Blood Lust 2: The Carrion

By Rhys A. Wilcox

Cameron and Gillian are an odd boyfriend and girlfriend - he's a vampire and she's a reanimated corpse - and ever since they became living-dead, trouble has followed them around like a bad smell. A good-intentioned trip to see his father coincides with a Satanist serial killer's plan to control the primal force of Death. This, in turn, causes the dead to rise and go on a human flesh-devouring rampage across the city and Cameron is forced to use his powers to save himself, Gillian, his family and ultimately the World. Again. The Carrion is a comedy, schlock horror, gore-fest fusing multiple horror myths and popular cultural references to produce a self-parodying, action-adventure that would appeal to the likes of Pratchett and Rankin fans and horror readers who don't mind their classics getting a wry remix.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781447585923

Book preview

Elton

Prologue: Three

Life.

All around the world, life was being born.

Everywhere, in one form or another, in a multitude of colours, sizes, shapes and, for a whole host of various reasons and purposes, life began to exist.

In a million places around our blue-green-brown-and-dirty-white planet, innumerable existences were jump-starting in a plethora of imaginative and sometimes almost physically impossible, conceptive positions. Lovers loved, evolution progressed, nature flowed.

As the golden sunlight poured over the French vineyard, a ray of light refracted through a drop of morning dew and rainbowed over the lustrous Purple Emperor butterfly that struggled its way free of its chrysalis. It opened its wings to dry and glory itself in the sunlight. A truly beautiful and idyllic symbol of the beginning of a new life.

But as the over-dramatic tone thus far may suggest, not every creation of new life is as majestic, colourful or as wondrous.

Brian and Claire were both sixteen years old and had both professed their sincere love to one another. His sincerity came from the urges from the inside of underwear, hers came from an immature craving to be considered mature. Eventually, they plucked up the courage to make love; it was awkward and they were both too self-conscious to do it properly. She was too aware of the pain he was causing and the complete lack of enjoyment worried her; he was desperate to satisfy her but unsure how long he could last. They may have been inexperienced but they were not stupid and he was wearing protection. Unfortunately, she was dry and he was close and these two factors of friction and increased ferocity are not ideal for millimetre thin rubber. Neither of them felt the split and afterwards they were both too embarrassed to discuss their personal experiences and concerns. He disposed of the condom without checking and she simply washed herself out. The ignition of new life had been turned.

Their relationship waned from that point. She neglected to inform anyone that her period was late and presumed the reason was due to stress. And it seemed logical that the more stressed she got over the delay, the more it would cause it to delay. After the passing of three months and the development of indisputable morning sickness, she finally accepted what she had already really known.

He did the right thing by her; they both dropped out of school and he got the first crappy job that came along to get some money coming in. They lived together, got tired of each other and eventually he left.

Not a pleasant start to a new life but there are worse.

Elsewhere, a devout Catholic woman was raped and she could not destroy the child because of religious governing. It grows up, never fully understanding why its mother despised it so.

Not a nice life.

A child is born through a river of blood, the mother haemorrhaged and died; the father will always unconsciously blame the child and never tell it he loved it. The child will eventually commit suicide feeling desperately alone.

A tapeworm awakens and unfolds its head. It attaches itself to the wall of its host's intestinal tracts and begins to feed and grow.

The tsetse fly larvae are scooped up from the river in a clay pot that will be carried five miles before being drunk.

The bacteria typhoid begins to multiply within its new host.

A child was born who will be responsible for the ultimate destruction of the planet.

The origins of these lives and, many like them, were sad, unfortunate and, sometimes, just downright unpleasant.

They were, however, all perfectly natural.

Two

In an abandoned warehouse, somewhere in the south of England, unnatural origins of life were being practised.

The warehouse was empty apart from a concentrated area of activity at the centre. Two dark figures hurried backwards and forwards between banks of machinery and computer terminals that occupied the intense part of the huge holding depot. One of the figures was tall and lean with wiry hair that seemed to explode from its continuously babbling head. Every now and then, this figure would pause, shake its wrist in the air a couple of times, put its hand to its mouth then inhale deeply. The second figure was half the height of the first. But perhaps it only seemed that way because it did appear to be permanently doubled over. Also, as it ran to-and-fro, it dragged its right le - no, its left - oh. It looked as if it was dragging both legs behind it as it ran.

