Bad Blood (Chapter One)

Bad Blood

(noun)

1) A virus that spread through Humanity and infected the minds of many humans, turning them into black-eyed cannibals.

2) Bad Blood may refer to a human infected with the disease “Bad Blood” that turned normal human beings into monstrous cannibals.

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~One~

Blood Ceremony

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The year 4014 it was, the eighth of April. Spring was coming around to full bloom, the sheep in the meadows were boring lambs for the new year. At the beginning of the year, it seemed as if this year would be different from the rest, and everything would be settled and calm in the Bastille, where their people had thrived for years. And by April, it appeared as if this would continue.

Though, when Drake Dasher woke from his hollow slumber on that unfaithful day, he felt the ominous presence seeming to loom over them all.

Drake Dasher was the typical wallflower. A few people did like speaking to him, but he preferred to keep to himself, only making polite small talk in school and at the public market when it was needed. He was a tall sixteen-year-old with scruffy blond hair and glittering green eyes. Many people had mentioned that his eyes were unusually vibrant and dazzling. He had merely shrugged it off and continued on with the day ahead.

On that dreadful morning, he awakened to the eerie silence that came with living in the grungy apartment building. Few people inhabited these buildings, as they were overcome by years of plant growth. But Drake and his younger brother were fixed on staying in the building their lost mother had raised them in. Five years she had been missing. Five years, and Drake still woke up in the darkness calling for her to come home.

He slipped on his school uniform: black trousers, white button-down shirt, shining black trainers, a rough black sweater, and a gold-and-green tie. The sweater was irritable and made him itch, but if he didn’t wear it, he would be given detention. And with detention came the lashings, which he was more than happy to avoid, thank you very much.

When he weaved his way into the kitchen, he found a note from his younger brother, Ryker. The typical notice, alerting him of his brother’s whereabouts. Every single day, it said the same thing, in his younger brother’s messy handwriting: In the Orchards.

You see, Ryker Dasher was no ordinary thirteen-year-old. The boy was small and nimble, able to climb the highest of trees where the sweetest of bounties would be laying, underneath the warm morning sun. He was one of the gatherers, a volunteer, no less. But unlike Drake, Ryker was noticed by many people, and had a large collection of close acquaintances. Of course he did. No one could help but fall in love with Ryker Dasher.

Drake crumpled up the note after he read it. He aimed for the rubbish shoot, but missed, and it joined the settlement of yellow paper lurking on the wooden floor.

Like always, Drake didn’t eat breakfast. He would usually leave for school on an empty stomach, gaining his share of food from his deposit of gold coins. In the settlement, Bastille, it didn’t matter how much food anyone ate, as long as it was enough to keep them going. Otherwise, they would have to join the large collection of graves in the Necropolis, where the people of Bastille could finally rest. It was where his mother’s memorial stood.

He swung an almost empty backpack over his shoulder, containing a few history books and writing utensils. Drake was going to school so that he could gain the job promised to him when he turned fourteen. He was learning to be a miner, to work in the copper mines. Though, he knew that it was one of the most dangerous jobs in all of Bastille. His brother had it easy. Then again, he thought of how his nimble brother would be of just as much use in the mines as him, so he shuck his head and flung open the apartment’s front door.

Desolation was the word Drake used to describe the apartment complex. Empty of all life. Living in this building after his mother vanished, after his brother started working in the Orchards, he began to long for some human companionship. When he was young, he used to avoid people like the plague. But now, when he was almost truly alone, he very much missed people.

The apartment complex was a tall, limestone building with broken glass windows and rotting doors. It wasn’t far from falling apart, but it was good enough. It may have been crumbling, but to Drake, it was still home. Him and Ryker inhabited the entire top floor of the apartment complex, the twentieth floor. It may have well been one of the tallest buildings in the whole of Bastille, though, that was overlooked.

When he reached the first floor, he could hear it. It sent chills up his spine. It was a sound he had never heard when he reached the first floor of this building. A sound he though he’d never hear: silence. Fortunately, his nerves calmed when he heard the distant chatter of citizens shambling through the streets with their heads held high.

He sighed, emerging through the wooden doors of the building, hearing the creak of its flimsy hinges. The fresh air hit his face, lashing over his skin, longed to be felt. One sharp intake of breath and his feet were moving to their own accord, taking the route that everyone his age had to know.

