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Desert Flame Page 12
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Hardy stood, his head swimming. He stumbled towards the door and pressed against it.
Barely aware of what he was doing, he struck his shoulder against the metal. It gave way with a snap, flinging open with a screeching groan of metal on stone. The momentum almost sent him flying out into the tunnel beyond, but he managed to hold his ground.
Dumbfounded, Hardy stared into the darkness. The door had just given way…just like that. The least amount of pressure had sent the metal careening outwards, the lock sheering clean off.
This was a dream.
Davis would never let him out or allow the solitary cells to become so poorly maintained that the lock broke with such a paltry push. Not even if Hardy couldn’t stand to save himself. Not even if he was already dead.
So, it had to be a dream, or at best, a hallucination. If his mind wanted him to taste the fresh air of freedom before he took his last breath inside his prison, then that’s what he’d do. Why not?
Leaving the cell, he hesitated. He heard nothing but the ragged sound of his own breathing.
If this was a dream, then no one would stop him. Deciding to keep walking, he made his way to the surface.
When he finally stepped into the cool night, he gasped. The humidity of the mine pulsed out of the opening behind him, but he barely felt it. He looked to the sky, his heart clenching in wonder.
The stars were brighter than he’d ever seen them. The silver points had turned into a dusting of precious jewels—diamonds, rubies, sapphires—and the dark places in-between were darker. It was as if he could see the road to Heaven itself.
This was a dream.
He thought of Mary, who he assumed was long dead by now. Maybe she’d be waiting for him at the end of the road. She’d take his hand and welcome him, then lead him through the gates. She’d forgive him for getting caught at the apothecary, and together, they’d watch over Tom and Elizabeth as they grew and had families of their own.
Hardy choked, his hand moving to his throat. It burned like he’d swallowed molten steel, but his hunger was worse.
Davis.
The lure of tearing him apart was stronger than the longing he felt for his sister. He felt the ghostly bite of the whip as it tore into his flesh and the lick of leather as it hit bone. Pain, it seemed, was stronger than love.
So that’s why, when revenge held out its clammy hand, Hardy took it.
The overseer’s cottage sat some distance away from the coal mine, flanked by bush and overlooking the ocean.
The convicts were all locked up for the night; the usual evening shift had been given a reprieve after the circus Davis and Hardy had performed. All slept soundly, except for the soldiers on lookout, of course.
Hardy stole through the trees, moving silently around the guard postings along the path. His feet moved faster than he’d thought possible, closing the distance in mere moments. He’d gone by the men in a blur, and they hadn’t even lifted their heads at his passing.
Who was he?
What had he become?
A window was ajar at the rear of the cottage and an intoxicating sound floated through the gap, luring him to it like a siren called to sailors out on the open ocean. Hardy approached, listening to the thump-thump, thump-thump, transfixed.
He eased open the shutters and stole through the opening, landing lithely in the room where Henry Davis lay in his bed, fast asleep.
The overseer wore a white linen nightshirt—the fabric finer than anything Hardy had ever owned—and slept between fine cream-coloured sheets, with a feather pillow beneath his head. The candle on the bedside dresser had burned down to the wick, but Hardy still saw the loaded revolver beside it, the moon bathing it in brilliant silver light.
He looked down at Davis and listened to the rhythmic thump that’d called him inside. His heartbeat, Hardy thought. I can hear his heartbeat.
Hardy leaned over him and sniffed. Yes, this ought to do. Revenge and…something else he seemed to need.
The overseer stirred and opened his eyes. It took a few long seconds before the man realised that he wasn’t alone, but when he did, he burst into life.
“What in the bloody hell,” Davis cursed, jerking upright. He reached for the revolver on the nightstand, but his fingers slipped over the butt and he knocked it to the floor.
Hardy started at the overseer for a moment, his expression blank. He felt pressure in his mouth as his teeth ached, but he was too disoriented to care.
He lunged at Davis and pushed him back down onto the bed. The overseer opened his mouth to scream, but Hardy stifled his cries with his filthy hand and wrenched the man’s head to the side.
The vein in the overseer’s neck pulsed, and Hardy knew it was what he was looking for. He bit down hard, his teeth tearing through warm flesh, and blood poured into his mouth, flooding the mattress and smearing across his face.
He swallowed, and the metallic liquid soothed the burn in his throat. It hit his stomach and fed into his veins, washing away the sand and bringing life to him once more.
He was dying and now he was alive. It was an odd thought to have, but it seemed fitting, nonetheless. Why, he didn’t know, just that it was.
Hardy drank, swallowing mouthful after mouthful until there was no more. He growled in disappointment and pushed himself off the corpse. The patter of Davis’s heart had stopped, and the room was silent.
Warmth had returned to Hardy’s body and with it, his senses started to clear. As he stared down at the bloodied corpse, his horror grew as his understanding returned, and he realised two things.
He was well and truly awake…and he’d just murdered a man for his blood.
Davis was a sadistic bastard who revelled in causing the inmates harm that bordered on barbarism, but did that give Hardy the right to kill him? Did he deserve it? Maybe, but murder was the worst crime of them all.