Desk lamps of every kind were the only illumination in the darkened building. It could have been any time of the day and any season of the year outside; you would never know. It was more than likely to be night time, as is the way with nefarious machinations. There was also, probably, a rolling mist that shrouded the ground in some sort of mysterious mist-like, shroudy way. And it was not too unreasonable to suppose that a storm was nearing.

A distant rumble of thunder - see? - caused both figures to look expectantly at the ceiling. Neither of them knew why they had done it, they both felt that it was necessary. They caught sight of each other doing it, felt embarrassed so continued with their scurrying between terminals, switches and a game of Doom that continuously needed to be paused.

At this point, the literary camera would like to draw the reader's attention to a huge vat that was suspended above the fervourous activity. It was a dark, brooding tank - as much as an innocent, inanimate, large metal container could brood, this one could get arrested for it. It was about twice the size of an average human body in all dimensions. Eight taught, thick metal chains protruded from it and held it aloft from the ceiling. A series of ducts and wires led down into various consoles and into other stuff - technical stuff, difficult to explain to the below average layman. You know, gizmos and… things. Yes, all right then, I don't know what they were. They were ominous though. To the extent that metal boxes with flashy lights can be, and were.

The largest duct ran from, what shall now be called the top end of the tank, to a bare wall at the far side of the warehouse. On this wall, about a meter and a half from the floor, was a switch. The mother of all switches. This switch had a handle on it that would give Jenna Jameson second thoughts about doing a scene with. The handle was attached to two strips of metal that forked off into the wall where it was hinged. Currently, the handle was pointing upwards. If the switch was to be thrown down then the metal strips would create a contact upon the metal receivers on the underside of the device.

The tall, lean figure fell into one of the many rings of light created by the lamps. The figure was male, about forty years old and did indeed have hair that looked like Tina Turner had been attacked with a balloon that had been rubbed vigorously against a nylon jumper. His hair, however, was a uniform colour rather than the multi-hued strands of chitin that sat on Ms Turner's bonce. That did not mean to say that his hair was khaki coloured, it was just the one shade all the way through. Not that his hair would ever be described as a shade. It was more like a suntrap. It was ginger.

Very ginger.

He ran his eyes rapidly over the monitor he was staring at.

Ivor! he shouted without averting his eyes. Ivor!

The shambling mass that was the second figure - a hunchback called Ivor - sloped into the light.

Yesh, Bosh? he rasped with Welsh-accented overtones.

The 'Boss' stared at his deformed assistant for a moment; the three wisps of hair that protruded from the hunchback's head danced in the artificial light, his independently roving eyes made him look like an iguana constantly trying to find out who was talking about it behind its back. Or rather, an iguana that looked like Adolf Hitler with severe optical motor deficiencies.

On a first meeting with Ivor, people always presumed that he had a little moustache like Blakey from On the Buses. Upon closer inspection (if they felt brave enough) it would become apparent that he actually had thick, black nasal hair growing from his nostrils down to his top lip. If it were ever to be suggested that he should get it trimmed, some sanctimonious pop star would probably release a song reminding us of the thousands of woodland species this action would undoubtedly dispossess but conveniently forget to include in his lyrics how many trees went into making his CD inserts.

Ivor rotated his head up and waggled his eyes to get both of them to almost-but-not-quite look straight ahead.

Remind me of the code, The Boss demanded.

But you said- Ivor began.

Do not question me! The Boss bellowed.

I.D.D.Q.D, Ivor told him humbly.

And that is what? The Boss asked and turned his attention to the computer. He tapped the letters on the keyboard.

Invulnerability, Ivor said.

Hah! The Boss cried with joy. Come and get it, you giant floating raspberry things.

The computer emitted a succession of generated gunshot sound effects, followed by a couple of guttural growls and then fell silent.

What's going on? he shouted at the screen.

Ivor's eyes seemed to look in opposing directions; from each other and away from the monitor.

You've no ammo left, isn't it, he said.

The code for 'Happy Ammo,' quickly, The Boss screamed.

But Bosh, Ivor implored, the storm.

And as if on cue, the distant storm made it known that it was no longer particularly distant any more.

The Boss stood bolt upright.

Extend the attractor, he announced and Ivor loped off.

Attend the extractor, Ivor muttered.

