Blood Moon Read Free

11:43
    Steven’s eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright in the metal-framed bed. The movement tugged at his stitches, setting his chest and shoulder alight with a sudden flare of pain. He’d been dreaming. A nightmare, really. Hardly a surprise, given the events of the last few weeks. There’d been a little girl, crying, begging him for help. Something in the shadows, stalking them both. Something with glowing red eyes that cut through the darkness like laser beams. The details of the dream danced on the edge of his consciousness, insubstantial, ethereal and fleeting, fading into nothing until all that remained was a persistent feeling of unease.
    He licked his lips, grimacing at the foul taste in his mouth. A glass of water sat in a wire holder attached to the bed. He reached over with his uninjured arm and drained the tepid liquid in a single gulp, relishing the moistening of his cracked lips and swollen tongue.
    First job done. Now for the hard part.
    Steven swung his legs off the edge of the bed with exaggerated care, so as to minimise the howls of protest from his injuries, and detached the saline drip from its holder.
    So far so good.
    He steeled himself for the inevitable surge of agony and staggered across to the toilet in the corner of the room. He honestly couldn’t remember feeling worse than he did right now. Even the chemotherapy he’d undergone in a vain attempt to fight his cancer hadn’t been as bad as this. The bullet wound on his shoulder throbbed, but was almost insignificant compared to the damage that Connie Hamilton had inflicted on him. She’d shattered his collarbone and done a damned good job of chewing through his rib-cage before she died. He knew he was lucky to be alive, even if he didn’t feel that way. Even the smallest movement felt like someone grinding shards of broken glass into his torso.
    He reached the toilet and, steadying himself against the featureless concrete wall, released a stinking stream of dark yellow urine at the porcelain. At least his gracious hosts had allowed him that dignity. The pain he had to endure to make that small journey was terrible, but it was immeasurably better than being strapped to a table, pissing into a bag through a plastic tube forced up his dick. In fact, since his conversation with that slimy tosser of a politician, his captors had been quite accommodating. Downright pleasant even, if you ignored the fact that he spent his days locked in a soundproof room in the arse-end of some military base.
    As if on cue, the lock on his door clicked, then swung open on reinforced hinges. A young woman with dark hair and vivid red lipstick appeared, flanked by two muscular men with machine guns. The woman, Rose, frowned at him.
    “Mr Wilkinson, you know you’re not supposed to get out of bed on your own. Pull the cord if you need to go to the toilet and I’ll come and help you.”
    Steven shook his head. He liked Rose. She was friendly, attractive and always smiled at him, even when she was telling him off. The last thing he wanted her to be doing was standing there watching while he took a piss. Even in a place like this, where his movements were monitored twenty four hours a day by CCTV, he preferred to at least retain the illusion of some privacy. He thought about saying that to her, but instead just returned her smile. “That’s okay, Rose. I’ll manage.”
    Rose sighed. “Well, don’t come crying to me if you rip all your stitches out. You’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”
    “I know, but a bloke has to keep a little self respect. Besides, if I show all the goods off now, you might lose interest.”
    Rose rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “Mr Wilkinson, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”
    “I could make a couple of suggestions, and please, call me Steven.” He winked at her, taking small satisfaction at the flush of colour in her cheeks. “Now, as much as I enjoy your company, I somehow doubt you came in here for