So far his day was fine. But then, like every horrid day, he was reminded of his looming past by the sight of the metal chain-linked fence that encircled Bastille. The fence that protected them from the flesh-eaters, the Bad Bloods. The Bad Bloods were not categorised as the Undead, as many concluded. They were regular humans overcome by a virus, as everyone had named Bad Blood. Something that worked its way into a human’s bloodstream and pumped into their brains, causing them to morph into cunning cannibals.

The Bad Bloods from a distance appeared to be human. That was what was most unsettling about them. The only difference was that their eyes were entirely black. No colour, no white, just black orbs wedged into their skulls, as if their pupils had dilated so much that they overthrew the rest of the eye. Drake had a vague knowledge of them. But he knew his father was one of them. And his mother was lost to them.

His mother’s disappearance was no clandestine. A day after she had disappeared, those five years ago, the whole of Bastille already knew. The town’s people would throw him grief-stricken glances and sorrowful looks. Something he didn’t enjoy seeing. Everyone had formulated the idea that she had seen Drake’s father, one of the Bad Bloods, past the fence and deep into the forest. Of course, his mother never stopped loving his father. And him being a Bad Blood didn’t change that. So outside she went, and death followed.

The fence was a constant reminder of his mother’s death, and he didn’t enjoy being reminded. He still remembered how, at the age of eleven, he had to pick up shifts patrolling the fence, where his mother’s blood was still drying in the heated sun. Barely a fortnight later, little Ryker took up a job in the Orchards. Only eight years old, frail Ryker, who had cried when Drake did without even knowing why. Every now and then, Drake took a shift rounding the fence, staring into the endless forest where the Bad Bloods lurked.

When he reached the bus stop, he rested his head against the cool glass. Not long. Not long until he would be done with this tedious routine, and actually start training to become a miner. There wasn’t much to it, he had heard. But no one working there enjoyed it. If something bad did happen, Drake had asked Ryker to bury him next to his mother’s memorial, if there was anything left of him to bury. He hoped there would be.

After fifteen minutes, the bus rolled up and he climbed up the steep steps to stand in front of the driver. The bus driver was a paunchy man with greasy hair and dark eyes. From what Drake had overheard many times before was that the driver was a heavy drinker. Maybe it had something to do with having no family left, losing them all to the Bad Bloods.

The driver pulled out a small machine that had a plain black screen, along with a smaller screen stretching above it. Like always, Drake placed his index finger against the centre of the black screen, and a green line whizzed from the top to the bottom, only to repeat the action several times. When it was complete, it let out a satisfied beep, and Drake’s photo and details flashed on the smaller screen. He caught sight of something there, and tilted his head. One single word: golden.

Without asking, Drake stormed to a seat near the back of the bus and dropped his bag in the red seat closest to the window. He waited patiently for the rest of his schoolmates to pile into the vehicle, laughing and shouting at each other down the bus. They tended to ignore him, which he was fine with. He’d never been good at talking with people like them.

Despite this, he always listened in on the conversations going on around him. These children were no ordinary kids. Most of them were highly intelligent, but they still found gossip interesting.

Drake noticed Josiah Hill and his friends, Sean Greene and Finley Callow. The tallest of the three boys was Finley Callow, who had brown hair with matching brown eyes. Drake cast a glance at Sean Greene, and could see the boy slumping in the seat behind him. Sean was a plump boy with red curls bouncing on the top of his head. Drake had talked to him on a few occasions, but they rarely discussed anything other than schoolwork.

Then finally, there was Josiah Hill. He was a skinny boy with shortly-cropped brown hair and swirling blue eyes, that some girls found very attractive. He was popular, but Drake didn’t really pay attention to him. He rarely talked to him.

On the bus, Josiah would often talk with a small girl named Novalie. Drake would have thought she was pretty, but she wasn’t generally a nice person. He didn’t like people who insulted others on who they were.

Soon, the bus started rolling down the streets, taking the route to the school, far away into the outskirts of Bastille – much too close to where Drake’s mother had perished.

“So, what are you planning on doing at the Blood Ceremony?” asked Josiah.

“Fire a gun, what do you think?” said Novalie.

“I thought you were squeamish,” said Josiah. “You have to get your blood taken.”

Without looking, Drake could tell that Novalie had drained of all colour. “I know. I know that.”

“You might have Bad Blood,” teased Josiah. “What would we do about that?”

The panic in Novalie’s voice was evident, but she soon regained her composure. “Wouldn’t make a difference. If I do, I’ll eat you first.”