No! You deaf imbecile, the attractor.

Right you are, Ivor said and lumbered over to a computer. He pressed a couple of keys and something in the rafters began to whine.

Above the warehouse, dark, brooding, boding and ominous clouds began to gather in ways never ordinarily seen in reality. From the roof, a large antenna extended into the swarming mass of condensed water vapour.

'Warm the amniotic fluids,' I said, The Boss shouted and Ivor pulled the cowl back from over his head, mumbled something about druids then flicked a switch (not the switch) on a desktop of switches.

The tank above their heads vibrated gently and steam began to slowly rise from inside.

Ready the capacitor, The Boss ordered as he saved his last position and quit the game.

The whining became a bass hum that reverberated against the metal surfaces around them.

I think that's about it, isn't it? The Boss said.

Ivor pouted his bottom lip in thought, his eyes did relays in their sockets then, finally, he nodded.

Go wait by the switch then, The Boss said and Ivor drunkenly ambled over to the far side of the warehouse.

There he stood and waited.

And rolled his eyes.

Ominously.

A bolt of lightening struck the antenna and, simultaneously, a blast of thunder shook the building.

Another fork of electricity arced across the sky and disappeared into the antenna.

The Boss was watching a computer screen with glee. Ivor was tapping his least bad-at-that-particular-moment foot impatiently.

Another four bolts like that, The Boss said to no one in particular, which was good because no one heard him.

Again, lightning hit the metal pole. Then once more. With each successive strike the source of the lightning seemed to near directly over the building. Another strip of silver nature blasted from the clouds but this time it did not stop; it continued to streak from the epicentre of the boiling heavens into the conductor.

The Boss was getting more excited.

Yes! Yes! he cried as the current from the storm filled his capacitor to, well, capacity. Ivor, throw the switch!

Ivor pulled at the handle and managed to lift himself off the floor with the effort. He braced his feet against the wall and pushed with his legs.

The switch fell.

Tiny sparks flickered between the contacts as the circuit was completed and the floodgates of the capacitor were opened.

Millions of amperes of current rushed through the duct into the top of the tank that then began to glow with power and electrolysed the air in the building. The Boss's hair frizzed even more and computer terminals shorted from the power surge.

Live! The Boss shouted at the tank. LIIIIIIIIVE!

With his second cry, the generic mad scientist raised his arms to the sky and began to laugh maniacally. The laugh turned into a wheeze which then progressed into a chesty cough. His hands rummaged around in his pockets until he located his inhaler. He pulled it out, shook it a couple of times, put it to his mouth, depressed the canister then sucked desperately.

Ivor attempted to raise his eyes to the sky in disdain but missed. He had to settle for a quiet 'tut' to himself.

The natural power continued to flow from the sky into the tank and an audible bubbling began to emit from within it.

The room had become much brighter now as every bulb shone at five-times its normal intensity. That is of course, five-times the intensity that they were capable of successfully shining at for any lengthened period of time.

One after another, each bulb exploded and its designated area of the warehouse was pitched into darkness. Then the remaining computer terminals gave up the ghost and their screens extinguished their ethereal illumination by detonating dramatically.

The building was swathed in darkness and the storm continued on its way overhead.

The umbilical duct had ceased to glow and the tank had stopped bubbling. All the whining and humming had terminated that very task that they were so onomatopoetically named for doing.

All was quiet, dark and still.

Another fifty-pee for the meter, isn't it, Bosh? asked a Welsh voice from the darkness.

Oh, fuck off, came a completely ungeneric mad scientist reply.

One

Elsewhere.

Dark and Satanic rituals were taking place.

A dimly lit 'somewhere' was home to a diabolic calling rite.

Tu-jhie, a female voice chanted. Zie.

A two centimetre high flame ignited silently from the gloom and hovered in the air. There followed a deep sucking noise and a half-centimetre orange circle flared within the dancing light. The flame died, the orange circle dimmed and a deep sigh preceded the entrance of a grey mist that swirled around the illuminated dot.

Hushush eye doowie- the chant seemed to stop short. Perhaps it was because she had noticed the tendrils of luminescent smoke.

Would you mind not doing that in here, she said and the orange dot wavered unsteadily in mid air.

Erm, responded a male voice from behind the small circle.

I haven't got any ashtrays, the chanter informed. You'll have to take it outside.

