Read Online Bad Blood (Battle of the Undead Book 1) by Nicky Peacock - Free Book Online
Authors: Nicky Peacock
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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.
I leapt from the statue and ran in its direction. I jumped over bodies lying in the street, over cars with their engines still running, and over suitcases with the fleshless, bony echo of their owners still clinging to them, their half-eaten dead hands entwined with plastic and leather handles.
I turned a corner and saw immediately where the smell was coming from. A horde of zombies were crowded around an old, red telephone box. Someone was in there, someone
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.
I leapt from the statue and ran in its direction. I jumped over bodies lying in the street, over cars with their engines still running, and over suitcases with the fleshless, bony echo of their owners still clinging to them, their half-eaten dead hands entwined with plastic and leather handles.
I turned a corner and saw immediately where the smell was coming from. A horde of zombies were crowded around an old, red telephone box. Someone was in there, someone
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