toy on the pavement. Chloe keeps hold of him as he squirms hysterically.

  I slip the gun into my pocket and walk over to the boy. Kneeling down in front of him, I take his hand. “Your parents are going to be fine, Jacob. They just made a mistake. I’m sure the judge will be fair.”

  “What about my sister?” Jacob asks, tears gushing down his little cheeks.

  I pick up the toy, dust off the grit, and hand it over to him. “I’m afraid you’ll never see her again.”

  Part II

  FREYA LAWSON

  2

  Nine Months Earlier…

  There’s laughter and loud chatter coming from downstairs. I open my heavy eyelids and lean over to the clock on the bedside cabinet. It’s 7:05 a.m.

  “Freya!” Mum calls up, her voice leaking through my locked door.

  I ignore her and close my eyes. Another ten minutes sleep. Twenty if I skip breakfast.

  Mum calls my name again, but twice as loud.

  I groan, staring up at my ceiling, wondering what the hell she wants. She knows my alarm is set for 7:15. Maybe she wants to tell me that she’s finally kicked Tony out onto the street. Or better yet, to tell me that he’s jumped off a bridge because he’s been barred from every pub in Ammanford.

  “Freya! You up yet, love?”

  I rub my face, letting out a drawn-out yawn. “Yeah! Just taking a shower. Be down soon.”

  I rip the blanket off and sit on the edge of the bed. I look around at my bedroom in disgust. It’s a pretty decent size—easily twice the size of my old one—but somehow it’s ten times as messy. The light brown carpet is covered with scattered clothes and shoes, my white dressing table is overflowing with makeup and all sorts of crap, and my bedside cabinet has two half-empty glasses of water and one cold cup of coffee, with murky milk floating on the top, a horrid shade of yellow and blue. And even after ripping down those hideous Justin Bieber and Little Mix posters, my light pink walls still have the marks where the glue has pulled off some of the paint.

  I thought my life would get easier when we left that God-awful flat. A fresh start, a neater, more organised Freya. But that was just a pipe dream—once a messy cow, always a messy cow.

  I’ll tidy it on the weekend.

  Probably.

  After a twenty-minute shower, I dry my hair, put on my makeup, and then squeeze into my denim skirt and last season’s white t-shirt—not having a pound to my name is killing my reputation. I scan my bedroom for my new black boots, but even in this mess I can see that they’re not here. Probably still by the front door.

  I check my face and teeth in the mirror, grab my book bag, and head downstairs.

  Mum is standing in the hallway, her thick blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, her green eyes bright with excitement when she spots me. “Good news, Freya.”

  “Yeah, what’s that then?” I ask, uninterested. I bet Tony got that job promotion. Just another reason to get drunk.

  “I’m pregnant,” she replies, with childlike enthusiasm.

  I throw her a false smile, praying that my face matches her own, but it’s extremely doubtful.

  Mum’s look of happiness dissolves. I guess my acting is worse than I thought.

  Oh, well.

  “Why can’t you be happy for me? You said you’d be more positive.”

  With heavy legs, I walk up to her and hug her. “Sorry. I am happy for you. Honestly.”

  “Good.” She kisses me on the cheek. “Now, make sure you say something nice to Tony before you go to college. He’s got a good feeling about this one. We both have.”

  “Okay, Mum. I’ll try.” I slip past her, heading to the kitchen. In the doorway, I spot Tony, bent over with his greasy bald head buried in the open fridge.

  Maybe I’ll skip breakfast. A happy Tony is even more unsettling than an angry one.

  Just as I turn away from the kitchen, I hear the rattle of the fridge door closing. “Good news, yeah?” Tony says, just as I spot my boots by the front door.

  I gather up the boots, sit on the foot of the stairs, and slide them on. They still don’t fit, but who cares about a little pain when something looks as good as these. “Yeah, Tony. I’m happy for both of you.” I don’t waste a fake smile on him; the day has barely begun.

  “I’ve got a good feeling about this one,” he says, his thick, hairy arm resting against the banister, his cider breath wafting over me, causing me to shuffle over a few inches. “I reckon it’ll be a boy. What do you think?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Hopefully,” I reply without any eye contact. I stand up, adjusting my skirt. “Fingers crossed.”

  Mum is standing by the front door, clutching her stomach like she’s six months pregnant. “We’ll all have our fingers crossed.”

  “So how
far along are you, Mum?” I ask, painfully trying to ignite a little interest.

  “Four weeks,” Tony cuts in, scratching his horrid man-boob with his thick fingers. “So plenty of time to get the house ready for him.”

  I nod with eagerness, unable to think of anything else to say.

  There’s a knock on the front door, breaking through the silence with precision timing. Even though Mum is standing right next to the handle, I race over to it and open it. Sean is standing outside, his ginger hair shorter than it was yesterday, a black shirt tucked into his jeans. In a nerdy, desperate way, he almost looks kind of cute.

  “Morning, Sean,” Mum says with a giant beam. “How are you today?”

  “Good thanks, Jane,” he replies, tugging on each strap of his blue backpack. “Can’t complain.”

  “That’s nice,” she says. “Are you coming inside for a few minutes?”

  Before he has a chance to answer, I step outside and pull him away from the door. “We’ve got to go, Mum. We’ll miss the bus.”