Okay, the male said. Sorry, he added. Sorry everyone.

The orange dot rose into the air and turned one-eighty.

From a fixed point of observation, i.e. seeing the cigarette end from straight on, the lighted end should be described as disappearing from view as the smoker turned around and it was then blocked by the man's body. However, the author is omnicognicent and hence can perceive all. Or rather, in this case, can perceive all that the cigarette end does. The author, no matter how omnicognicent, omnipresent, or omnibloodyknowitall, cannot see shit unless the lights are switched on.

There then followed the muffled sounds of someone trying to make their way across unfamiliar territory in total darkness. It is an instantly recognisable noise and one that is almost impossible to imitate outside the boundaries of the physical requirements.

Imagine sleeping in a room of a house that had hosted a party at which you got incredibly drunk (the actual sleep business is fairly negligible and very uncomfortable due to the hard floor and the spinning ceiling). Also in the room are about twenty other revellers; the imagery of 'sardines in a can' would be fairly apt as long as the analogous fish all stank of stale beer, sweat and were individually wrapped in duvets and sleeping bags. And as long as one of them was snoring very loudly.

Now, as far as all the drunk people are concerned this sinus reverberation is nothing more than an added burden to their fevered, uncomfortable dreams, but somewhere in the room is a sober person and this snoring is the one thing that is preventing her/him from sleeping.

There are a few things that this sober person will do before the noise will be heard:

1) Said 'Sober' person will find it amazingly amusing that said 'Snorer' is so drunk that s/he does not wake her/himself up from the bloody racket. Sober giggles every time Snorer snores.

2) Sober then decides to allow everybody else into the joke, imitating Snorer by snoring in time.

3) A bit embarrassed that no one actually found this amusing, Sober decides to take it upon her/himself to stop the noise by shouting, Hey! or, Oi! in an attempt to wake Snorer up.

4) This does not work because Sober cannot actually make her/himself heard above the snores so shouts, Quiet! as if this would make any difference.

5) At the end of a tether, Shut up! is half-heartedly whined, adding, Please.

6) Shut up you fat bastard, is deemed appropriate at this time (a natural presumption that all snorers are fat), Shut your fucking bastard fat mouth or I'll kill you, you bastard fat fucker.

Again, the noise that sounds like a buzz saw excavating a wart hog's nasal blockage via its anus is not stopped at all except for a solitary moment when all is quiet. Sober discovers s/he has held her/his breath in anticipation so exhales suddenly, exactly on cue as the hippo and viola- mating ceremony continues.

Anyway, it is at this stage Sober decides to stop the noise with a personal touch, i.e. a heel in the throat. And so the night-time noise begins: whispered apologies and muffled shuffling can be heard as Sober navigates her/his way across the sea of pissed people. Non-whispered swearing and unmuffled yelps of surprise and pain can also be heard as pissed people are forced awake by a foot treading in soft areas of their anatomy.

As an epilogue, Snorer is woken by the cries of protestation from the injured inebriates and actually turns out to be a slim, teenage girl. Sober never discovers this because the snoring has stopped and s/he has become the target of ribaldry. On top of that, Sober has become disorientated, has lost her/his sleeping space and is forced to leave the room to sleep out in the corridor, making the same night time noise as s/he leaves.

Anyway, the lit cigarette (remember that?) jerked around in the air as the owner bumped into something again.

Watch it, someone yelped.

Sorry, he whispered and then continued his wavy way across wherever, in an attempt to exit the premises. You could get the distinct impression from the cigarette end that the owner was extremely self-conscious of being watched very sternly by someone.

The sound of a door opening and closing marked his deliverance. Now the cigarette end had disappeared due to the author not wishing to omnicognicise any more and to stay in the room.

The chanter tutted her distaste. It's not so much the actual smoking I dislike, her voice was heard. It's just that the smell lingers around the room for weeks and, apart from washing the upholstery, curtains and shampooing the carpet, there seems very little I can do about it.

"Have you tried those Wondawiff plug-ins?" a creaky female voice asked.

They always give me these terrible headaches, the chanter replied. And besides, The King of Evil, Lord of Flies, Defiler of the World - there was a pause, - can't stand artificial air fresheners.

There came a general muttering of voices that implied there were some people there who empathised exactly with what she was talking about.

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, 'eye doowie,' right?