“If Sharpshooter doesn’t get you before that, you mean,” said Josiah.

Drake inwardly cringed at the nickname. They were talking about him. Drake Dasher, the kid with the best aim in their whole school. Maybe the best in all of Bastille. He didn’t like it when people mentioned it. It felt strange; like he was outside of his own life, looking in. It just didn’t feel like him. He was granted with this skill that didn’t make him feel like himself anymore.

“He wouldn’t shoot me,” said Novalie. “Would you, Drake?”

Silently, Drake looked up and gave her a steely look. Her head was dangling above the back of the seat, an eyebrow raised.

“I would,” said Drake. He silently added that she sometimes made him want to do it, Bad Blood or not.

Novalie grumbled something unintelligible and fell back into the seat where she sat next to Sean.

“Told you,” said Josiah with a grin. “Bad Blood.”

Then the bus slammed to a stop, and everyone piled off and into the shadows of the day. Unfortunately, Josiah Hill had reminded Drake what the day was. He thought it was just a normal day. But he had been foolish enough to forget. The Blood Ceremony was today.

The Blood Ceremony was an unpleasant event that every sixteen-year-old had to face at some point. During this ceremony, your blood was taken, then you were given a gun to fire at a target. If the bullet was silver, you could continue on with your life. If it was gold, you had to leave Bastille and fight for survival outside, amongst the Bad Bloods, until only one remained.

Drake shuddered at the idea of having to live among them until it was only him remaining. It was a test of survival. Not a punishment, just a test. And Bastille enjoyed conducting tests. He wondered what his mother would have thought, if she was still around, if he fired that golden bullet at the Blood Ceremony, exiled into the outside world, Bad Blood territory, to participate in the Blood Trials.

He told himself not to think about it as he entered the schoolyard. Not about any of it. He was sure it would drive him insane. Instead, he stood by the tall pole with a large speaker resting on top, where a klaxon would sound, alerting him to the start of school. He was rather upset when it finally rang, vibrating his eardrums.

He sat in his assigned seat in registration, the only day it was taken seriously. Drake felt a feeling of dread overwhelm him. Many children of whom he grew up with – no matter how distant the relation – would be exiled to the slaughter this afternoon. It was something he wasn’t looking forward to. There were exactly one-hundred and twelve children in Drake’s year at the school. In the next month or so, nineteen of them would be dead, leaving only ninety-three surviving.

One of the surviving would be the champion, or the Clarity, as many had called them. Clear Bloods. Survivors. There were many names, but they were all honourable. The Clarities were haunted by nightmares of what they had seen outside, the pain they had endured. It turned them into hostile, terrified creatures that no one knew how to deal with.

By the time lunch rolled by, Drake was in no mood to eat. He had a strong feeling that anything he consumed would soon make a reappearance. His head was spinning. His vision was wavering; he could barely see two feet in front of him. But he carried on, as he was forced into the dining hall – a large room with round wooden tables strewn all over.

Once he received his meagre portion of food, he planned to sit alone. Though, all attempts failed, as a small boy named Rohan dragged him over to a small table encircled by other sixteen year olds. Their faces were solemn and seemingly indifferent – though Drake could see the cracks forming, the glances at each other, wondering who would be chosen.

Rohan had made many attempts at conversation, trying to make the air around them lighter. But all efforts were futile. Nothing would get them through this horrid day.

Drake’s stomach was churning when the speakers on the tall walls boomed, “The Blood Ceremony will commence in ten minutes: sixteen-year-olds must report to the Ceremonial Hall for the event. I expect to see you all there.”

That was the cynical voice of Claudia Castleman, the announcer of the Blood Ceremonies. She did it each year, commentating on what would occur and who was participating. Even during the trials, where they couldn’t be monitored, she reported on the deaths – those who had been murdered by their fellow human, from natural causes, or eaten alive by the Bad Bloods.

One by one, each sixteen-year-old in the hall rose to their feet. A sudden hush fell over everyone, and all that could be heard was silence. The hallways they filed down contained no windows, so green lights hanging above their heads guided them on their way down.

Drake felt like a lamb being led away to the slaughter. Or was he? Was his death guaranteed? He supposed that the chances of him firing one of the twenty golden bullets was high. Twenty out of one-hundred and twelve. Each bullet was as significant as the rest. He assumed that it couldn’t have been the case of just picking up a gun and firing it; no, there was much more to it than that. He believed that the unfortunate twenty were chosen long before the Blood Ceremony.