Hardy would hang for this. If they caught him, he’d be strung up at first light. He’d get no trial—not that his first one had been a fair one—and his suffering would be over with a snap of his neck…which he rubbed like he’d already felt it break once before.
Suddenly, Frederick Marmaduke Hardy realised he didn’t want to die.
So he did the only thing he could.
He ran.
Eaglehawk Neck was a thin strip of land that connected the small peninsula where Port Arthur was located to the mainland of Van Diemen’s Land.
It was little more than a sandbar, less than thirty metres wide. Rough, rocky shark-infested ocean lay on either side, ruling out swimming…unless he wanted to drown.
The Neck was the only safe crossing, though that only meant it was well guarded. A specially trained pack of dogs lay in wait for escapees and would bark at any movement, alerting the guards stationed at either end. There was no cover, so he’d be shot without warning.
Davis’s body had likely been discovered by now and a search party would be marshalled, headed by the best trackers Port Arthur had to offer. His only saving grace was the few hours he’d gain from them trying to work out the circumstances of his murder…and linking it to the escaped convict who’d received fifty lashes the day before.
But it didn’t matter how or why. It was only a matter of time before they found him.
Hardy’s window for escape was rapidly closing, and the only way out of here was across that narrow strip of land.
Which way do you want to die? he thought. Getting shot, eaten by sharks, drowning, or hanging?
Either way, he’d be seeing Mary soon enough. He just hoped he hadn’t disappointed her too much.
He sat on the hill overlooking the Neck and took off his shirt. Unravelling the bandages around his chest and middle, he threw them aside and reached to feel his puckered flesh. The ribboned wounds had healed, but the scars beneath remained untouched.
How was it possible? What miracle had taken away the torn remains of fifty lashes and left him with an unbearable hunger for blood? Was it an act of God…or a trick of the Dev
il? He’d endured four years of torment at Port Arthur and now this.
What was he thinking? Where would he even go? It wasn’t like he could get on a ship and go back to England. He had no money and he’d be caught the moment he tried to board.
Maybe he could find a captain who’d take pity on him and offer passage for work. It was a long shot…providing he could get off the peninsula.
God help you, Hardy, he thought. How could I go back? I just killed a man and escaped from prison.
He’d killed a man.
An unbearable wave of guilt slammed into him, and he fell to his knees.
He’d killed a man…and felt nothing.
Foggy memory returned to him, and he rubbed his grimy hands over his blooded face as he recalled the sharp sting of the whip biting into his back and the searing pain that’d numbed him into a stupor in the darkness of solitary confinement.
A man had come. Hadn’t he? The image of him was a dull blur in Hardy’s mind, but he was there. Not a dream…
He raised his fingers to his lips. When he’d latched onto Davis’s neck, it wasn’t the first time he’d tasted blood.
That man must be the Devil. He’d possessed his soul and turned him into a beast.
Hardy almost clasped his hands together and prayed, but the first rays of light had turned the horizon a washed-out bluish-yellow.
The light almost heralded a glimmer of hope, as if God was calling to him, but as the rays danced over his chilled skin, something unexpected happened…he began to burn.
Crying out, he rubbed his reddening flesh and clapped his hands onto his cheeks. The sun… He looked at the sliver of yellow peeking above the horizon and didn’t understand. How? When his exposed skin started to smoke, the mechanics didn’t seem to matter anymore.
He scrambled back down the hill, darting into pockets of shade. The moment he did, the burning stopped, but it wouldn’t for long. The sun would eventually rise and then there’d be nowhere to hide.
He tripped and rolled into the creek, sending water and sludge flying.
That’s it…the mud!
Lunging into the shallows, he scooped up mud in heaped handfuls and slathered it over his body.
The day continued to brighten and still, his skin seared.
He desperately heaped more mud over himself, fighting a losing battle until he plunged into the creek bed headfirst. Cool relief soothed his burning flesh, and he buried deeper into the boggy mess. It was working!
Hardy lay there for hours, submerged in dirt and slime, waiting for the sun to set. His worn boots filled with mud and he felt insects crawl against his skin, but he didn’t dare move.
How I burned. If he’d stood on that hill a moment longer, he was sure he would’ve burst into flames and then would have died on the spot.
Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea, though there was one flaw. He was afraid of dying.
As the day went along, Hardy had a great deal of things to ponder. His family back in England, the voyage out to Port Arthur, his interment at the penal colony, the first time he’d been lashed, the long hours in the coal mine, and his last stand. Fifty lashes, solitary confinement, and now…this.
If what he was now had a name, he didn’t know. All that mattered was that he’d killed the overseer. How was a thought too difficult for him to handle.
When the sun finally lowered enough to cast the creek in long shadow, Hardy crawled out of his hiding place and washed the mud from his face. He was coated with sludge, but he didn’t care—the dogs wouldn’t catch his scent. Honestly, there was scant left for him to care about after the turn his pathetic life had taken. All he could focus on now was escape.
Running from your problems, Hardy? a small voice asked.
He ignored it.
