October 15, 7:59 a.m.
Hatfield, England
Desmond Carmouche was, as usual, the first person to arrive at the blood bank that morning. The night cleaning crew finished at 3 a.m., and the few other full-time staffers would start rolling in at 8:30 or so – time enough for Desmond to set a pot of coffee and read his paper. Their first appointment today wasn’t until 9:45, and while it was rather disappointing they couldn’t find enough donors to keep the schedule packed, it was nice not to have to rush in the morning.
He knew something was wrong before he turned on the lights. He could smell it – the strong, copper tang of blood hung heavy in the air. Had the freezer unit broken down? He could still hear the gentle background hum the unit always gave off. And even if it was broken, even if the blood all thawed in the night, it was sealed in plastic baggies. He shouldn’t be able to smell it this strongly.
He hit the light switch and was instantly struck with the reason the smell was so powerful. The lobby was coated with blood. It spattered on the walls, dripped down the counter and computer monitor, and puddle on the tile floor. There were bloody handprints too, and a smear on the counter where it looked like someone had licked the wasted blood like a kitten lapping at a puddle of water. And everywhere, littering the office, were empty blood bags discarded like ketchup packets collected from a fast food joint. The blood in Desmond’s head simmered and boiled. What sort of sick bastards would do this to a blood bank? These assholes never – never! – thought that they may need a transfusion some day, and God knew they didn’t give a damn about anything else.
He ran to the freezer, wondering how much was left. He’d call the police in a minute, but he had to check the supply now. The bloody streaks led straight to the freezer door, with a few footprints mixed in to the scarlet mess. Whoever did this must have gone back to the freezer for seconds after they exhausted the first few bags. The lock on the walk-in freezer had been smashed, and Desmond hissed through his teeth as he yanked the door open.
He didn’t expect to find the two bodies inside.
They were both cold and frozen, and definitely not moving. One of them Desmond recognized from the cleaning crew, a heavyset woman named Lucinda whom he’d always suspected of nicking office supplies when she made her rounds. The other was a pale, skinny boy he’d never seen before. While Lucinda looked like she was just dumped in the corner unceremoniously, the boy was curled up with his right hand clinging to his face. One of the vandals, maybe, stuck in the freezer and abandoned by his accomplices? Or perhaps more likely, considering the red crystals of blood freezing to his chest, another victim who was left behind? Next to him, Lucinda’s throat had been torn open, and while they were both caked with frozen blood, the boy looked intact.
Then the boy moved.
His hand, which Desmond had thought was drawn up to the boy’s face, was actually clutching a blood bag. The bag was peeled apart, and the boy sucked on the frozen blood like a popsicle. When the light from outside spilled into the boy’s face, he pulled back and wretched.
“Thirsty,” he whispered. “So thirsty…”
“What the hell’s happening?” Desmond said. “What are you doing?”
The boy looked up at him, greedy eyes sparkling. Before he lunged, he said just two more words.
“Freshly squeezed.”