A mumble of affirmation followed.

The chanter cleared her throat loudly then continued. T'hoo shiysh high. Her voice rose in decibels and lowered in pitch. We call unto you, she boomed, then all the voices around her cited in unison.

King of Evil, Lord of Flies, Defiler of the World - there was a pause, - Satan who will be our saviour, come to us.

Silence swathed in anticipation filled the darkness as the First of the Fallen made his presence known.

"I don't mind OdourGo," the Devil told the communion.

There was the sound of a toilet flushing somewhere overhead.

If I find a dog-end floating in that bowl, the chanter said, I will be most annoyed.

It had been a good sacrilegious ritual that had gone without any adverse incidents; the new members had been indoctrinated in the usual manner and the mess had been scraped up after. The host had had the good forward planning to put plastic sheets down beforehand in preparation. A stool had still been required, though, so someone could reach the ceiling to run a damp cloth over it.

I've never seen such high blood pressure, someone had said.

Hell's guardian had been sent on his way without fuss but with another necromantic incantation and Snow Patrol's latest album on eight- track. The Devil does, after all, have all the best tunes. No one ever said if he had them on the best format or where he got them from. Then, at last, the lights were switched on and the kettle was put on to boil.

The ceremony had taken place in a fairly average living room. All of the furniture had needed to be removed to make space for the fourteen current members, the two new ones, Beelzebub, and to allow enough room to swing the Power Drill of Ultimate Darkness in a wide circle during the ceremony of Soul Piercing. That had taken place on a dining table that had been brought in from the other room and extended using the removable centre leaf.

It was this table that a middle-aged woman was rubbing over with a duster and furniture polish.

There you go, Linda, she said, and I managed to get all of it out of the grain as well.

People were bustling in and out of the room; taking out rolled up plastic sheets that looked as if they had home-made strawberry jam inside and bringing in a glass-top coffee table and some chairs.

Thanks, June, Linda said from a large armchair in the corner of the room. Her voice was recognisable as that of the chanter. I'm fair pooped after that one. I just don't understand how some of it always manages to seep through the plastic, and you know how difficult it is to shift those stains if you leave them for more than a couple of hours. She looked as if she could be about forty-ish; she had long, dark brown hair that curled chaotically down to her shoulders. Her cheeks looked flushed as if she had just come in from a quick run or she had just been interrupted whilst… No, probably not. You would not automatically think of sex if you looked at her. It was not that she was specifically unattractive but it was more like she had too much of a passing resemblance to a close, female relative of some sort; an aunt or suchlike.

She was currently attired in the ceremonial dress of overalls and wellingtons and she had not even taken off the welding mask yet. The visor was flipped up, though.

Two men - one was young, pale, spotty and emaciated while the other was overweight, loud and hairy - walked up to the table and nodded to the two women.

Shall we take this through now? the overweight man boomed at Linda.

Yes, thank you, Mr Gruner, she replied.

And with that, the two men each grabbed an end of the table and hefted it out of the room.

June sidled over to Linda whilst keeping an eye on the two men.

Young Tony seems to have reacted badly, she muttered.

Well, June, Linda sighed, I seem to recall the first time you came face-to-face with your, insides you went a bit ashen.

I suppose, June agreed somewhat distractedly. It's good to see Mr Gruner taking him under his wing though.

Hmm, Linda responded non-committedly while they watched Mr Gruner tell Tony to lift his end up slightly.

As soon as seats had been put into their appointed places, and had been sat in by appointed persons, the meeting continued. All faces looked to Linda.

Shall we crack on then? Linda asked as she placed her steaming cup of tea on the coffee table to her side. If Ms Tinker would be kind enough to go over the minutes of last week's meeting we will then proceed to go on to tonight's agenda.

Linda looked over to a woman in her mid-twenties who wore far too much make-up as far as she was concerned but, then again, Linda considered a pair of glasses to be superfluous vanity accessories.

Ms Tinker smiled warmly and flipped open the notebook she had rested on her lap. She cleared her throat delicately. She looked up and caught the eye of Tony who looked away and blushed; her smile widened.

On the evening of the twenty-ninth, she read, it was decided that next week's ceremony for the Great Calling of The King of Evil, Lord of Flies, Defiler of the World - She raised her right hand and circled it twice around her head, lifted it on the second pass and