And he wondered: had his name been chosen already?

But all thoughts were wedged out of his head as he entered the Ceremonial Hall. It was a humongous room with torches holding red flames attached to the white walls. This room could hold a good thousand people, and only one-hundred and twelve – not including the observers – needed it today. Facing one of the longest walls were round targets with blood-red bull’s-eyes.

On the way in, a needle was inserted into Drake’s arm, taking a small amount of blood. The woman that did it let him enter the Hall, then retrieved a different needle for the next sixteen-year-old.

At the farthest end of the hall, Drake could see a tiny wooden stage standing tall in the light of the flickering flames. In the centre of the stage was a podium. And standing behind it was Principal Tweddle. He was a plump man with a sunken face and greying hair. Principal Tweddle had to attend each and every Blood Ceremony to congratulate the Blood Ceremony winners or Veins as they were called.

After years of this horrific charade, Drake was sure that Principal Tweddle hated this event as much as the selected Veins. To be honest, he thought that this was driving their Principal insane. But of course, this year would be no good for Principal Tweddle, because everyone knew. They could see his shifting eyes and sweating forehead. The signs were as clear as day: his daughter was sixteen.

Drake shuck his head of all those thoughts. All he had to worry about was his safety. Even to him it sounded selfish. But how would Ryker Dasher cope, to come home after being in the Orchards all day, to find a messenger waiting for him to tell him his brother had been chosen to participate in the Blood Trials?

In an orderly fashion, a crowd gathered in front of the stage. Sitting behind Principal Tweddle, talking in hushed tones between themselves, was Lucius Cherry and Claudia Castleman. Lucius Cherry was a member of Bastille’s council. He was the lowest rank in that case though, so he was forced to arrive here each year. But Drake could see the looks of utter loathing disgust as his eyes fluttered over the teenagers in the Ceremonial Hall.

Principal Tweddle cleared his throat. “Welcome, young ones. Welcome to the Blood Ceremonies!”

He did not expect a round of applause. Even if he did, he didn’t get one. Drake stared up at the man as he read out the rules of the Blood Trials and how they came to be. A test of survival, to see which humans would be able to give great things to the city of Bastille. Drake admired the man; he was reading something the council of Bastille had given him and managed to hide his disgust.

“I wish you all good luck,” said Principal Tweddle. “And merry Blood Trials.”

The disgust was highly evident in that final sentence. Lucius Cherry cleared his throat dramatically, hand over his swollen red lips. Principal Tweddle disentangled himself from the podium as Lucius Cherry stepped forward. The man was as thin as a twig, dressed in black robes much too big for him. His stark white skin made him look like a ghost with an evil grin.

He stepped up to the podium and announced his name and why he was here. He told the guards in the room to line up the teenagers in front of their specific target. Drake was roughly shoved in front of a black target with white lines and a red bull’s-eye, fifteen metres away from him. A small table stood by him, holding a bronze revolver. His eyes were drawn towards the gun, as if it was calling out to him, whispering sweet secrets in his ear. This was the gun that could take away his life.

Almost in complete synchronisation, each and every sixteen-year-old picked up the gun. It was cold to the touch, but it sent warm sparks of fear shooting up Drake’s spine. He held the revolver out in front of him, and aimed.

With his heart thundering in his ears, his breaths ragged, he fired.

The bullet whizzed too fast for him to see the colour of it. All he could see was a small smoking hole on the bull’s-eye of the target. He lowered the gun to his side. His hands were shaking from the recoil. His vision was blurry; the whole world had exploded into a flurry of dark colours.

He turned towards the stage and found a gigantic screen on the wall behind it, flashing random names, attempting to settle on them. He watched Claudia Castleman saunter to the podium with a small black screen in her hand. Drake assumed it was a smaller version of the one on the wall.

Suddenly, the screen above the stage began flashing names and pictures at an incredible rate. Everyone Drake had ever spoken with, talked to on the odd occasion, even smiled at, were suddenly flashing on that screen. It had to chose twenty, and it still hadn’t landed on one yet. When it landed on its first victim, it seemed as if everyone in the room drew in a sharp intake of breath. Of surprise and worry and sorrow, but not for themselves. For the selected Vein. Even Drake did, joining in the silence.

Then everything turned hazy when he read the name Drake Dasher on the screen above.