Making his way back up the hill, Hardy looked down over Eaglehawk Neck. This was his last chance. If he couldn’t escape, then he’d let the sun take him in the morning. It seemed like a fitting end, and the best he could hope for. Death on his own terms, rather than on the end of a rope.
All was quiet below. There was no sign of reinforcements, or any sign of the usual guard postings. Hardy didn’t know where they were, only that they were here someplace. Stories had passed between the convicts of those who attempted escape, along with the warnings given by the warden. Escapees will be shot on sight.
He kept to the trees for as long as he was able, watching for signs of the soldiers he knew lingered in the shadows. He was fast now, and rifles took time to reload. He could be across and on the mainland in a blink of an eye. If he made it, then he’d worry about the part that came afterwards.
Lingering in the trees, he scanned the small patch of grassy sand. A small stone hut sat at the midway point of the neck, a faint glow pulsing from the small south-facing window.
Now or never.
He was about to run when two soldiers emerged from the shadows, rifles in hand. He’d been so intent on the neck, he hadn’t heard them, and he gritted his teeth.
Frozen, he watched them approach his hiding spot, the men oblivious.
If he moved, they’d spot him. If he did nothing, they’d spot him.
God, help me, he thought.
Hardy leapt out of the shadows like a bolt of lightning and tackled the first soldier to the ground. The sickly scent of blood filled his nose and he struck, barely aware of what he was doing. It was as if a demon had taken control of his body, telling his limbs what to do.
Hardy tore the first man’s neck open, and when he gurgled his last breath, he turned on the next. Then the reenforcement, and the one who ran after him.
They never got one shot off between the four of them, and the dogs… The short skirmish had come to a standstill and the animals had ceased their howling.
Hardy stood in the middle of the corpses, covered in blood and shit, listening. Even the native animals had scurried away, carrying the last of the bush sounds with them.
Some of who he’d once been returned to him in the calmness, and as he looked down at the chaos he’d wrought, he fell to his knees.
Monster.
“What. A. Mess.”
Hardy spun at the sound of a voice. He fell on his behind as the man he’d seen in his cell wandered silently out of the trees, a spectre in the dark.
“Look at you,” the man drawled. “How disappointing.”
Hardy scrambled backwards and his hands fumbled over something soft. Seeing it was a severed arm, he jerked away in horror.
“You’re wondering if you’re too far gone,” the man said in a bored tone. “Well, I’m here to tell you that you haven’t gone far enough.” He looked down at the dead soldier and sighed. “It’s something, but I wish you had waited for me. It would have saved you from burying yourself in shit.”
“Who are you?” Hardy rasped. “What have you done to me?”
The man stared at him, unblinking. “I am Darius, and this…” he gestured to the bloody carnage, “this is my gift to you. The corpses of your captors.”
Hardy buried his face in his hands, but the smell of blood filled his nose once more, stirring the beast inside him. This wasn’t a gift, but a curse. A terrible curse brought by the Devil himself.
“I killed them. I…” He choked. “I-I’ll hang for this.”
“I doubt it,” Darius drawled.
“I don’t want to die,” he sobbed.
“That’s rather ironic,” the man told him. “Considering you’re already dead.”
His hands fell away from his face as he felt a stab of fear pierce his heart.
“I’m a vampire,” the man said. “And I made you one.”
Hardy stared at him, dumbfounded.
“I fed you my blood and I broke your neck,” Darius continued. “Now, you are like me. Strong, beautiful—well, once I have you scrubbed clean—and immortal. It’s also why you can see more than you ever have before, and why you can move so fast. All your senses are amplified… They’re all advantages of becoming the ultimate pr
edator.”
“Advantages?”
“Yes, though as with all things, there are some drawbacks.”
The sun. Hardy rubbed his filthy arms and cringed.
Darius smirked knowingly. “That’s not all.”
“It’s not?”
“If you are hungry enough, you will do anything for blood.”
“Anything?”
“There is always a price.” The vampire looked down at the remains of the soldiers and sighed. “You’ve already tasted it. I’m here to make sure you don’t do it again.”
“Why?”
“I will help you, Frederick,” he said, not offering an explanation. “I will take you from this place and give you a new life…one where you aren’t a prisoner. One where you have all the power. One where you will never be hungry again.” He knelt beside Hardy and grasped his face, his fingers biting into his stubbled jaw. “But I have one condition…”
Hardy knew he didn’t have any choice, but he asked anyway. “What is it?”
“Your unconditional loyalty.”
Hardy nodded, knowing he’d made yet another deal he didn’t understand.
“Now… Let’s get off this accursed island and find some civilisation.”
Hardy stumbled to his feet. “Where can we go? They’ll be looking for me.”
“Hobart,” Darius replied. “And I wouldn’t worry about the law finding you.” He waved a dismissive hand at the bodies. “I know a witch who will help you with the sun and you need a bath…among other things. Then, we will return to the mainland where I will teach you what it means to be a vampire.”
Darius looked at him like he was a stray dog he’d just picked up out of the gutter, but Hardy was too stunned to be offended. “A witch?” he asked.
“Yes, Frederick. A witch.” Darius’s smile widened. “Welcome to the real world. I think we’re going to have fun, you and I.”
Chapter 14